Chapter 5 A sham marriage

Clara woke up the next day with a heavy head. Her party dress was still thrown over the couch, her cell phone was dead, her apron hanging on the kitchen chair. She closed her eyes for a second, trying to dissipate the bitter taste of the previous night.

It was always like that with Enzo. Each encounter peeled back a layer of resistance, as if he could decipher the parts she herself tried to hide.

But not today. Today she had a pile of bills to pay, a delayed candy delivery, and nothing, absolutely nothing, would make her think of him.

Or so she promised herself before she heard the doorbell.

She looked at the clock on the wall: 8:30 in the morning. Who could it be? She opened the door without a second thought, and there he was.

Enzo Albuquerque. Dark blue suit, shirt without a tie, coffee in hand, a lazy smile on his lips. As if it were the most natural thing in the world to show up at the door of someone you were threatening to evict.

"Good morning, Clara."

She didn't move. "Are you crazy? Now you're here to torment me in my house?"

"It's your bakery, too," he corrected her, slowly pushing the door open with his shoulder. "Can I come in?"

"No."

He walked in anyway. He looked at the makeshift counter, the empty pastry case, the boxes stacked in the corner. It was too early for the bakery to be open, and Clara was still wearing a loose T-shirt, her hair tied messily.

Enzo placed his coffee cup on the counter and looked at it as if it were part of his inventory.

"Did you come to kick me out personally?" she asked, crossing her arms.

"I came to offer you a way out." He opened his jacket and took out a thick envelope. He placed it on the counter, as if showing a trump card. Clara raised an eyebrow. "What's this?"

"A contract." He pulled out a chair and sat down without asking. "I've thought everything through. You're still running the bakery." I'll cover all the debts, invest whatever is necessary to modernize, renovate, and hire people. In exchange, you agree to marry me.

She laughed. The sound was too loud in the empty bakery. "Excuse me, did I hear correctly? Get married?"

"A mock marriage," Enzo explained, as if it were the most rational thing in the world. "Twelve months. A year. Then we each move on. In the meantime, you have security; I have what I need."

Clara felt a pang in her stomach, as if she'd bitten through glass. "And what exactly is it that you 'need'?"

Enzo leaned his elbows on the counter, leaning slightly. His eyes fixed on hers. "I need to demonstrate stability to close a deal with a traditional family. Investors who want someone..." he searched for the word, "...solid. The spoiled bachelor doesn't convince anyone anymore. A devoted wife, a family business... it all fits together. And you win, too."

She blinked in disbelief. "So what am I? A prop? A facade to clear your reputation?"

"It's a deal. A contract." He shrugged, as if it were simple. "You're smart, Clara. You know there's no other way out. With me, your legacy is safe. Without me, in six months, not even the old oven will be left."

Clara felt her chest burn. "And who gave you the right to think you can buy me?"

He stood slowly, with the elegant posture of a predator. "I'm not buying you. I'm buying peace for both of us. It's a fair deal."

He took the envelope, opened it, and spread the pages on the counter. He skimmed it: clauses, deadlines, amounts. Everything tied together, signed by lawyers, cold as the marble that separated them.

She looked at him. The same face she had once kissed in the university library. The same one that now spoke of love as if it were a spreadsheet.

"You really don't change, do you?" he said in a low, venomous voice. Everything's a game to you. A check, a contract, a possession.

Enzo approached, stopping inches from her. "Clara, listen," he began, but she raised her hand, cutting the air.

"Do you think I'm going to sell my name, my history, my body, my dignity"-she spat the word out-"to make you look like a family man? I'd rather watch this bakery burn than sleep next to you out of obligation."

Her eyes flashed for a moment. Anger? Pain? Pride? She wasn't sure. But she didn't flinch. "Don't be dramatic," she said, trying to control her tone. "It's just a piece of paper."

"To you, everything's just a piece of paper." Clara pushed the contract aside. The pages fell to the floor like confetti at a sad party. "I'm not. I won't be."

Enzo pressed his lips together, his jaw tight. For a moment, he seemed ready to pounce on her, grab her face, force her to understand. But he did nothing. He picked up his coffee cup and looked at the pile of papers on the floor.

"You'll regret this," he said softly, almost emotionless.

Clara felt a chill, but she kept her gaze steady. "Better to regret it in freedom than to lie in the same bed with a man who respects nothing."

She flung the door open. Morning light flooded the small room, mingling the sweet scent of dough with the bitterness it left behind.

Before leaving, Enzo turned, his silhouette silhouetted against the light. "You'll thank me later, Clara. When everything collapses, you'll remember it was me who tried to save you."

She didn't respond. There was no need to. She just watched as the door closed behind him, muffling the noise from the street.

She looked at the papers scattered on the floor. For a second, she wanted to cry. For another, she wanted to laugh. She did neither. She went to the counter, grabbed a spatula, took a deep breath, and turned on the oven.

If she was going to lose everything, she'd lose it standing up. Alone. Without a contract. Without Enzo Albuquerque.

And if she had to fight, she'd fight until her last breath of sugar.