A Plus-Size Chicago Baker Smashed a Cream Pie Into Her Customer’s Ex-Fiancée’s Face—Then the Feared CEO Asked Whose Story Everyone Had Chosen to Believe

The room was vast, lined with mahogany bookshelves, antique oil paintings, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the grey, stormy expanse of Lake Michigan. It was an intimidating fortress of old money and absolute power, but right now, the atmosphere inside was tense enough to snap a steel cable.

Frank Morello sat in a high-backed leather wing chair by the fireplace, looking frail and deeply ashamed.

Adrian stood by the bar, pouring three fingers of bourbon into a crystal glass, while Marco stood by the double doors, monitoring three secure laptops displaying live surveillance feeds from across the city.

I was sitting on the plush velvet sofa, wrapped in a cashmere throw Adrian had placed over my shoulders the moment we arrived. Sophie had been taken to a secure safehouse in Evanston with her family under round-the-clock protection.

"Julian Valenti has officially pulled his legal team out of the city," Marco reported, looking up from his screen. "He’s hiding in a private compound near Geneva Lake. But he left his financial director behind—and we just intercepted a series of encrypted messages sent from the Drake Hotel."

Adrian took a slow sip of his bourbon, his gray eyes turning cold. "Sent by whom?"

Marco hesitated, glancing at me before looking back at his boss. "Vanessa Hale."

Frank let out a heavy sigh, shaking his head. "That girl... her father has been drowning in debt for three years. He used Julian Valenti’s offshore accounts to cover his losses on the real estate market."

"Vanessa wasn't just bitter about the pie, was she?" I asked, looking between Adrian and his grandfather. "She was in on the money-laundering scheme from the beginning."

"She was Valenti’s inside connection to the Morello Foundation," Adrian said, walking over to stand near my sofa. "She thought if she married me, the Valenti family would have an unbreakable shield over their Chicago operations. When I broke off the engagement eighteen months ago, her father’s finances collapsed."

"And when she saw Frank visiting my bakery every morning," I realized, the picture finally becoming horrifyingly complete, "she panicked. She thought Frank was passing information to me, or that I was helping you build a case against her father."

"She thought you were my weakness, Emily," Adrian said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low pitch.

I looked up at him, my heart skipping a beat. "Am I?"

Adrian didn't answer with words. He set his glass down on the side table, leaned down, and took my hand in his—his long, warm fingers wrapping firmly around mine in front of his grandfather and his chief of security.

"Valenti thinks he can force my hand by threatening you," Adrian said, looking down at our joined hands. "He thinks because you don't come from our world, you’re soft. Easy to break."

"He clearly hasn't tasted her sourdough," Frank muttered from his chair, a tiny, faint spark of his old humor returning to his eyes. "Or seen her throw a pastry."

I couldn't help a small laugh escape my lips, though the fear lingering in my chest was still very real. "So what do we do now? We can't just wait for them to send more men with crowbars and tear gas."

"No," Adrian said, his jaw tightening. "We don't wait. Julian Valenti is hosting a private auction at his Geneva Lake estate tomorrow night. It’s an exclusive gathering for his international investors—the very people providing the capital for his money-laundering network."

"Federal law enforcement won't move without concrete proof of the digital ledger," Marco added. "And that ledger is stored on an air-gapped server inside Valenti’s private study on the second floor of the compound."

I sat up straighter, a thought suddenly forming in my mind. "Who’s catering the auction?"

Adrian frowned. "What?"

"An exclusive gathering of forty international billionaires on a private estate," I said, my baker’s brain working through the logistics. "They need high-end service. They need staff who can move through the room without being noticed."

"Emily, no," Adrian said instantly, his grip on my hand tightening. "You are not going anywhere near that compound."

"Think about it, Adrian!" I insisted, standing up from the sofa, the cashmere throw slipping to the floor. "Your men can't breach a heavily armed compound in Geneva Lake without starting a war that will dominate the news headlines for months. But a catering van? A team delivering customized, high-end desserts for a private event?"

"Valenti knows your face," Frank pointed out quietly. "And Vanessa certainly does."

"Valenti has never seen me in person—he’s only seen photos of a girl in a flour-stained tunic," I argued, stepping closer to Adrian. "And Vanessa is currently under federal surveillance in Chicago. She won't be at that auction."

"It’s too dangerous, Emily," Adrian said, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours trying to keep you safe. I won't send you into a snake pit."

"I’m not asking you to send me," I said, looking him dead in the eye, refusing to back down. "I’m telling you I’m going. That man tried to burn down my dream. He terrorized my assistant. He tried to ruin your grandfather. I’m not going to hide in this mansion while you fight my battles for me."

Adrian stared at me. For five long seconds, the room was so quiet you could hear the rain tapping against the glass windows.

A slow, prideful smile crept across Frank’s face in the corner. "She’s got Morello blood in her spirit, Adrian. You’re not going to stop her."

Adrian let out a low growl of frustration, running a hand through his dark hair. He stepped closer to me, his body towering over mine, his gray eyes blazing with a dangerous mixture of anger, worry, and something far deeper.

"If you do this," Adrian whispered, his voice intense, "you don't leave my side for a single second. You wear a wire. And the second I give the signal, you get behind Marco and stay there."

"Deal," I said.