Dalton's phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, glancing at the screen. "I need to take this. It's the hospital."

He stepped away, disappearing into the house through the study door. The screen door banged shut behind him, leaving Angelena and Cordella alone on the porch.

Cordella picked up the lemonade pitcher. "Come inside, Angie. Let's sit in the parlor. The sun is getting too harsh out here."

The parlor was cool and quiet, smelling faintly of old books and fresh flowers. Cordella poured her a cup of herbal tea, the steam rising in gentle curls.

"It's really good to have you back, Angie," Cordella said, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. "You know the Barrons are always your family."

Angelena felt a lump form in her throat. She squeezed back, nodding.

They chatted about Paris, about the bakeries, about the fashion. Cordella listened intently, but her eyes were sharp, missing nothing. Eventually, she steered the conversation with the precision of a surgeon.

"Speaking of family, I have to admit, I was surprised when Dalton moved back into the main house," Cordella said, taking a delicate sip of her tea.

Angelena paused, her cup halfway to her lips. "Oh? I thought he loved his apartment in the city. Closer to the hospital."

Cordella nodded slowly. "Exactly. That apartment of his is sterile. Cold. Like an operating room. I begged him for years to move back, but he always claimed he was too busy."

Cordella set her cup down, leaning forward slightly. Her eyes locked onto Angelena's. "But then, exactly one week after you sent the email confirming your return to New York, he packed a bag and moved back. Just like that."

Angelena's heart stopped. One week. The timing was a surgical strike to her chest.

"He claimed the air was better out here for his health," Cordella continued, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "Can you believe that? A top-tier cardiac surgeon using 'fresh air' as an excuse?"

Angelena lowered her head, bringing the teacup up to hide the smile that was threatening to split her face. The tea trembled slightly in her grip.

It wasn't a coincidence. It was never a coincidence. He had come back because she was coming back. He had positioned himself here, on the front line, ready to catch her the moment she landed.

A wave of heat rushed through her, so intense it made her eyes sting. She blinked rapidly, trying to regain control.

Cordella saw the redness in her eyes and misunderstood. "Oh, honey, I didn't mean to upset you. We don't have to talk about him."

Angelena shook her head. She looked up, her gaze clear and fierce. "No, Cordella. You didn't upset me." She took a deep breath. "For me, everything is just beginning."

Cordella stared at the young woman in front of her. The fragile, heartbroken girl who had fled to Europe was gone. In her place sat a woman with a purpose, a woman who looked like she was about to go to war.

And Cordella had a feeling, a sudden, startling suspicion, about who that war might be for.

The door swung open. Dalton walked in, slipping his phone into his pocket. He stopped short when he saw the two of them at the table.

Angelena turned to look at him. Her eyes were different now. The warmth was still there, but it was layered with something else-something knowing, something that looked a lot like victory.

Dalton shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. He couldn't read it, and that bothered him. He was used to reading people; it was his job. But she was a closed book written in a language he didn't know.

"What?" he asked, his voice defensive.

"Nothing," Angelena said, her voice light. "Just glad you're back."

Dalton frowned, feeling like he had just missed a very important piece of a puzzle.

The dining room was bathed in the soft glow of the chandelier. The long mahogany table was set with the good china, the silverware polished to a mirror shine. It was a formal setup, a clear message that the Barron family took Angelena's return seriously.

Prescott Barron stood as she entered. He was a man of few words, but his embrace was warm and solid. "Welcome home, Angie."

Averi, Dalton's younger sister, practically launched herself at Angelena. "Oh my god, I missed you! Tell me everything about Paris. Did you meet any hot French guys?"

Angelena laughed, letting herself be pulled to the table. "Maybe later, Averi."

She took her seat, and Dalton sat down beside her. The meal began with light conversation, the clinking of silverware filling the gaps. Angelena answered questions about her travels, her voice steady and relaxed.

She was reaching for the breadbasket when Dalton's hand moved. He smoothly slid the basket past her, picking up a roll and placing it on her plate. At the same time, he shifted the dish of pecan-crusted asparagus-a favorite of his father's, but a potentially fatal one for her-away from her side of the table.

It was done so naturally, so fluidly, that the others didn't even notice. But Angelena did. She was severely allergic to tree nuts. Dalton had remembered, and he had protected her without making a scene.

A warm flush spread through her chest. She murmured a quiet, "Thank you."

He just nodded, continuing to eat his steak.

As the main course was cleared, a subtle shift occurred in the room. The conversation flowed, but there was a giant, elephant-sized hole in it. Nobody mentioned Gorden.

It was as if the younger Barron son had ceased to exist. Prescott and Cordella exchanged careful glances, watching Angelena's face for any sign of distress. They were waiting for the flinch, the tear, the forced smile.

But Angelena was busy describing the differences between French and American butter. She talked about the rent prices in SoHo, the difficulty of finding a good wholesale flour supplier in Manhattan. She was animated, engaged, and completely unbothered.

Prescott finally broke. He set his fork down, his brow furrowed with concern. "Angie, what are your long-term plans? Are you going to join Barlow Group?"

It was a polite way of asking: Are you staying in New York? Because if you are, you will run into him.

Angelena set her silverware down neatly. "I'm not going back to the family company. I'm opening a bakery in SoHo."

Silence. Complete, utter silence.

Averi's jaw dropped. Prescott blinked. Cordella paused with her wine glass halfway to her lips.

A bakery. The heiress to the Barlow fortune wanted to bake bread.

Dalton, however, wasn't looking at her like she was crazy. He was looking at the light in her eyes. It was the same light he saw in the mirror when he talked about a successful surgery. It was passion.

"That sounds like a lot of hard work," Dalton said, his voice cutting through the silence. "But I think it suits you."

Angelena turned to him, her smile grateful.

The dinner ended on a strange note. The Barron family was happy she was back, but they were also deeply confused. The silence regarding Gorden was louder than any screaming match could have been. It wasn't avoidance; it was annihilation. She had erased him from her universe entirely.

The night air was cool, carrying the scent of dew and distant jasmine. Cordella had shooed them out of the house, insisting that Dalton walk Angelena back to the guest cottage on the other side of the garden.

They walked side by side on the gravel path, the moonlight casting long, silver shadows across the lawn. The silence was different now-heavier, charged with an unspoken tension.

Dalton spoke first, his voice low. "Are you okay? About tonight."

He didn't have to specify what he meant. The ghost at the dinner table.

Angelena stopped walking. She turned to face him, the moonlight catching the sharp angles of her face. "I'm great, Dalton. Better than I've been in years."

She looked up at him, her eyes dark and serious. "Honestly, I should thank Gorden."

Dalton's body went rigid. His hands curled into fists at his sides. A sudden, violent surge of anger ripped through him-anger at his brother, anger at the situation.

Angelena didn't seem to notice. She continued, her voice light, almost casual. "If he hadn't broken my heart, I wouldn't have gone to Europe. I wouldn't have found baking. I wouldn't have realized that there's more to life than chasing someone who doesn't want me."

It was a eulogy for her past self, delivered with a shrug.

Dalton's anger evaporated, leaving behind a hollow ache. He felt guilty for his momentary rage. He looked at her, really looked at her, and saw a woman who had rebuilt herself from the ground up.

"Anyway," Angelena said, her tone shifting to something brighter, more playful. "I need to go shopping tomorrow. Fifth Avenue. I need to stock up on some essentials for the new place."

She tilted her head, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Dr. Barron, do you have time to supervise a little 'rehabilitative social training' for a recovering hermit?"

Dalton stared at her. He was a cardiac surgeon. His schedule was booked solid for months. Shopping was his personal hell. He should say no. He had a conference call at ten. He had charts to review.

He opened his mouth to refuse.

"Please?" she added, her voice dropping to a soft whisper. Her eyes were wide, pleading, and impossibly hopeful.

The word 'no' died in his throat. He couldn't crush that hope. He didn't want to.

"Okay," he said. The word felt foreign on his tongue.

Angelena's face broke into a wide grin. "Yes! Tomorrow at ten. Don't be late!"

She turned and practically skipped toward the cottage door. She waved once before disappearing inside, the door clicking shut behind her.

Dalton stood alone on the path. He pulled out his phone, staring at the screen. He opened his calendar and deleted the 'Conference Call' block for tomorrow morning. Then he opened a new text to his assistant.

Contact a top-tier personal shopper. Give them Miss Barlow's measurements and preferences. Arrange a private viewing at Bergdorf's tomorrow at ten.

He stared at the message, feeling like an absolute idiot. He hit send anyway.