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.

"Angie."

Dalton's voice stopped her just as her hand touched the doorknob. She turned back, raising an eyebrow.

He stood with his hands in his pockets, looking uncharacteristically hesitant. "Why a bakery? You could do anything. You could run a corporation. Why this?"

It was the question of a man who valued efficiency and prestige. Baking seemed so... small.

Angelena walked back to him, stopping just a foot away. The playfulness was gone, replaced by a raw seriousness.

"Because I love it," she said simply.

She held out her hands, palms up, between them. They were pale and slender, but the skin at the base of her fingers and the webbing of her thumbs was rough. Thin, white scars crisscrossed her knuckles, and a thick callus rested on her index finger.

Dalton's gaze fell to her hands, and the air left his lungs. These weren't the hands he remembered-the soft, perfectly manicured hands of an heiress. These were the hands of a worker, marked with scars and calluses that told a story of hardship he couldn't begin to fathom. A sharp, protective ache seized his chest. He reached out, his fingers hovering over the marks. "What is this?"

"Burns. Cuts. Calluses from whisking and lifting flour bags," Angelena said softly. "When things were at their worst in Paris, the smell of butter and sugar was the only thing that got me out of bed. Flour, butter, sugar... you mix them together, and you create something that makes people happy. It's magic."

Her voice was thick with emotion. "This isn't a hobby, Dalton. This is my life. This is what I want to do until the day I die."

Dalton looked up from her hands to her face. The fire in her eyes was undeniable. It was the fire of a survivor. The fire of someone who had clawed their way out of the dark.

He reached out and wrapped his long fingers around her wrist. His thumb brushed gently over the rough callus on her palm. The touch was light, reverent, like he was handling a fragile artifact.

"I understand," he said, his voice barely a whisper. The roughness in his tone was gone, replaced by a deep, aching tenderness. "Take care of your hands."

Angelena's breath hitched. The feeling of his skin on hers was electric. She looked down at his hand holding her wrist, then slowly, deliberately, she curled her fingers inward.

Her fingertips dragged lightly across the sensitive center of his palm.

Dalton jerked as if he'd been burned. His spine went straight, his eyes widening. The sensation shot up his arm, short-circuiting his brain.

Angelena pulled her hand back, a sly smile playing on her lips. "So, Dr. Barron, will you come to my grand opening?"

It wasn't a question. It was a demand wrapped in silk.

Dalton swallowed hard, trying to regain his composure. He looked into her eyes, seeing the challenge there, and found himself unable to resist.

"I'll be there," he said. A promise from a man who never broke his word.

"It's a date," Angelena said. She turned and slipped inside the cottage, leaving him standing in the cold night air.

Dalton stood there for a long moment. He opened his own hand, staring at the palm. He could still feel the ghost of her touch, warm and teasing. He curled his fingers into a fist, trying to hold onto the sensation.

He was in trouble. Deep, irrevocable trouble. And the worst part was, he couldn't bring himself to care.