The call came three days later. Three days of Taylor replaying their encounter in her mind until the memory was worn smooth, the sharp edges of his hunger blurred by her own escalating fantasy. She was dusting flour from a marble slab when her phone buzzed, an unknown number flashing on the screen.

“Taylor Hayes speaking.”

“This is Sarah Miller, from Savour Magazine,” a crisp, efficient voice said, devoid of any warmth. “Mr. Davies would like to see you in his office. Would four o’clock this afternoon be suitable?”

There was no preamble, no mention of brownies or reviews. It was a summons, plain and simple. Taylor’s stomach did a slow, nervous flip. “Yes. Four o’clock is fine.”

“Very good. The address is 1400 Broadway, 48th floor.” The line clicked dead before Taylor could even say goodbye.

She spent the next few hours in a state of controlled panic. She showered, scrubbing her skin until it was pink, trying to wash away the perpetual scent of sugar and butter that clung to her. She stared into her closet, dismissing outfit after outfit. Her usual jeans and soft tees felt juvenile, her one good black dress too much like she was trying to seduce him—which, if she were being honest with herself, was exactly what she wanted to do. She finally settled on a pair of dark, well-fitted trousers and a silk blouse the color of cream. Professional, but the fabric was soft and hinted at the skin beneath. It felt like a compromise between the woman he met in the kitchen and the woman she felt she needed to be to walk into his office.

The lobby of 1400 Broadway was a cathedral of glass and steel, echoing with the quiet, purposeful clicks of expensive shoes on polished stone. It was a world away from the warm, flour-dusted chaos of her studio. The elevator ride was silent and swift, her ears popping as she ascended to the 48th floor. When the doors opened, she was met with a wall of glass that overlooked the sprawling cityscape.

The reception area for Savour Magazine was brutally minimalist. White walls, a single black leather sofa, and a glass desk behind which sat the woman with the crisp voice. Sarah Miller didn't smile, she simply nodded. “Mr. Davies is expecting you. This way.”

She led Taylor down a long, silent hallway. There were no cozy corners here, no soft lighting. Everything was sharp angles, chrome fixtures, and track lighting that illuminated framed magazine covers like museum pieces. Taylor felt her own creative, messy world shrink in the face of this sterile, corporate perfection. This was his turf. He hadn’t just invited her for a meeting; he had summoned her to his seat of power.

Sarah stopped before a formidable door of dark wood and frosted glass. She knocked once, then opened it without waiting for a reply. “Ms. Hayes is here, sir.”

Jordan’s office was even more intimidating than the rest of the floor. One entire wall was a floor-to-ceiling window, offering a god-like view of the city below. A massive desk of dark, gleaming wood sat in the center of the room, starkly empty except for a sleek laptop and a single, leather-bound journal. There were no papers, no clutter, no sign of the actual work that must happen there. It was a stage, and he was its sole occupant.

He was standing by the window, his back to her, a phone pressed to his ear. He was wearing a dark grey suit that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. He didn't turn around immediately, finishing his conversation in low, clipped tones. He was making her wait. The move was so deliberate, so obvious, that it was almost insulting. Her pulse quickened, a flush of annoyance mixing with the nervous anticipation that was already making her skin feel too tight. She felt the silk of her blouse against her breasts, suddenly hyper-aware of her own body in this cold, masculine space.

Finally, he ended the call and turned. His face was unreadable, the cool, critical mask firmly in place. The predatory hunger she’d seen in her studio was gone, locked away behind eyes the color of a winter storm. He looked her up and down, a slow, assessing glance that took in her trousers, her blouse, her flushed face. It wasn’t a look of desire; it was an appraisal.

“Ms. Hayes,” he said, his voice a smooth, deep baritone that held no trace of their previous intimacy. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. Please, have a seat.”

He gestured to one of two leather chairs positioned in front of his desk. They looked like seats for an interrogation. He walked around the massive desk and sat, the expensive leather of his chair sighing under his weight. He leaned back, steepling his fingers, the picture of a man in complete and total control. The desk was a barrier between them, a declaration of his status and her lack of it. He had brought her here to remind her exactly who he was, and exactly who she wasn't. The memory of him sucking chocolate from his thumb felt like a scene from a different lifetime, a wild, impossible dream. Here, in the cold light of his power, she felt utterly at his mercy.

“Let’s dispense with the pleasantries,” he began, his voice smooth as polished stone. He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the gleaming wood. The movement was subtle, but it invaded her space, shrinking the vastness of the desk between them. “Your lava cake brownie was, as I suspected, technically flawless. The texture was superb, the melt point of the center was precise. A solid piece of work.”

Taylor’s heart gave a hopeful flutter, but his tone flattened it instantly. He said it like he was reading a stock report. There was none of the heat, none of the raw appreciation from her studio.

“However,” he continued, his eyes locking onto hers, “I did not bring you here to discuss pastry.”

He paused, letting the statement land. Taylor gripped her hands in her lap, the soft silk of her blouse suddenly feeling like armor against his dissecting gaze. “Then why am I here, Mr. Davies?”

A flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—crossed his features before it was gone. “I have a problem, Ms. Hayes. A business problem. His name is Marcus Thorne. He runs a rival publication, and he’s been making a concerted effort to undermine my position. Poaching my writers, whispering poison to my advertisers. He’s a parasite.”

The venom in his voice was quiet but potent. This was personal.

“Thorne believes that strength is aggression. That success is demonstrated through conquest. He’s hosting the Savour Annual Gala next week, a fact he enjoys rubbing in my face. He’ll be there, circling like a shark, looking for any sign of weakness.”

Taylor couldn't imagine Jordan Davies ever showing weakness. The man seemed carved from granite and ambition. “I’m not sure how this concerns me.”

“It concerns you because I require an asset for the evening,” he said, his gaze dropping to her mouth for a fraction of a second before returning to her eyes. The shift was so quick she almost thought she’d imagined it, but a corresponding pulse deep between her legs told her she hadn’t. “Thorne’s strategy is to paint me as a man singularly focused on his work. Cold. Alone. It’s an effective narrative. I intend to dismantle it.”

He leaned back in his chair again, the movement slow and deliberate. He watched her, his expression a careful blank, but his eyes were sharp, calculating. He was sizing her up, not as a chef, but as something else entirely.

“I need to arrive at that gala with a partner on my arm,” he stated, his voice dropping a notch, taking on a conspiratorial edge. “Not just any date. It needs to be convincing. It needs to look real. It needs to be with a woman who can command a room simply by being in it. A woman who is passionate, captivating.” He let the words hang in the air, a direct echo of his assessment of her in the studio. He was using her own art, her own soul, as part of his pitch.

The pieces clicked into place in Taylor’s mind, and the sheer audacity of it stole her breath. This wasn’t a review. This wasn’t a job offer. This was something else entirely.

“I need someone to play the part of a woman I am completely, utterly infatuated with,” he said, the words rolling off his tongue with a chilling smoothness. He held her gaze, refusing to let her look away. The cold office air suddenly felt thick, charged with the same dangerous energy that had filled her kitchen.

“And I want that woman to be you, Taylor.”

He used her first name for the first time, and it landed like a brand. It was an intimate claim in a brutally corporate setting. He wasn't asking. He was informing her of a role he’d chosen for her, a part in his high-stakes corporate theater. He wanted to rent her passion, to use her as a shield and a weapon against his enemy. Her mind reeled, caught between indignation and a dark, thrilling flutter of excitement. He had seen the fire in her, and instead of just wanting to taste it, he wanted to aim it.

Taylor stared at him, the sound of the city traffic far below muffled by the thick glass. A laugh escaped her, a short, incredulous puff of air. “You’re joking.”

“I don’t joke about business, Taylor.” His voice was flat, all trace of warmth gone. “And this is a business proposition.”

“This isn’t business, it’s… it’s absurd. You want to rent me for an evening? So you can one-up your rival?” The indignation she felt was a hot spike in her chest. He had seen her in her element, seen her passion, and had distilled it down to a commodity he could use.

He didn't flinch. He simply watched her, his expression unchanging. “I can see why you’d view it that way. But you’re not seeing the full picture.” He pushed himself away from his desk, the chair rolling back silently. He stood and walked around the massive barrier of wood, his movements fluid and predatory. He didn’t stop until he was leaning against the front of the desk, just a few feet from her chair. The power dynamic shifted instantly. He was no longer behind his fortress; he was towering over her, a physical presence that filled the sterile air with heat and the faint, clean scent of expensive cologne and laundry starch.

“You have a gift,” he began, his voice dropping, becoming softer, more intimate. It was the voice he’d used in her kitchen. “What you do with flour and sugar and chocolate… it’s not just baking. It’s art. It’s seductive. I felt it the moment I walked into your studio. I tasted it in that brownie.”

His eyes dropped to her lips again, lingering this time. “That passion is your greatest asset. It’s also wildly unappreciated. You’re working out of a small studio, hoping for a lucky break, for one good review to put you on the map.”

He knew. Of course, he knew. He’d done his research. The thought made her feel exposed, pinned like a butterfly to a board.

“I’m not just asking for your help,” he continued, his gaze intense, hypnotic. “I’m offering you that lucky break. A guarantee.” He leaned forward slightly, closing the remaining distance. She could feel the warmth radiating from his body. “You do this for me, and the cover of the next issue of Savour is yours.”

The air left Taylor’s lungs. The cover. Not a small feature, not a mention in a roundup. The cover. It was the kind of career-making break chefs dreamed of but almost never got. It meant national distribution, recognition, investors. It meant she could stop worrying about making rent on the studio for the first time since she’d signed the lease.

“A full six-page spread,” he murmured, as if reading her thoughts. “A feature interview. A photoshoot in your studio. We’ll call it ‘The Sweetest Surrender: The Decadent World of Taylor Hayes’. I’ll write the editor’s letter myself.”

He was selling her her own dream, packaging it and presenting it as a prize for her compliance. It was a masterclass in manipulation. He wasn't just offering a business transaction; he was seducing her with her own ambition. He was weaving the professional opportunity so tightly with the personal request that they became inseparable. The title he suggested, ‘The Sweetest Surrender,’ was a deliberate, piercing jab. He wanted her to surrender to him, in more ways than one.

Her mind raced, weighing the cost. Her pride, her autonomy, her body—even if just for show—on one side of the scale. On the other, everything she had ever worked for, validated and elevated to a level she could currently only imagine. He had found her precise weakness and was pressing on it with calculated, unbearable pressure.

“Why me?” she finally managed to ask, her voice barely a whisper. “You could have anyone.”

A slow smile touched his lips, the first genuine expression she’d seen on his face since she arrived. It was devastating. “Because I don’t want anyone. I want you. I want the authenticity of your passion. Thorne will see you on my arm, he’ll see the way you look, the way you touch me, and he’ll know it’s real. Because with you… it will be easy to pretend.”

The final thread of the professional facade snapped. He wasn’t just asking her to act. He was telling her he was attracted to her, and that he planned to use that genuine chemistry as a tool. He was laying all his cards on the table, confident that the prize he offered was too glittering for her to refuse, no matter how tarnished the terms. He had her trapped, caught between the insult of his proposal and the irresistible allure of his offer.

The silence in the office was a living thing, pressing in on Taylor, amplifying the frantic beat of her own heart. He had her. He knew he had her. The knowledge was there in the confident set of his shoulders, in the predatory patience in his eyes. He wasn't just offering her a deal; he was offering her a gilded cage, and the most infuriating part was how desperately a part of her wanted to fly right into it.

"Easy to pretend," she repeated, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. "You think I'm that easy to read? That I'll just fall into line and play the part of your adoring girlfriend?"

"I don't think you're easy," he corrected her, his voice a low, smooth caress that slid over her skin and raised goosebumps on her arms. "I think you're transparent. Your passion isn't something you can hide, Taylor. It's in everything you do. It was in the way you described the crystallization of the sugar, and it was in the way you looked at me when you thought I didn't see."

Her breath caught. He had seen. He’d seen the flicker of raw, unprofessional interest she’d tried so hard to conceal in her studio. He wasn’t just using her ambition against her; he was using her own body’s betrayal. The heat that had pooled between her legs in her kitchen was now a slow, humiliating burn that crept up her neck.

She tore her gaze from his, looking past him to the panoramic window. The city sprawled below, a glittering, indifferent landscape of a million other people with their own desperate dreams. The cover of Savour. It wasn't just a magazine. It was a key. A key to a new life, to a future where she wasn’t one bad month away from losing everything. A future where her art was seen, celebrated.

He had dangled that key in front of her, and all she had to do was let him put a collar on her for a few weeks. A fake collar, for a fake relationship. But the humiliation felt sharp and real.

She looked back at him, her jaw tight. Her pride was screaming, but her ambition was screaming louder. "If I do this," she said, her voice strained, "there are conditions."

A flicker of victory shone in his eyes, so quick it was almost imperceptible. He had won. "I'm listening."

"This is strictly a performance. At the gala, and wherever else you need me to be. The moment we are out of the public eye, it ends. No lingering touches. No… pretending when it doesn't serve the purpose."

"Of course," he agreed, the words too smooth, too easy. "It's a business arrangement. I expect nothing more."

The lie was so blatant it was almost funny. He expected everything more. He was expecting her to give a performance so convincing it would fool everyone, a performance that would have to draw on something real inside of her. He was counting on it.

"And the cover story," she pushed, needing to hear it again, needing to hold the prize in her mind to justify the cost. "It's guaranteed. No matter what."

"Guaranteed," he confirmed, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. He took a step closer, and she had to fight the instinct to shrink back in her chair. He smelled of power and clean cotton. "You have my word."

Her own word felt like a fragile thing in this room, easily broken. But his… his felt like iron. He was a bastard, but he was a man who built an empire. His word was his currency.

Taylor took a deep, shaky breath, the sterile, air-conditioned air doing nothing to cool the fire in her gut. She was selling a piece of herself. She knew it. But the price was just too high to walk away from.

"Fine," she said, the word clipped, brittle. "I'll do it."

A slow, satisfied smile spread across Jordan's face. It wasn't a triumphant grin, but something quieter, more personal. It was the look of a man who had just acquired something he deeply coveted. He reached out, not to shake her hand, but to lightly touch a strand of hair that had fallen across her cheek, his fingers just barely grazing her skin. The touch was electric, a jolt that shot straight through her.

"Excellent," he murmured, his thumb brushing against her cheekbone before he pulled his hand away. "I'll have my assistant send you the details for our first rehearsal. Dinner, Thursday night. We have a backstory to create."

He moved back behind his desk, the invisible wall of power re-erecting itself between them. But the dynamic had irrevocably shifted. She was no longer just a pastry chef. She was his asset. His partner. His possession for the foreseeable future. He had bought her compliance with her own dreams, and as Taylor stood to leave, her legs feeling unsteady beneath her, she couldn't escape the terrifying thought that he had gotten a bargain.