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OMIR

C ake tasting was supposed to be one of those lighthearted moments couples looked back on and laughed about.

That was what Anya told me, her tone full of excitement as we pulled up outside this upscale-ass bakery she’d been obsessing over for the past few weeks.

She was damn near skipping in her red bottoms, her hand linked in mine like we were just two lovebirds planning the wedding of the year.

But beneath all the sugar and sparkle, I wasn’t feeling it.

The moment we stepped inside, I caught the scent of vanilla, buttercream, and citrus wafting through the air.

Marble floors, glass display cases, crystal light fixtures—it was luxury, top to bottom.

Pristine. Almost too pristine. Everything in this place had been curated to perfection. Just like Anya’s world.

“Omir, you’re gonna love this spot,” she said, smiling back at me. “Their cakes are legendary.”

I gave her a small nod, letting her take the lead as we followed a hostess to a private tasting room tucked in the back.

My fingers tapped against the counter, but my thoughts weren’t here.

Not in this polished space, not on fondant versus buttercream.

They were back on the porch with Lennox. Back in her eyes.

“You okay?” Anya asked, giving my hand a light squeeze as we took our seats at the tasting table. “You seem a little distracted.”

I forced a smile. “I’m good. Just got a lot on my mind.”

She opened her mouth like she wanted to dig deeper, but the door swung open before she could speak, and a short, bubbly pastry chef rolled in a cart stacked with cake samples like they were gold bars.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Harper, Ms. Hayes,” she chirped. “I’m Sophie, and I’ll be walking you through today’s tasting.”

Anya perked right up like somebody flipped a switch. “Perfect! Let’s dive in.”

Sophie rattled off flavor names, decorative concepts, frosting textures.

Anya fired off questions like she was interviewing for a Food Network special, and I nodded in the right places, even smiled once or twice, but my brain wasn’t really registering anything.

Instead, I thought about lunch with Lennox’s family. That day had warmth. Soul. Home.

“Omir, what do you think?” Anya’s voice snapped me back.

She held out a fork with a piece of vanilla bean cake on it like it was some kind of peace offering. I leaned forward, let it hit my tongue, gave it a second. “It’s nice,” I said, swallowing.

Her brow ticked. “Nice? This is thee cake bakery in the city. Their waiting list is three months long.”

I tried to smile. “It’s delicious, baby. For real.”

She relaxed again and turned back to Sophie, diving into a whole debate about swapping raspberry for lemon. I zoned out again, letting their words fade into background noise while I sat there and thought, What the hell am I doing?

Later, we headed across town to meet her family for lunch.

Five-star spot, valet parked the car before I could even finish my sentence.

The moment we stepped in, the air changed.

No music, just soft murmurs, clinking glasses, and linen tablecloths.

Her father was already seated, phone in hand, while her mother greeted us with a lukewarm smile that never touched her eyes.

“Omir,” her mother said, extending a hand that probably hadn’t touched a dish in years. “Lovely to see you again.”

“Mrs. Hayes,” I said, shaking it. “Appreciate you having me.”

Her father looked up, finally acknowledging me with a quick nod. “You keeping busy?”

“Yes, sir. The club’s doing well. Restaurant’s finding its groove.”

He grunted something close to approval and looked back down at his phone.

We sat. And for the next forty-five minutes, it felt like a job interview in a tux.

Anya’s mom went on about some gala she was chairing.

Her dad chimed in about hedge fund performance.

Her brother Jason, seated across from me, talked about his new real estate venture in Aspen, like he was building the next empire.

I sat back, sipped water, and kept the conversation polite. I knew the game. But damn, it was exhausting. Then Jason turned his attention to me.

“So, Omir,” he said, voice slick and smirky. “What’s your next big move? Or you sticking with the whole entrepreneur vibe?”

I kept my tone steady. “Yeah. Looking at some expansion opportunities. The club’s been a cornerstone for me. The restaurant’s a newer challenge, but I’m in it for the long haul.”

Anya smiled, hand brushing my arm. “He’s being modest. Omir’s businesses are thriving.”

Jason smirked. “Wasn’t your brother just shot at that club of yours, though?”

The whole table froze.

Anya sucked in a breath. “Jason?—”

I stared at him, dead in the eye. Did he just?—

My jaw clenched, chest tight. That comment didn’t just cross a line. It spit on it. I leaned forward slowly, every movement controlled. Calculated. But the fire in my chest? Livid. “You think that’s funny?” I asked, voice low. “You think my brother dying is a punchline or something?”

Jason shrugged, smug. “Didn’t say it was funny. Just seems like a liability. One minute it’s jazz and cocktails, next it’s a crime scene. Not exactly wedding-invite material.”

Without thinking twice, I reached across the table and grabbed the front of his collar with one hand, yanking him forward so fast his wine glass tipped. His eyes went wide, hands flailing.

“You ever fix your mouth to speak on my brother again,” I growled, “I’ll forget who the fuck you are to my woman and knock your ass the hell out.”

“Omir!” Anya shouted, standing.

Her father rose. “Let go of him.”

Jason’s face had lost all that fake cockiness. He was shook, and he should’ve been. I stared him down, then slowly released my grip, pushing him back into his seat with a sneer. Silence fell over the table. Even the damn waiter froze mid-step.

I stood, straightened my jacket, grabbed my keys off the table, and looked around at the faces that couldn’t hide their judgment if they tried.

“You sit up here talking about market trends and yacht clubs like that makes you better than people who built something from scratch with their bare hands.” I glanced at Anya.

Her eyes were filled with panic. Embarrassment.

Not once had she spoken up. Not for real. I shook my head. “I’m out.”

I turned and walked out of that restaurant like the damn place was on fire. I was just about to open my car door when I heard the quick, frantic tap of heels behind me.

“Omir—wait,” Anya called out.

I didn’t turn. Not at first.

“You really gonna chase me now?” I muttered under my breath, jaw tight. But still, I stayed where I was, breathing hard, gripping the door handle like it was the only thing grounding me.

She caught up, eyes wide, cheeks flushed from embarrassment or the cold—maybe both. “You can’t just walk out like that.”

I turned, slow. “ Can’t? Anya, your brother disrespected my dead brother to my face. And nobody said shit. Not you, not your father. Y’all just sat there like I was the one outta line.”

“I was going to say something?—”

“Then why didn’t you?” My voice boomed louder than I meant it to, chest heaving. “You had the chance. The moment was right there, and you sat frozen. Like defending me would’ve cost you too much.”

Her mouth opened, but she didn’t respond right away. That hesitation? It said enough.

I shook my head. “You think I don’t see it? You love the idea of me, Anya. The jazz club owner with ambition. The guy who makes your life feel exciting and ‘different.’ But when it comes to standing in front of your family and saying, ‘That’s my man,’ you go quiet.”

“That’s not fair,” she snapped, stepping closer. “You are my man. I’ve never once treated you like anything less.”

“But you let them do it.”

Her lips trembled as she crossed her arms. “You embarrassed me in there, Omir. You put your hands on my brother .”

“You fucking right.” I stepped closer, eyes locked on hers. “He weaponized my grief. My family. I don’t play when it comes to O’Shea. You think I’m gonna just sit there and let him run his mouth like that?”

“I’m not asking you to sit there,” she said, voice breaking. “I’m asking you to think before you react. To trust me.”

“That’s the thing, Anya. I don’t know if I can.”

That hit her. I saw it in the way her body went still, her eyes blinking fast, her mouth parted like the words got stuck in her throat. She took a shaky breath. “I know my family isn’t warm. They’re not like. . . whatever image you have in your head of what love’s supposed to feel like.”

Whatever image I had. . . Yeah. I’d felt it. I knew exactly what it was supposed to feel like. And it hadn’t been at that table.

“But I love you,” she said suddenly, stepping closer. Her voice was quiet now, trembling. “I love you, Omir. Not for your business. Not because of what you’ve built. I love you for who you are. Your fire. Your loyalty. Your stubborn ass heart that feels everything too deeply.”

I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. My chest was tight. My mind a blur.

“And I don’t care what my family thinks,” she added, reaching for my hands. “I should’ve defended you. You’re right. I froze. But don’t walk away thinking you’re alone in this. You’re not.”

Her fingers slid into mine, warm and trembling. I looked down at our hands. . . then up at her. And I saw it. The sincerity. The softness behind her perfection. She looked like she meant it. So I pulled her in and kissed her. Long. Deep. Slow.

Her hands slid to the back of my neck, and I felt her melt into me like she needed this moment to breathe. And maybe I did too. When we broke apart, our foreheads rested together, our breaths mingling in the space between us.

“I just need you to stand beside me,” I murmured. “Not behind me. Not in silence. Beside me. That’s it.”

She nodded. “I hear you. And I’m here. All the way.”

I closed my eyes for a second and let that sink in. Let it settle. We stood there in the breeze, wrapped in something tender, something hard-earned. And for the first time all day, the storm in my chest started to settle. But even as I held her. . . a different name echoed in the back of my mind.

Lennox.

Not loud. Not intrusive. Just. . . there. Lingering like smoke. A familiar ache wrapped in the memory of warmth. A memory of the way her family had embraced me without needing proof. The way her mom had patted my shoulder like I belonged.

And it hit me. . . Even in Anya’s arms, I felt the ghost of something I hadn’t let go of. Something that maybe. . . hadn’t let go of me.