Elliot's pause was brief but deliberate, the kind of silence that prepared her for news she wouldn't like.
"There is," he said finally, "a complication."
Isla narrowed her eyes. "Of course there is."
"His Highness departed the capital yesterday morning for a diplomatic engagement," Elliot continued, tone even as ever. "He is not expected to return for at least a week—possibly two."
For a beat, Isla just stared. "You're kidding."
"I don't make a habit of that," he said mildly.
"So he's out of town," she said slowly, "and you're telling me I have to go to him to give this back?"
Elliot inclined his head. "That would be correct."
Callie blinked, incredulous. "You mean, like... a road trip? With a royal escort? Oh, this just keeps getting better."
Elliot's expression didn't waver. "His Highness instructed that the return be handled directly. I remained in the city solely to deliver the necklace." He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, calm as ever. "I am scheduled to rejoin him tomorrow morning."
Isla's jaw fell slightly. "Wait, hold on—tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"Meaning if I can't give this thing back right away, I'll have to—what—follow you to wherever he's gone?"
Elliot's gaze didn't waver. "Unless you intend to keep it," he said, polite as ever, "you'll need to come with me when I leave."
For a heartbeat, the bakery went utterly silent — even the espresso machine seemed to hesitate.
Then Callie let out a low whistle. "Wow. That's... impressive. Man really found a way to make returning jewelry sound like a summons from Olympus."
Isla pressed a hand to her forehead, torn between disbelief and laughter. "Unbelievable. He's actually trapped me with etiquette."
"Not trapped," Elliot corrected gently. "Merely... invited."
"Invited," Isla repeated flatly. "Right. Because that sounds so different."
He didn't rise to the sarcasm, though the corner of his mouth almost, almost moved. "You may decline, of course," he said. "But then the matter will remain unresolved — and I suspect His Highness does not enjoy unresolved matters."
Callie grinned. "Oh, he definitely doesn't. That man alphabetizes his arrogance."
Isla groaned. "I swear, he's doing this on purpose."
"His Highness," Elliot said mildly, "prefers to think ahead."
"Yeah," Isla muttered, staring down at the box again. "So do chess players."
She pressed a hand to her chest, as if bracing for impact. "And can't just leave! I run a bakery!"
Callie grinned, arms crossed, clearly delighted by the chaos. "Technically, I run the bakery when you're not here."
"You can trust me—I know how to preheat things!" she added, gesturing vaguely toward the espresso machine like it were proof of her competency.
Isla's eyes narrowed into slits. The deadliest look imaginable, sharpened by sheer disbelief, fixed on her friend. "Callie," she hissed, voice low and dangerous, "this is not the time."
Callie's grin only widened. "Time? Pfft. This is the best part!"
Elliot remained impassive, hands still neatly folded behind his back. "It may interest you to know," he said mildly, "that His Highness was seeking a baker to accompany the royal delegation."
Isla blinked. "Excuse me?"
"It's respectable work," he continued evenly, "the compensation is fair. And it would spare you the... inconvenience of keeping the necklace."
Callie leaned closer, whispering with mock conspiratorial gravity, "Yeah, you don't want your apartment turning into a museum for burglars."
Isla glared at both of them, muttering under her breath, "I can't believe I'm even considering this... he planned everything, didn't he?"
Callie snorted, clearly loving every second of Isla's misery. "Of course he did. That's the thing about royalty — meticulous, terrifying, and ridiculously good at games."
Elliot tilted his head, the faintest flicker of a smile threatening the otherwise perfect mask of composure. "I assure you, Miss Reed, His Highness values efficiency."
Isla groaned, sinking slightly onto the edge of the counter. "Efficiency. Right. Because that's exactly how I describe being forced to deliver a multimillion-dollar necklace to a prince I've barely recovered from insulting in public."
Callie leaned over to nudge her shoulder. "Look on the bright side: you'll have a good story for the bakery newsletter. 'How I survived a royal summons before lunch.'"
Isla groaned again, covering her face. "I hate all of you."
Elliot, unflappable as ever, inclined his head slightly. "I expect the matter will be resolved tomorrow, Miss Reed. Your decision, of course, will dictate the outcome."
The weight of the velvet box between them suddenly felt heavier, more like a challenge than a gift, and Isla knew — with no small amount of exasperation — that there really was no escaping this game.
She leaned back slightly, pressing her palms against the counter as if bracing herself for the full weight of royal logic. Her mind ran in circles: he knew she couldn't accept this necklace. He knew the price alone would make her panic. And yet here she was, caught in a polite snare he'd laid with the subtlety of a chess master.
Typical prince. Arrogant. Strategic. Infuriating.
Callie, still lounging nearby, looked positively gleeful. "You're thinking it, aren't you? You're going to do it."
Isla shot her a look sharp enough to cut glass. "Don't tempt me."
But deep down, she knew. There was no way around this. He'd engineered it, planned it like a trap in silk gloves. And honestly... the thought of seeing him again, of confronting his smug, infuriatingly perfect composure, set her nerves buzzing in ways she didn't entirely hate.
Two can play that game.
She exhaled, long and slow, letting the tension drain just slightly. "Fine," she said, voice low but firm. "I'll return it to him myself."
Elliot's stance didn't change, but the faintest lift of his brow gave away a hint of satisfaction. "Very good," he said, calm as ever. "I'll collect you tomorrow morning at eight."
Callie clapped once, quietly, almost ceremoniously. "Eight A.M., huh? The early bird gets... abducted by royalty."
Isla groaned, burying her face in her hands. "I hate everything about this."
Elliot simply inclined his head. "Your punctuality will be appreciated."
And with that, the velvet box seemed to glint a little brighter, daring her to sleep tonight without thinking of the morning to come.
Isla's fingers twitched, as if the weight of the box carried the authority of a thousand etiquette rules. She jabbed it forward, nudging it across the counter.
"Take it," she said, voice clipped. "I'm not keeping this thing in my bakery overnight."
Elliot's hands rose, almost in deference, but he didn't move immediately. "His Highness said it was to remain in your care—"
"And if it gets stolen?" Isla cut in sharply. "You can explain to His Highness how his million-dollar necklace got lost between cupcakes."
The pause stretched, the kind that made the clink of spoons against coffee cups sound deafening. Then, at last, Elliot inclined his head and slid the velvet box into the briefcase he carried with him, closing it with a precise snap.
"Very well," he said evenly, eyes meeting hers just long enough to convey measured approval. "I'll see you tomorrow, Miss Reed."
Without another word, he turned and walked out, his coat sweeping past the counter like a shadow of inevitability, leaving Isla and Callie staring after him.
Callie finally exhaled, a low whistle escaping. "Wow. That... was a thing. I'm impressed you didn't just toss him into the oven with the muffins."
Isla groaned, pressing a hand to her temple. "I feel like I need a medal—or maybe a stiff drink—before eight A.M. tomorrow."
Callie smirked. "Oh, you'll survive. Maybe."
The bakery settled into a heavy quiet, the clatter of morning business seeming to pause in the wake of Elliot's departure. Even the espresso machine hissed in subdued protest, as though acknowledging the absurdity of it all.
Callie grinned, leaning back against the counter with the ease of someone watching a favorite show. "Girl, you're living my dream. Royal confrontation arc!"
Isla rolled her eyes, brushing her hands on the counter with a little more force than necessary. "It's not an arc. It's a trap."
Callie shrugged, unabashed. "Tomato, royal apple. Either way, you'll have stories for years—and probably a killer anecdote for the newsletter."
Isla muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse at etiquette, wealth, and princely arrogance all at once. Yet as she wiped the counter for the tenth time, the absurdity of it only sharpened her focus. Her fingers traced the familiar grooves of the wood, the hum of the bakery slowly knitting itself back into her awareness, but her mind wasn't on muffins or coffee anymore.
It was on him.
If this was another one of his games, fine.
Let's see how he plays when I show up on his field.
And for the first time that morning, a small spark of something like excitement—tinged with irritation and disbelief—twisted behind her ribs. The game wasn't over. Not by a long shot.