Read Chapter 34: The Proposal Question

Julien’s kitchen smelled of burnt sugar and hesitation.

Clara found him there at dawn, the day after her aunt’s letter had settled into her bones like a second heartbeat. He stood at the counter, arms crossed, staring at a tray of croissants that had gone dark at the edges—a crime in his world. He hadn’t noticed her come in.

“You’re burning them,” she said softly.

He startled. “I know.” He didn’t move to fix them. Just looked at the ruined pastries like they held an answer he couldn’t find.

Clara stepped closer. The letter from Élise was folded in her jacket pocket, paper worn soft from rereading. She’d told him everything last night—about her aunt’s words, about choosing happiness, about staying. He’d kissed her forehead and said nothing, which she’d taken for joy. Now she wondered.

“Julien.” She touched his arm. “What is it?”

He exhaled, long and slow. “I was going to ask you something.” He turned to face her, and she saw the battle in his eyes—hope wrestling with fear. “Something I prepared. For days. I wanted—” He stopped, shook his head. “Never mind.”

“No.” She gripped his sleeve. “Tell me.”

He looked at her for a long moment. Then he pulled his arm free, walked to the window, and stared out at the street. “I was going to ask you to stay. Forever. With me. I wanted to say that I don’t care about the village gossip or Delacroix’s reviews or any of it. I only care about you. But then you told me you were already staying. And I realized—” He laughed, humorless. “You decided for yourself. Before I could offer anything. And I thought, what do I have to offer that you haven’t already chosen?”

Clara’s chest tightened. “That’s not how it works.”

“No?” He turned. “You came here running from London. You stayed because of your aunt’s dream. You’re staying now because of a letter. Every step you’ve taken has been toward something else. Not toward me.”

The words hit like cold water. She opened her mouth to argue, but he was already shaking his head.

“I’m not accusing you. I’m telling you what I’m afraid of. I wanted to ask you properly. To give you a reason to stay that was mine. But I hesitated too long, and now—” He gestured at the burnt croissants. “I can’t even bake straight.”

Clara wanted to close the distance between them, but her feet felt rooted. Because he wasn’t wrong. Not entirely. She’d fallen for him, yes—deeply, unexpectedly—but every commitment she’d made had been framed by her aunt’s legacy. Julien had been the warmth around the edges, not the center. Not yet.

“I’m not leaving,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “I told you. I’m staying.”

“Staying in Provence,” he said quietly. “Not staying for me.”

The distinction cut.

Before she could answer, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She ignored it. It buzzed again. And again.

Julien nodded at the device. “You should get that.”

She pulled it out reluctantly. London number. Not James—she’d blocked him. The office. The managing partner’s direct line.

“It’s work,” she said.

“Then answer it.”

She wanted to argue, but the phone kept vibrating in her hand like an impatient heartbeat. She swiped to answer.

“Clara Ashworth.”

“Clara! Finally.” The voice was crisp, female, all efficiency. Margaret from HR—no, Margaret was her old boss. This was someone higher. The name came to her: Sarah Whitmore. Head of Talent. “We’ve been trying to reach you for weeks. I’m glad you’re alive, given the radio silence.”

Clara walked to the corner of the room, turning her back to Julien. “I’ve been… away. Handling family matters.”

“Yes, we gathered. Look, I’ll be quick. Pearlstone Partners wants to poach you. They’ve seen your work on the Meridian account and they’re offering a senior partnership track. Generous relocation package, sign-on bonus, the works. I’m calling to match it.”

Clara’s mind blanked. “Match it?”

“We don’t want to lose you, Clara. You’re one of our best. They’re offering two-fifty base with a performance multiplier. We’ll do three and a fast-track to partner. But we need an answer by Friday.”

“Friday,” Clara repeated. Today was Wednesday.

“I know it’s short notice. But they’re moving fast, and you’ve been impossible to reach. This is your out if you want it—come back, take the promotion, pretend this Provençal detour was a sabbatical.” Sarah paused. “No one here knows the details. We’d bring you back clean.”

Clara’s throat was sand. “I—” She looked over her shoulder. Julien had turned back to the window, shoulders tight, pretending not to listen.

“Just think about it,” Sarah said. “I’ll send the paperwork over. And Clara—don’t let a French bakery steal a career like yours. You built something in London. That’s real.”

That’s real. The words settled like stones in her stomach.

“Thank you,” Clara managed. She ended the call and stood there, phone still in her hand, the weight of the offer pressing against the lightness she’d felt only hours before.

When she turned, Julien was watching her. “Friday,” he said. Not a question.

“I’m not taking it,” she said quickly. Too quickly.

“You haven’t decided.”

“I’ve decided. I told you. I’m staying.” Even as she said it, she heard the crack in her own voice.

Julien’s gaze was steady, patient, and devastating. “Three hundred thousand pounds is a lot of reasons to leave. More than I can compete with. I don’t have a signing bonus or a partnership track. I have—” He paused. “I have a bakery that may not pass inspection. I have a village that looks at me sideways because I defended you. I have burnt croissants and a question I couldn’t bring myself to ask.”

Clara felt tears prick her eyes. “I don’t want London.”

“Are you sure? Or are you sure you want to want Provence?” He stepped closer, close enough to touch. He didn’t. “You accused me once of hiding my feelings behind my dough. Maybe you’re hiding yours behind your aunt’s legacy.”

The tears spilled. She wiped them angrily. “That’s not fair.”

“No. It’s not. I’m sorry.” He finally reached out, brushing a tear from her cheek with a thumb that smelled like vanilla and regret. “But I won’t see you choose me because you feel obligated. You were right earlier—you chose to stay before I could ask. So now I won’t ask. I want you to stay because you can’t imagine leaving. Not because of a letter, not because of me, not because you feel trapped. Because it’s yours. Because you’re home.”

Clara’s phone buzzed again. Sarah, already sending documents.

Julien glanced at it, then back at her. “Friday isn’t far away.”

“Julien, I’m not taking the job.”

“Then tell them no,” he said quietly. “Not later. Now. Tell them no, and I’ll believe you.”

She stared at him. The proof he was asking for wasn’t about the offer itself—it was about her conviction. About whether she trusted her own choice enough to burn the bridge behind her.

She looked down at the phone. Sarah’s message glowed on the screen: *Offer details attached. Let me know by EOD Friday. We’re holding your seat.*

Her finger hovered over the reply button.

And then the front door of the bakery crashed open, and Martine’s voice rang through the shop like a bell.

“Clara Ashworth! Delacroix has set the review date. Tomorrow morning. And the village is bringing witnesses—they remember everything you said about that award.”

Clara’s finger fell away from the phone.

Tomorrow.

She had one day to face the village, two days to answer London, and a man waiting for her to choose him—not because she had to, but because she wanted to.

She looked at Julien. His face had gone still, the same stillness she’d seen when he confronted his father.

“I’ll handle Delacroix,” she said.

“I know.”

“And I’ll handle London.”

He said nothing.