Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Raffa

"Why are you awake so early?" Paul's voice cuts through the quiet as he glares at my laptop. "And on your computer?"

It's four in the morning. Maybe he's right—maybe it is too fucking early—but can anyone blame me? My clients need checking on, and there are so many things still pending. Sure, I've got a team of lawyers who are more than capable of handling my caseload, but . . . they're not me. I rub my chest instinctively, feeling that familiar tightness. I need to stay on top of it if I want it done right.

"You need to head back to bed and rest," Paul says, stepping closer to the screen, way too close for comfort.

"I'm an adult," I snap, frustration bubbling up. "I can do whatever the fuck I want."

Paul crosses his arms, not backing down. "Sure, until you can't—because you're six feet under."

I flinch at that, the words hitting harder than I'd like to admit. "You're exaggerating."

"No, I'm fucking not," he snaps. "The doctor literally said you're at high risk for another heart attack if you keep pushing yourself like this."

His words cut through me, sharp and cold. The memory of that day flashes back—the crushing pain, the panic, the sudden stillness as everything faded out. I can still feel it sometimes, like a ghost pressing down on my chest. My fingers hover over the keyboard as the doctor's warnings echo in my head—stress, high blood pressure, no more second chances. I should care more. I do care. But work is my lifeline, the only thing that makes me feel in control when everything else is slipping away.

Paul softens, but the worry in his eyes is impossible to ignore. He's not just being dramatic—he's scared. And maybe I should be, too. I let out a breath, guilt gnawing at me. Maybe I am pushing too hard.

But the thought of slowing down? Of not keeping my hands on everything? It terrifies me. It feels like if I stop for even a second, the world will crumble around me. And yet, the image of me collapsing again, not getting back up this time . . . that's real, too.

"I know," I say quietly, barely meeting his gaze. "But I can't just stop."

"You don't have to stop," Paul says, his voice softer now, almost pleading. "But you do need to fucking slow down. Take a well-deserved break, learn how to relax, how to actually live. We were raised by a toxic man who drilled into us that work was all that mattered."

He's right. Father drilled that lesson into our heads from day one. You're only as good as your success. Fail, and you're nothing.

"And what am I supposed to do now?" I ask, throwing up my hands. "Just sit around like a couch potato? Sounds thrilling."

Paul's lips twitch with a grin. "No, but hear me out—maybe learn how to have a more relaxed life. You know, ease into it."

I narrow my eyes at him, deflecting. "Why are you awake so early anyway? Didn't you get home a few hours ago? Late night? New girlfriend?" I lean back, smirking. "What's next, you gonna end up like Sin, marrying some small-town girl?"

He laughs and shakes his head. "Oh no, I don't think I'll be marrying a small-town girl not now, or ever."

Good, that gives me some hope. I might not end up like our other siblings, trapped in this sleepy town. Maybe I can have a little fun here, pretend I'm relaxing—whatever that even means—and then get back to my life.

But still, that doesn't answer everything. "Seriously, though, why are you up so early?"

"Baker's hours," he replies, matter-of-fact. "I've got to get to the bakery and start prepping for the day."

I blink, surprised. "Isn't that Grandma's job?"

Paul shakes his head. "Not anymore. I'm taking over so she can retire and actually enjoy her life."

"You're serious, aren't you?" I ask, half expecting him to laugh it off.

But he nods. "Completely. Once you're better, I'll invite you to join me one morning. You'll see how peaceful it is to make bread, prep the pastries. It's . . . calming. "

I stare at him, trying to picture it—my brother, up before dawn, crafting pastries in the early morning light. It's almost laughable, considering who he used to be. But there's something in the way he says it, something real . He's settled here. He has a life. He's happy.

And I envy him for it. Because the truth is, I don't think I've ever really had that.

Honestly, the whole baking thing isn't what I need. I know that much. But the rest? The peace, the contentment . . . it makes me wonder. Why do I want that? And more importantly, how do I even achieve it?