THE SWEETEST DEAL - Chapter 3: After The Flame

The rooftop had emptied.

The crowd had thinned to a few lingering guests nursing cocktails and murmuring over city views. The music had softened to a low, sultry hum — jazz with a heartbeat. Nairobi glittered below, a sea of lights and secrets. But up here, the world had narrowed to two people.

Lisa stood at the edge of the rooftop, her hands resting on the cool glass railing, the wind teasing strands of hair from her bun. The red silk of her dress clung to her skin, still warm from the heat of the kitchen, the spotlight, the way Malik had looked at her like she was something rare. Something dangerous.

Behind her, footsteps approached. Slow. Certain.

She didn’t turn.

“You stayed,” Malik said, his voice low, close.

“I wasn’t sure I would,” she replied.

“Why did you?”

Lisa exhaled, watching the city pulse below. “Because I wanted to see what you’d say when no one else was watching.”

A pause. Then, “And what do you think I’ll say?”

She turned to face him.

Malik stood just a breath away, his jacket gone, sleeves rolled, shirt slightly undone. He looked less like the polished businessman from earlier and more like the man behind the curtain — raw, real, and far too close.

“I think,” she said slowly, “you’re used to getting what you want.”

His mouth curved. “Only when I want it badly enough.”

“And do you?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Want this?”

Malik didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped closer, closing the space between them until she could feel the heat of his body, the scent of him — spice, smoke, something darker.

“I want the woman who doesn’t flinch under pressure,” he said. “Who turns sugar into seduction and fire into art. I want the woman who walked into this place like she owned it — and then proved she did.”

Lisa’s pulse kicked up. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one that matters.”

She swallowed hard. “This isn’t just business anymore.”

“No,” he said. “It’s not.”

The silence stretched between them, thick with everything unsaid.

Lisa looked away, her voice tight. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“Then tell me.”

She hesitated. The words were there — sharp, bitter, buried deep. But she’d spent years building walls, not tearing them down.

“I’ve been burned before,” she said finally. “By men who said all the right things. Who wanted the fire, but not the scars.”

Malik’s gaze didn’t waver. “I’m not afraid of scars.”

“You should be.”

He stepped even closer, his hand brushing hers on the railing. “I don’t want to tame you, Lisa. I want to taste what you’ve been hiding.”

Her breath caught.

And then — slowly, deliberately — she turned her hand over, letting his fingers slide against her palm. The touch was electric. Intimate. A silent yes.

Malik leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Come with me.”

She didn’t ask where. Didn’t need to.

He led her through a side door, down a quiet hallway lit only by the soft glow of sconces. At the end was a private tasting room — smaller, darker, more intimate. A single table. Two chairs. A bottle of wine already breathing.

He poured her a glass without asking. She took it, sipped, let the warmth slide down her throat.

Malik sat across from her, elbows on the table, eyes locked on hers.

“Why baking?” he asked.

Lisa blinked. “What?”

“You could’ve done anything. Why this?”

She hesitated. Then, “Because it’s the only thing that ever made sense. When everything else fell apart… the kitchen was the one place I could still breathe.”

Malik nodded slowly. “And who broke you?”

The question was a blade — sharp, unexpected.

Lisa looked down at her glass. “Someone who said he loved me. Someone who didn’t know what to do with a woman who didn’t need saving.”

Malik’s voice was quiet. “And now?”

“Now I don’t let anyone close enough to try.”

He leaned forward. “Then why am I here?”

Lisa met his gaze. “Because I haven’t decided if you’re worth the risk.”

A beat of silence.

Then Malik stood, walked around the table, and stopped beside her chair. He didn’t touch her. Just stood there, waiting.

Lisa looked up at him, her heart pounding.

And then — slowly — she stood too.

Their bodies were inches apart. The air between them charged.

Malik reached up, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. His fingers lingered.

“I don’t want to rush this,” he said. “But I’m not walking away either.”

Lisa’s voice was barely a whisper. “Then don’t.”

And in that moment — with the city humming below, the wine forgotten, and the taste of risk still on her lips — she let herself lean in.

Not all the way.

Just enough to feel the heat.

Just enough to know that the fall had already begun.