Chapter 27
twenty-seven
. . .
No Sports, Just Revenue
HALSTON
There’s a line outside of Bitter Bloom.
A real line.
Not just Mrs. Alvarez and two neighbors standing around the chalkboard. A line down the sidewalk, past Saints & Sinners, and around the corner far enough that Oliver steps outside, stares at it, and says, “Absolutely not.”
Marley, who is already filming him, zooms in on his face. “Can you say that again, but with more despair?”
Oliver turns slowly. “This is private property.”
“Halston wants me here.”
“My suffering is private.”
“And yet, monetizable.”
He looks at the line again. Two Vipers players are near the front, each holding a Coconut Bloom from an early preview batch Marley forced us to release a half hour early for morale. Behind them, three women in Vipers caps take selfies with the chalkboard. Someone brought flowers.
Marley swings the camera toward me. “No crying before open.”
“I’m not crying.”
“Your eyes are shimmering.”
“It’s the humidity.”
“That makes no sense.” She lowers the phone, her face softening. “You ready?”
No. Not really.
I’m a human woman with a body that sometimes likes to give up on me. My fatigue has only gotten worse with the stress, despite my excitement.
I used to let it run me. I’d cancel plans, lie down in bed with a heating pad draped over me and no idea when I’d come out.
And although I need to reduce stress and listen to my body, I’m also done letting it make me miserable.
Because the people around me care. I’m not alone when I’m hurting. I’m understood.
I’m safe.
My body aches, and my fatigue feels so heavy that my shoulders slump and it’s hard to move my legs. The electric shocks down the back of my legs have surprised me more than once today. I’m not ready, I don’t think.
And yet I am. I need to be. I’m still excited.
Lisa is at the pastry case, calm and glowing, wearing a pale blue apron Marley labeled CRUMB COMMANDER. Dev is tying ribbons around cookie boxes. Marley has three devices, two battery packs, a ring light, and the expression of a woman about to commit social media warfare.
Oliver stands in the kitchen, his arms crossed, dressed in black and already looking annoyed.
Maybe it’s because Warren is there too, his sleeves rolled up, tattoos visible.
Warren looks up toward the doorway and catches me watching him. He doesn’t look away.
“Halston,” he says.
“Yes?” My heart leaps.
“Four minutes.”
I nod.
I take a breath. “Do we have The Receipt bars?”
“Forty-eight cut. Twenty-four held back for the reset.”
“Map cookies?”
“First pickup window ready.”
“Lattes?”
“All syrups are a go.”
I glance toward the front. Marley is out front saying, “Limit two per person means limit two per person, Brian. This is a bakery, not a black-market coconut coffee ring.”
My stomach flips.
Because tonight isn’t just a relaunch.
It’s a public reckoning.
The second we open, Marley is posting the attorney-approved statement. It’s not an attack or a rant. Not the screaming version my heart wrote down in my notes app and deleted five times.
A clean, dated, supported statement.
It only says what’s true. That Barrett Whitaker reviewed Bitter Bloom both before and after my relationship with his son ended.
That his negative review did not disclose a personal family connection to my former fiancé.
That documents provided to me show Grant Whitaker communicating with his father about Bitter Bloom’s branding and my emotional state, and using language that later appeared in or closely aligned with the review’s framing.
That I have asked for transparency and a correction. That I will not discuss private relationship details beyond what is relevant to my business and public reputation.
Then Marley’s timeline.
Old review. Engagement. Breakup. Negative review. Messages. Pressure on vendors. My response. And today.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I check it.
ELISE
I’m here. Outside. I can leave if it’s better.
I stare at it.
“Elise is here,” I say, looking up. Oliver’s jaw tightens.
Warren goes still. “What do you want?”
Sighing, I glance back. “I want her to come in,” I say slowly. “Quietly. Not as a guest of honor or anything. Just… here.”
Marley watches me. “Are you sure?”
“No. But yes.”
“I’ll go get her,” Oliver says, leaving through the back.
Elise looks polished as always, her face pale.
Her gaze finds mine. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
The bakery is quiet.
“I won’t stay long. I know you’re opening in seconds.”
I nod.
“I emailed Denise like you asked. Sent her everything.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“I also wanted to say…” She looks around. “This is beautiful.”
My chest squeezes.
It would be easy to hate her if she only looked like the woman from Grant’s desk. It’s harder when she looks like a woman who believed the wrong man because it made her feel like she belonged.
I know something about that.
“Thank you,” I say again.
Marley lifts her phone. “Okay. Final check. Statement goes up in thirty seconds. Comments will be monitored. No one engages with trolls except for me because I’m trained in controlled menace.”
“You are absolutely not trained. More rabid.”
“I was born trained, Oliver.”
Lisa adjusts the pastry case sign as Warren slides the tray of Receipt bars onto the cooling rack. The bakery smells like banana, coconut, butter, and vanilla.
It smells like home. Mine.
Ours, maybe. In the future.
I look at the room again.
My people. My beautiful, exhausted people.
Then the window. The line, in this city.
The truth waiting online.
I step to the front door. My hands shake when I unlock it, but not enough to stop me.
And I turn the sign to OPEN.
The first customers come in smiling. Not pity-smiling. Not like a few did after Whitaker’s second review.
Mrs. Alvarez is first, because she always is. If she didn’t get here first, she definitely pushed her way to the front of the line. She’s wearing red lipstick and a coat with a fur collar that may or may not be real and points at me immediately.
“I want whatever pastry tastes the most like revenge and won’t give me heartburn.”
Dev pops up behind the case. “That would be The Receipt.”
She smiles. “Excellent. I’ll take two.”
And just like that, it begins.
For twenty minutes, there is no public reckoning.
The case moves fast. The pastries go first. The lattes fly across the counter in pink and blue sleeves. Map cookie boxes disappear as fast as the pre-orders came in. Customers open them and take photos before they even leave the shop.
One man explains what they are to his son, who looks at me and goes, “She plays Dungeons & Dragons? She’s too hot for that.”
I say, “Hot people play Dungeons & Dragons!” and the crowd cheers.
The room roars to life.
Because it’s not a silly game. It’s an escape from a world that can be overwhelming. It’s a creative outlet and happiness all in one.
The Vipers player responsible for naming Sweet Heat leans over the counter. “Is Olin’s Road Ration Cookie Box the one with the tavern guy?”
When I stare at him, he adds, “Oliver was bitching about it the night after game night.”
“Oh. Yeah, it is.”
Oliver looks at me like I’ve committed the worst crime.
He grins. “Cool. I’ll take two boxes.”
Marley catches it all on video.
The Vipers show up in waves. Not the whole team.
Not many of the stars. But enough to help.
They are large, loud, hungry, and polite in the specific way players on a young team are when they know a camera may appear at any second.
They’re rich, so they buy everything. They take photos of everything.
One asks Lisa detailed questions about the jam used in The Receipt and looks genuinely moved when she explains the ingredients.
Oliver complains the whole time, but then unveils three game-night cocktails at Saints & Sinners.
The Bitter End Zone, which he named just to piss them off.
The No Vipers Allowed.
And finally, the No Sports, Just Revenue.
And then things start to change.
The bakery is still moving. Orders and laughter and espresso. The bell over the door.
Beneath it all, I can feel the pressure ease now that the truth is out there. I’ve taken my final swing.
I grip the edge of the pastry case.
Marley’s gaze flies across the screen. “Initial response is strong.”
Oliver freezes. “What kind of strong?”
“Shares and comments. People asking why the family connection wasn’t disclosed. Local food accounts are reposting the statement. Someone tagged the paper he works for demanding answers.”
My stomach flips.
Lisa murmurs, “Good.”
A woman at the counter glances from her phone to me. She looks like she’s debating saying something, and I brace.
“I just want to say that was brave,” she says. “Professional. I’m sorry they did that to you.”
My heart races.
She lifts the cookie box. “And these are ridiculous and I love them.”
A laugh breaks out of me.
Wet and relieved.
“Thank you so much.”
Someone behind her says, “Same.”
Mrs. Alvarez, who has been flirting with the Vipers in the corner, yells loudly, “Men need to have their internet taken away. They’ve been terrorizing women with their terrible takes for generations.”
The room laughs. But this time it’s with me.
Warren appears at my side with a tray in his hands. He sets them in the case.
A large, burly man stretches his arm out, trying to get his attention. “Those tattoos are amazing, man. Where did you get them done? I’m looking at a chest piece.”
Warren freezes for half a second.
“Thank you,” he says before telling him about the shop a few hours from here and several shops in Germany.
An hour later, the first journalist arrives.
Not from the big paper. A local arts and food newsletter writer named Priya, who has covered small restaurants, charity events, and once wrote a serious piece about crab dip economics.
Marley warned me she might come, but I’m still not ready when she introduces herself.
“Halston?” she asks, her tone careful and kind. “I don’t want to disrupt you, but I wanted to ask if you’re willing to make any comment beyond the statement.”
My mouth goes dry.