Chapter 34
Thirty-Four
Melissa
The morning light filters through my bedroom curtains in shades of pale gold. I stretch under the covers, my body sore in all the wrong places—tension, not satisfaction. My phone sits on the nightstand, screen dark. No messages. Not that I expected any.
Three weeks since I left Tāwaha.
Three weeks of radio silence from Hella, except for his nightly FaceTime calls with Olive.
I swing my legs out of bed and pad barefoot across the hardwood floor to Olive's room. She's already awake, sitting cross-legged on her bed with her blonde hair tangled around her shoulders. She looks up when I enter, studying me with an intensity that shouldn't belong to a child.
“Morning, baby.”
“Morning, Mama.” The word makes my chest tighten. She's been calling me that for two weeks now. Two weeks of slowly opening up, of testing boundaries, of figuring out how to be my daughter. Of me figuring out how to be a mother.
“You ready for school?” I ask, firing off a text to my own to fill her in on all that’s happened since I first told her about Olive.
She’s been great with her, calling, sending gifts, flying up to Westbeach when she gets the chance.
She joked about grandchildren being God’s apology for all the shit your own children put you through.
She should have been a grandmother and not a mother. Figures.
Olive nods, sliding off the bed. “Can I wear the purple shirt?”
“The one with the skull bunny thing?”
“Uh-huh.”
I help her get dressed, braiding her hair the way she likes it—loose and simple and a little messy.
I think it reminds her of Hella. She chatters about her friend Manaia, something about first break, and how Mrs. Patterson said her drawing of a motorcycle was “very detailed.” I smile and nod, trying not to think about how she learned to draw motorcycles in the first place.
Don't go there.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, thinking it’s my mother, or maybe it’s — Phoebe's name lights up the screen. Not Hella. Never Hella.
Not during the day, anyway.
“Hey, Phoebs.”
“Morning, sunshine! Listen, I know this is last-minute, but can I steal Olive for a few hours after school? I want to take her shopping for the wedding. Get her a cute dress, maybe some shoes. Blake wants to come too—he's oddly excited about having a niece to spoil.”
The wedding. Beast and Yana's wedding. This Saturday. In Tāwaha. Where Hella will be. Where I'll have to see him again.
Realisation knots in my stomach.
I smile, kissing Olive’s head. “Yeah, of course. She'd love that.”
“Perfect! I'll pick her up after school and promise not to make any kids cry.” The first time Phoebe picked up Olive, she created chaos in the drop and go line outside the school. Apparently, making your turbo whistle isn’t an appropriate way to get kids to, and I quote, ‘get in their fucking cars faster’.
“I’d appreciate that,” I answer, barely containing a laugh.
Hanging up with Phoebe, I kneel to help Olive with her shoes, my fingers working the laces into neat bows.
“Aunt Phoebe's taking you shopping today.”
Her face lights up as she shuffles close. “Really?”
“Really.” I grin at her. “For the wedding.”
Her eyes shine bright, and the guilt returns the same way it always does any time she mentions him. “Hella’s coming right?”
My chest tightens. “Yeah, baby. He is.”
“Good.” Her shoulders relax as she studies my final bow. “I miss him.”
I know you do.
I drive Olive to school, watching her skip through the front doors with her backpack bouncing against her shoulders. She's made friends quickly. The other kids gravitate toward her. There's something magnetic about Olive—something that draws people in.
I pull away from the curb and head toward the bakery. The familiar route calms me. Westbeach in the morning is peaceful. Salt air and coffee shops and the distant cry of gulls. It's home. It's safe.
It's everything Tāwaha isn't.
And that's the problem.
Even if things with Hella hadn't imploded, even if I'd stayed, even if I'd said yes—what kind of life would that be for Olive? Growing up at a motorcycle clubhouse? Surrounded by violence and danger and men who solve problems with their fists and worse?
Here, she goes to school. Friends. Normalcy.
Here, she has a chance.
I park behind the bakery and let myself in through the back entrance.
The smell of fresh dough and sugar greets me, thick enough to taste.
My body moves on autopilot through the familiar space while my mind stays stuck on Olive's smile this morning.
Karian's already prepping the morning pastries, her dark curls pulled back in a messy bun.
“Morning, boss.”
“Morning.” The word comes out rougher than intended.
Peter emerges from the walk-in cooler carrying a tray of éclairs, condensation still clinging to the metal. “How's our girl?”
Our girl. Like she belongs to all of us now. Like we're some fucked-up family unit held together by flour and frosting. “Excited. Phoebe's taking her shopping after school.”
“For the wedding?” Karian wipes flour from her hands, leaving white streaks on her apron. “That's this weekend, right?”
My throat tightens. “Saturday.”
“You nervous?”
Nervous? Major understatement.
“A little.”
Peter sets the tray down with a clatter and leans against the counter, studying me with those too-knowing eyes. “How's the asshole handling things?”
“Which one?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
He smirks. “The one with the bike and the bad attitude.”
My fingers find my phone without thinking, muscle memory from months of this routine.
I pull it out and open the FaceTime app.
The screen fills with their call history—a perfect line of seven-thirty timestamps.
Every night at seven-thirty, Hella calls.
Without fail. Without excuse. Every night, Olive answers with a smile that could light up the world, bouncing on her toes, already talking before the connection fully loads.
Every night, they talk for an hour—about her day, her friends, her drawings.
He listens to every word like they're gospel.
He asks questions that prove he remembers everything she's ever told him.
He tells her stories about bikes and roads and stars.
And every night, when she hands me the phone so I can say goodnight, his entire demeanor shifts.
The warmth vanishes.
Patience? Gone.
He becomes cold. Hostile. Cruel.
Two nights ago, he told me to find a new man. Said he'd moved on. Said whatever we had was done. It hurt more than I let on.
“He's fine,” I lie. “We're fine.”
Karian raises a brow but doesn't push.
The morning rush starts, and I lose myself in the rhythm of work.
Orders and coffee and small talk with regulars who've become friends. Mrs. Herbert wants her usual. Mr. Jake orders enough cinnamon rolls to feed his construction crew. The high school kids filter in with their laptops and their complicated drink orders. This is the part I love about Westbeach, where everyone rallies around someone when something bad happens, like Richard. I managed to worm my way out of the Eastbeach bakery with the help of Hannibal’s lawyer, so shutting those doors meant I'd gained a lot of new customers from that side of town too.
It was the best thing to happen to Cyanide & Sugar.
Normal. Safe. Predictable.
Around noon, Karian pulls me aside during a lull.
“Olive and my Vale are inseparable at school, you know.”
“Yeah?” A smile spreads over my face.
“Mrs. Patterson says they're like two peas in a pod. Vale always protecting her like a big brother, always sitting together at lunch, always partnering up for projects.” She grins. “It's adorable.”
I smile despite the ache in my chest. “She needs that. Friends her age.”
“She's thriving here, Mel. You made the right choice.”
Did I?
Because some nights, when I'm alone in bed with my phone clutched in my hand, I wonder. I wonder what would've happened if I'd stayed. If I'd said yes. If I'd been brave enough to accept what Hella offered.
But then I think about Olive laughing with her friends. Drawing pictures in art class. Learning to ride a bike. Having a childhood.
And I know.
I know Westbeach is where she belongs.
Even if it means I can't have him.
My phone buzzes. I pull it out, expecting another message from Phoebe or maybe Millie to fill me in on what's going on with her.
Hella's name appears, and my heart stops.
I open the message.
Why is Olive's location showing Eastbeach on Life360?
I stare at the screen. Of course he's tracking her. Monitoring her every move. Fucking control freak.
My fingers fly across the keyboard.
She's with Phoebe. Shopping for the wedding. Chill the fuck out.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
See you in three days.
That's it. No explanation. A cold statement of fact or claim.
“Fuck,” I mutter, the grip on my phone tightening.
Peter looks up from the espresso machine. “What?”
“Hella.”
“Ah.” He grins. “Trouble in paradise?”
“There is no paradise. There's no anything.” Which was the point, so why am I making it a problem now?
Karian leans over my shoulder, reading the messages. She whistles low. “Girl, you better find something hot to wear to that wedding. Make his balls ache.”
I turn to her. “I don't want to make his balls ache.”
“Liar.”
Fine, maybe I do.
Because despite everything—despite the coldness, the cruelty, the distance—I want him. Crave him. Dream about his hands and his mouth and the way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered before it turned into the we were the only thing that mattered.
Three days.
Three days until I see him again.
Three days to prepare for the inevitable trainwreck.
I spend the rest of the afternoon trying to focus on inventory. Trying to forget about Saturday. Trying to convince myself that I don't care what Hella thinks or feels or does so long as he knows where I stand.
By the time I close up the bakery, my nerves are shot.
I drive home with the windows down, letting the salt air clear my head.
The shack feels empty without Olive's chatter filling the space.
I pour myself a glass of wine and settle onto the couch, scrolling through my phone without really seeing anything.
Seven-thirty comes and goes.
My phone stays silent.
Panic flutters in my chest. He always calls. Every single night since we left, he's called. It's the one constant. The one thing I can count on.
Seven forty-five.
Nothing.
Eight o'clock.
Where is he?
At eight-fifteen, my phone rings. I snatch it up so fast I nearly drop it.
Phoebe's name lights up the screen.
“Hey, is everything okay?” My heart pounds in my chest.
“Everything's perfect! We're finishing up dinner. Olive wanted to tell you what she got.”
Relief floods through me. “Put her on.”
Olive's voice comes through, bright and happy. “Mama! Uncle Blake bought me three dresses! And shoes! And a headband with sparkles!”
“Three dresses?” All the panic dissolves.
“He said I needed options.” She giggles. “Can I stay for a sleepover? Please?”
I hesitate. “Did you talk to Hella yet?”
“He texted Uncle Blake. Said it was fine as long as I call him before bed.”
He texted Blake.
Not me.
“Yeah, baby.” I smile. “You can stay.”
“Love you, Mama!”
“Love you too.”
The line goes dead. I stare at my phone, that hollow ache spreading through my chest again.
He didn't call.
He texted Blake instead.
Message received loud and clear.
I finish my wine. Pour another glass. Curl up on the couch and try to lose myself in a thoughtless reality show. But all I can think about is Saturday. About seeing him again. About how he'll look at me—or won't look at me. About whether he's serious about moving on.
About whether I can survive three days of pretending I don't care.
The wine helps. A little.
By the time I stumble into bed, I'm buzzed enough that sleep comes quickly. But my dreams are dark and tangled. Hella's hands around my throat. His mouth on mine. His voice in my ear, low and rough and dangerous.
You're mine.
I wake up gasping, sheets tangled around my legs and my heart pounding.
Three days.