Chapter Two
Bianca
I press the phone tight against my ear, my stomach twisting into knots. The world falls away into a shivery pit of nothing, and I feel the first cold ripple of panic spread through me.
"I don’t know what to do, Bianca," the voice on the other end is raw, shaky. Desperate. It’s Vanessa, one of the women I’ve been helping through Safe House, and I can barely recognize the confident spark I know in her. She works part-time at Club Sin, but she’s been struggling to get out—trying to rebuild. To start fresh. And now, it sounds like she’s on the verge of falling apart.
"He threw me out," she sobs. "Took my money. I have nowhere to go. I—"
I close my eyes, the weight of it crushing me. Vanessa’s boyfriend has done this before—hurt her, taken everything from her, sent her stumbling back into the arms of the one thing that can numb the pain. Drugs. When he’s sober, he’s not a totally bad guy. They’re both nuts about each other, but the two of them feed each other’s addictions and their worst habits until they spiral like a class five tornado. I can already hear it in her voice—that dangerous, fragile edge that says she’s close to breaking.
She pulls a shaky breath, gasps, and says, "I need your help."
My throat is tight as I exhale. "I’m coming. Just stay put. I’ll be right there."
I hang up, my chest aching, everything inside me screaming to move, to find her, to fix this, but there’s something else that stops me in my tracks.
Then I see him.
The baker.
He’s standing there, just outside Sticky Buns, gripping something in his hand. His gaze is locked on me, his expression unreadable, the intensity in his eyes making my heart kick. I realize he’d come out here for a reason, something urgent enough to make him rush after me.
For a split second, I’m thrown off—why was he charging out toward me like that? Right now? I wipe at my eyes quickly, trying to erase the traces of emotion before I face him. I don’t even know why I care.
His head tilts slightly, and I follow his gaze—to his hand.
The rosary. My rosary.
My heart stumbles. I reach out instinctively, my mind racing. “You were coming to give me this?”
He doesn’t speak, just nods once, slow.
I take the beads from him carefully, curling my fingers around them. They’re warm from his touch.
He hesitates, then—softer than I would have expected—he asks, "You okay?"
I almost laugh, but it catches in my throat. Because no, I’m not okay; I can’t even remember what ‘okay’ feels like.
"I have this rule: never trauma dump on strangers,” I say. “So, what’s your name?”
He chuckles. “Caleb. Or you can call me ‘Tank.’”
“Caleb, I’m Bianca,” I say, taking care not to use my last name. Most days, my last name feels like a curse. I shake my head, everything rushing back. “I’ve got something difficult to deal with. Someone in trouble. And I’m scared. Scared and just so, so tired.”
I watch something shift in his eyes. His shoulders straighten slightly, and he steps closer, lowering his voice. "Can I help?"
The question catches me off guard. People don't offer help in my world—they demand payment, loyalty, blood. I study his face, searching for the angle, the hidden motive. But all I see is genuine concern, maybe even a touch of determination.
"It's complicated," I say, glancing down at my phone. Vanessa needs me now. "And dangerous."
"I'm not afraid of dangerous." There's no bravado in his voice, just a simple statement of fact. For the first time, I notice the faint scar running along his jawline, the way he holds himself—balanced, ready. This is not just a baker.
"You don't even know me," I say.
"I know enough." His eyes don’t move from mine. There’s no pity in them, no judgment—just a quiet, steady presence that I didn’t realize I needed.
I shake my head, tucking my rosary into my pocket.
"That's kind of you, but I need to handle this myself."
His blue eyes hold mine for a beat longer than comfortable, and I resist the urge to look away. There's something about the steadiness in his gaze that makes me feel like he can see straight through my walls, past the careful facade I've constructed.
"Alright," he says finally, taking a half-step back. His beard twitches slightly with what might be a suppressed smile. "You seem like a smart woman, Bianca. Capable. I'm sure you'll figure it out."
The words are gruff, almost dismissive, but they land differently than I expected. Not patronizing, but affirming. Like he genuinely believes what he's saying. It's been a long time since someone looked at me and saw strength instead of a resource to use and discard. It’s not comforting, not really. But it’s… grounding. And something about the way he says it makes me feel like I actually will figure it out.
I study him for a long second, trying to make sense of this man. He stands there, unmoving, as if waiting for me to speak or flee, or for the sky to fall on our heads. I'm not sure why he’s just watching me like this, like he can see straight through the tangled threads of my life and knows how to unravel them. His unwavering stance, his controlled breathing, the intent way he looks at me with those blue eyes—I can’t shake the feeling that he’s quietly trying to decide something about me, like maybe he sees something that I don’t even see in myself, something I’ve lost. Or maybe never had in the first place.
The apron, the rough hands dusted in flour, the guarded way he carries himself — his unassuming, steady nature, not to mention his giant arms and piercing eyes that seem to carry a gruff sort of kindness, makes me feel safe around him. It crashes over me like a wave. It’s been so long since I felt safe. I tighten my grip on the rosary.
“Thank you for bringing this to me.” My voice is quiet, hesitant. “I’m not religious, but they were my grandmother’s, and she was the strongest woman I knew. When my world feels like it’s going to shit, these make me feel brave.” I shouldn’t be saying these things. I shouldn’t be standing here, dragging a stranger into the mess of my emotions, into the chaos of my life.
But as I talk, I feel a crack form in the armor I’ve built around myself. The crack widens, refusing to close. It leaves me feeling open, raw, exposed, and part of me wants to run from it—from him. Because I shouldn’t be here, pouring my heart out to a man I barely know, not when Vanessa needs me. Every second I stand on this street corner brings me closer to hearing what I don’t want to hear, seeing what I don’t want to see, finding her again, with fresh track marks on her arm and that hollow look in her eyes.
I think back to when I first met Vanessa, when she barely had the strength to look me in the eye, let alone speak. Back then, she was just another name on a long list of women who’d come to Safe House: addicted, abused, and dangerously close to not getting another shot at life. But there’d been something about her. Something different. Once I started talking to her—a chance meeting at the shelter, a few check-ins, and then longer, deeper conversations—her spark came through. And when she finally trusted me enough to let me help, I gave her everything I could. Everything. I can’t let that be for nothing. I won’t let that be for nothing. No matter how fast I run, no matter how much I give, it never feels like enough. I close my eyes, and the weight of it crushes me.
But then something reckless pushes against it, something desperate inside me that can’t stop circling that pained note in Vanessa’s voice, the one that tells me the worst is about to happen, no matter how quickly I get to her. I clear my throat.
"This is going to sound strange, but… can I hug you? I could really use one right now."
For a split second, Caleb looks stunned. His brows pull together, like the idea of me reaching for him, of me wanting to hug him, is beyond comprehension. Like maybe he doesn’t know what to make of me — this strange woman standing on the street, asking for comfort when she should be halfway across the city, halfway to saving someone’s life.
But then, slowly, he nods. “You may.”
I step forward before I lose my nerve, wrapping my arms around him lightly, unsure if he’ll pull away.
For a moment, nothing happens. Then his arms close around me — strong, secure, safe.
It’s not the hug people give out of obligation. It’s the kind that says, I see you; I don’t know you, but I see you.
And then I hear his voice, a low rumble against my temple.
"Whoever it is, they’re lucky to have you."
The words slam into me, deeper than I expect.
I feel something break inside my chest—just a little. Just enough to make me want to tell him; tell him about the woman I’m going to help; tell him about the way I wake up every morning carrying too much weight, too many burdens, too many people I can’t save; tell him about my brother, the nightmarish threat that lurks just a block away and always, always, always seems to sink his claws into everything even remotely good and turn them into lifeless, polluted nothings.
I pull back, clearing my throat. My vision blurred from the held-back tears, my heart hammering in my throat. I need to say something, even if it’s just a half-assed warning for him to watch out for his neighbors.
"Can I tell you something?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
Caleb grunts, which I take as a yes.
But before I can say a word, I see it.
A black SUV comes rolling down the street, moving with a creeping, intentional slowness. My breath catches, and it feels like the air itself turns to ice around me. It’s a feeling I know too well, a reminder of the life I haven’t escaped. Deliberate. Watching.
My survival instincts kick in, a cold, slimy sensation sliding down my spine as my pulse thunder in my ears. My throat locks, my fingers go numb, and my chest tightens with the force of a vise. I know that SUV. It’s one of my brother’s.
I don’t need to see the driver’s face to know what it means: I’m being watched. I’m being warned. A part of me wants to think it’s a coincidence, but I know better. My brother doesn’t believe in coincidences. He believes in control. He knows exactly where I am and who I’m with. One of his enforcers is watching me, reporting back to him. The reminder is all it takes for the rational part of my brain to beat back the reckless urge to trust this stranger. This is bigger than Caleb or me. It’s my entire world, and I can’t start thinking like I have a way out of it. I can’t let him know what I’m caught up in. I was stupid to even think about it, to even consider saying anything at all. I bite the inside of my cheek to hold it all in, the bitterness of blood mingling with the bitterness of truth. I can’t pull Caleb into this world. I won’t. So I say, instead, the only thing I can say.
“I just wanted to thank you again for the pastries." The words feel hollow, my voice thin as paper. I see Caleb’s brow furrow, his expression shifting like he knows I just lied. Or maybe he just doesn’t understand the sudden goodbye, the mysterious departure. But he says nothing.
Before he can ask me anything else, I turn quickly and rush for my car, the thud of my boots against the pavement beating in time with my racing heart.
Caleb just stands there as I go, a solid figure in my periphery. Amazed, maybe even a little confused. Already getting lost to the city, to the chaos, to my own panicked retreat. I refuse to look back at him. If I do, I might crumble. I might risk it all and let him in.
I wrench the car door open, climbing inside and jamming the key into the ignition with shaking hands. The engine roars to life, and I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles white as bone. In my rearview mirror, I see the SUV. Following. One block. Two blocks. Three.
Then, finally, it turns.
I exhale a shaky breath. I made the right decision. I have to keep Caleb out of this. I can’t let a kind man like him get dragged into my world. He doesn’t deserve that.
No one does.