Epilogue 2
Alina
The bell above the door chimes as I push it open, stepping into my kingdom of sugar and flour. It’s been six months since reclaiming the space, and sometimes I still catch my breath at the transformation.
My bakery—truly mine now—from the gleaming new countertops to the fresh seafoam green paint that brightens the walls. Almost everything is new and shiny, making it as beautiful as I always envisioned it could look.
My hands move to cradle my small baby bump, a secret joy only visible when I’m wearing fitted clothes like today’s red cashmere shirt.
Valentine’s Day has turned the bakery into a haven of heart-shaped cookies, and even batches of penis-shaped ones. Though those aren’t on display since a lot of families come here.
The raunchy shapes were Raven’s idea. At first, I laughed, but then she showed me the research she’d done, and now, they’re our biggest seller. Not just today, but every weekend. Something about it makes people laugh and let loose.
And it’s not just people who are into that particular shape who buy them. Oh, no. I’ve sold plenty to men who wanted to make their wife or girlfriend laugh.
“Morning, boss,” Molly calls from behind the counter, her curly blonde hair peeking out from beneath a red bandana. She’s arranging a platter of raspberry-filled linzer cookies, the powdered sugar dusting her fingers like winter frost.
I smile, inhaling the familiar scent of yeast and vanilla that feels more like home than any mansion ever could. “Those look perfect. How’s the morning rush been?”
The best thing about not just owning the entire business, but also having the finances to do exactly what I want, I don’t have to get up in the middle of the night anymore. I usually show up around ten, unless I need to fill in for someone.
“We’ve been slammed since six,” Corey answers, emerging from the kitchen with a tray of fresh croissants. He’s grown more confident in the months since I returned—less hesitant, more invested. “But we’re keeping up. The new oven’s a game-changer.”
Pride swells in my chest as I survey what we’ve accomplished together. The ancient display cases have been replaced with sleek glass and brushed steel. The clunky old register is gone, replaced by a tablet system that makes inventory tracking almost painless.
Even the floors shine with new tiles, no trace remaining of the worn patches that once marked high-traffic areas.
“Have you seen the sales numbers from the pre-orders?” Allie appears beside me, tablet in hand, her practical efficiency balancing my creative instincts perfectly. “We’ve doubled last year’s Valentine’s revenue already.”
When Raffaele first introduced me to Allie, I was ready to hate her. But how could I when she looked after my bakery with the care that she did? She’s never overstepped, and I’ve never had to pull rank. That’s why I’ve kept her on.
I nod, still taking it all in. Every decision, every renovation—they’ve all been mine to make. No debt hanging over my head, no ghosts dictating my choices. Just me and the team I’ve carefully built, creating something beautiful from the ashes of what came before.
“Well, well, well. Is that Mrs. Brewer-Russo I see?” A familiar voice cuts through my thoughts. I turn to find Piper waving from a corner table, Raven beside her juggling what appears to be two squirming bundles.
“Go,” Allie nudges me with a smile. “Your friends are waiting. I’ve got this covered.”
I make my way through the busy café area, navigating between tables of couples sharing heart-shaped pastries and friends exchanging small gifts.
The bakery feels alive in a way it hasn’t since before Mom got sick—buzzing with conversation, laughter, the gentle clink of ceramic cups against saucers.
“There she is,” Raven beams as I approach. Her twins, Alexander and Arabella, are strapped to her chest in a complicated-looking carrier that somehow accommodates both nine-month-olds. “The pregnant pastry queen herself.”
“Sorry I’m late.” I slide into the chair across from them, immediately reaching for one of the biscotti on the plate at the center of the table. My constant hunger has become something of a joke among us. “The doctor’s appointment ran long.”
“Everything okay?” Piper asks, her eyes narrowing with immediate concern.
I nod through a mouthful of almond-studded cookie.
“Perfect. Completely healthy. Raffaele insisted on asking the doctor about fifty questions, though.” I sigh.
“It took forever to drag him out of there. He acts as if he has to squeeze everything into each appointment. Which is ridiculous when he insisted on private care and has the doctor’s address and cellphone. ”
Both women exchange knowing glances. Raffaele’s protective nature has only intensified since we confirmed my pregnancy, transforming him from a vigilant husband to something closer to an obsessive guardian angel.
Not that I mind. With everything we’ve been through, his protectiveness feels like safety, not control.
“Matteo’s the same,” Raven rolls her eyes fondly, adjusting Alexander who’s trying to grab her earring. “Nine months in and he still panics if one of them sneezes. I found him researching pediatric neurosurgeons at three in the morning because Arabella bumped her head on her crib.”
I reach for another biscotti—my fifth? Sixth? I’ve lost count—and laugh. “That sounds exactly like what I have to look forward to.”
“How’s the morning sickness?” Piper asks, pushing the plate closer to me.
“Gone, thank God.” I cradle my bump, still amazed at the life growing inside me. “Now I’m just hungry all the time. Poor Susan can barely keep the pantry stocked.”
The conversation flows easily between us, a friendship that still surprises me with its depth. A year ago, I was alone except for a sister who secretly hated me. Now I have this—two women who understand both my world and the men who brought us into it.
I’m halfway through explaining my latest craving—pickles dipped in chocolate sauce—when the bell above the door chimes. A delivery man steps inside, his eyes scanning the room before landing on the counter where Molly points in my direction.
“Mrs. Alina Brewer-Russo?” he calls, approaching our table with a small package and clipboard in hand.
I swallow my bite of biscotti, confused. “That’s me.”
“I’ve got a registered letter for you here,” he says. “Just need your signature.” He thrusts the clipboard at me, his demeanor suggesting this is just one of many deliveries in his day.
But something cold slithers down my spine as I scribble my name. Registered letters rarely bring good news. The last official document I received was the police report confirming Sabrina’s death had been ruled a suicide—the story Raffaele arranged to cover the truth.
As her only surviving family member, I inherited everything. And, well, I donated it all to a charity that helps people with mental health issues. They have programs Sabrina could have benefited from, so it was fitting to make a donation in her name.
The delivery man hands me a thick envelope and departs with a curt nod. The papers feel heavy in my hands, the sender’s address making my heart stutter—Mr. Clark, Mom’s lawyer.
“What is it?” Raven asks, bouncing Arabella gently as the baby fusses.
“I’m not sure.” My fingers tremble as I break the seal, sliding out several folded pages. The top one is a brief note from Mr. Clark on his official letterhead.
Dear Mrs. Brewer-Russo,
In accordance with the final wishes of your mother, Sophia Brewer, I was instructed to deliver the enclosed letter on the first anniversary of her passing. My sincerest apologies for any distress this may cause.
Respectfully,
Mr. Clark
My heart pounds against my ribs as I unfold the other papers; a letter in Mom’s familiar handwriting.
The sight of it alone is enough to make my vision blur.
I haven’t seen her handwriting since going through her recipe cards months ago, and the sudden appearance of it feels like a ghost materializing before me.
The first line steals the breath from my lungs.
My dearest Alina,
If you’re reading this, then I’ve been gone a year, and it’s time for me to finally be honest with you. I know it’s cowardly of me to be honest in death when I couldn’t in life…
The teacup I’ve been holding slips from my suddenly numb fingers, crashing to the floor with a sound that seems distant through the rushing in my ears. Hot tea splashes across my ankles, but I barely register the sensation.
“Oh!” Piper jumps up, grabbing napkins from the next table. “Are you okay?”
But I can’t answer. Can’t breathe. The words on the page swim before me as tears flood my eyes, distorting Mom’s careful script into watery blurs. My hands shake so violently that the paper rustles like fall leaves in a storm.
“Alina?” Raven’s voice seems to come from very far away. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
A sob tears free from my throat, raw and primal. I press one hand to my mouth to stifle it, but another follows, and another, until I’m gasping for breath between them. The letter crumples in my grip as my entire body trembles.
Piper abandons the spilled tea and moves to my side, her arm wrapping around my shoulders. “You’re scaring us. What’s happening?”
I try to speak, but only broken sounds emerge. Wordlessly, I hand them the note from Mr. Clark. At least that explains what’s happening.
Customers are staring now, their Valentine’s celebrations interrupted by my breakdown. Molly hovers nearby, concern etched across her face. I see Corey rushing forward with a broom for the shattered cup, his eyes wide with alarm.
“I’ll call Rafe,” Piper says decisively, already pulling out her phone. She steps a few feet away, her voice low and urgent as she speaks to my husband.
Raven shifts closer, somehow keeping both babies calm while reaching out to squeeze my hand. “Whatever it is, you’re not alone,” she promises, her eyes fierce with loyalty. “Not anymore.”