Chapter 40
Chapter forty
Dylan
Iwake up feeling lighter than I have in months.
For a moment, I just lie there, staring at the ceiling of the penthouse bedroom while the early morning light filters through the floor to ceiling windows. Dante is warm against my back, one arm draped over my waist, his breath slow and steady against my neck.
Last night I told him everything. The seduction plan, the manipulation, all of it. And he’s still here.
The guilt that’s been eating me alive for weeks is finally gone. I told him the truth, and he forgave me without hesitation. We both did things we’re not proud of, he said. But we’re here now, together, choosing each other.
I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Dante to wake up and realize he made a mistake, that he can’t actually forgive what I did. But when he stirs behind me, all he does is pull me closer and press a kiss to my shoulder.
“Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
“Morning.”
“What time is it?”
I glance at the clock on the nightstand. “Half-five.”
Dante groans. “Why are you awake at half-five?”
“Because today is the day.” I roll over to face him, unable to keep the grin off my face. “The reopening. We’ve been preparing for three weeks, and it’s finally happening.”
He opens one eye to look at me. His hair is mussed from sleep, and there’s a pillow crease on his cheek. He looks softer like this. More human. I love him so much it makes my chest ache.
“You’re excited,” he observes.
“I’m terrified,” I admit. “What if no one comes? What if they’ve all forgotten about us? What if the sourdough doesn’t rise properly and the croissants burn and everything falls apart?”
“Then we’ll handle it.” He reaches up to brush a strand of hair from my face. “Together.”
Together. The word settles into my chest like a warm ember.
“Together,” I agree. “Now get up. We need to be at the bakery by six.”
Getting ready is a familiar chaos by now. Three weeks of early mornings have established a rhythm. I dart around the penthouse gathering my things while Dante moves at his own unhurried pace, somehow always ready at exactly the right moment.
“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor,” he says as I check my bag for the third time.
“I’m being thorough.”
“You’ve checked for your keys four times.”
I pat my pocket. He’s right. “I knew that.”
“Of course you did.”
The drive to Borough Market is quiet. London still waking up around us.
I watch the familiar streets pass by and feel something settle in my chest. Three weeks ago, I was a wreck.
Barely sleeping, barely eating, suffocating under the weight of everything I’ve been through, as well as my dark secret.
Now the secret is gone, and it feels like I can finally breathe.
Sean and Teagan are already there when we arrive, the lights blazing in the windows of the shop. Sean looks up from the display case he’s arranging and grins.
“There he is! The man of the hour.” He takes in my expression and his grin widens. “You look different this morning. Less like you’re about to vomit.”
“Thanks for that lovely image.”
“I’m serious. You’ve had this haunted look for weeks. It’s gone now.” He glances at Dante, who’s heading toward the kitchen to check the ovens. “Did something happen?”
I think about last night. The confession, the tears, Dante’s hands gentle on my face as he told me there was nothing to forgive.
“We talked,” I say. “Really talked. Cleared some things up.”
Sean studies me for a moment, then nods. “Good. You deserve to be happy, Dylan. Both of you do.”
Teagan emerges from the back, wiping her hands on her apron. “Less chatting, more prepping. We open in an hour and the croissants aren’t going to laminate themselves.”
“Yes, boss,” Sean and I say in unison, and she rolls her eyes at us.
The next hour passes in focused chaos. This is what we’ve been building toward for three weeks. The ovens heat up, filling the kitchen with familiar warmth. The bread rises, puffy and perfect. The croissants come out golden and flaky, and I feel a surge of pride at how good they look.
I lose myself in the rhythm of it. Kneading dough, shaping loaves, piping filling into pastries. My hands remember what to do even when my mind is elsewhere. But today my mind isn’t elsewhere. Today I’m fully present, fully here, without the constant undercurrent of guilt dragging me down.
It feels like freedom.
At seven, we flip the sign to Open.
The first customers trickle in, then more, then more. Word has spread about the reopening. Maybe it’s the banner Teagan hung in the window, or maybe it’s just the smell of fresh bread wafting out onto the street. Either way, by eight o’clock, there’s a queue out the door.
I work in the kitchen, turning out pastries and loaves as fast as I can. Every now and then I glance through the doorway to check on Dante.
He’s gotten marginally better at customer service over the past three weeks. Marginally. He still approaches each transaction with intense focus, and his small talk is still stilted and awkward. But he’s learned to smile without looking like he’s planning someone’s demise, which is progress.
When one customer tries to haggle over the price of a baguette, he just stares at them in silence until they pay full price and flee. Some habits die hard.
But he’s here. He’s trying. He’s wearing the “Kiss the Cook” apron that Teagan bought him as a joke, and he now wears without complaint. Three weeks ago, I asked him to be part of my real life, and he’s done exactly that.
I love him so much it makes my chest hurt.
Aunt Moira arrives mid-morning with a bottle of champagne.
“For later,” she says, pressing it into my hands. “You’ll want to celebrate properly once you close.”
“Thank you.” I pull her into a hug. “For everything. For helping with the rescue. For being here now.”
“Where else would I be?” She holds me tight for a moment, then pulls back to study my face. “You look better today. Lighter.”
“I feel lighter.”
Her sharp hazel eyes see too much, as always. “You told him, didn’t you? Whatever was eating at you these past weeks.”
I shouldn’t be surprised she noticed. Aunt Moira notices everything.
“I told him,” I confirm. “Last night.”
“And?”
“And he forgave me.” My voice catches slightly. “Without hesitation. He said there was nothing to forgive.”
Something softens in her expression. She glances across the bakery to where Dante is carefully counting change for a customer, his brow furrowed in concentration.
“He’s a good man,” she says quietly. “Underneath all the rest of it. I didn’t want to see it at first. But he’s good for you, Dylan. I can see that now.”
Coming from Aunt Moira, that’s practically a blessing. I have to blink back the sudden sting of tears.
“Thank you,” I manage. “That means everything.”
She pats my cheek. “Now get back to work. You have customers waiting.”
Carlo and Ginni stop by around noon. Ginni is wearing an outfit that includes a billowing silk blouse that probably costs more than all my specialized equipment combined, completely impractical for a bakery visit, and he surveys the shop with the air of a critic assessing a questionable establishment.
“The croissants have improved,” he pronounces after taking a bite. “Still not as good as Paris, but acceptable.”
“High praise from Ginni,” Carlo says drily.
“It is! I don’t give acceptable to just anyone.” Ginni takes another bite, looking thoughtful. “You could charge more, you know. People will pay for quality.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Ginni beams at me, then turns to Dante. “Insegnante, you have flour in your hair again. It’s becoming a signature look.”
Dante reaches up to brush at his hair, looking faintly resigned. This is apparently a regular occurrence now.
The day flies by. Customers come and go, the display cases empty and refill, and before I know it, we’re flipping the sign to Closed.
“We did it,” Sean says, slumping against the counter. “Reopening, officially a success.”
“The sourdough sold out by noon,” Teagan adds, looking pleased. “We need to double the batch tomorrow.”
“Agreed.” I’m exhausted and exhilarated and happier than I’ve been in longer than I can remember. “Same time tomorrow?”
“Same time tomorrow.”
We clean up together, all four of us. Dante loads the dishwasher beside Sean, sleeves rolled up, looking more relaxed than he ever does around other people. Teagan sweeps the floor while I wipe down the counters.
This is what I wanted. This is what I asked for, that first night in the penthouse. To have Dante here, in my world, part of my real life. And here he is, flour in his hair and dish soap on his hands, fitting in like he was always meant to be here.
When we finally lock up and step out onto the street, the evening light is golden and soft. Sean and Teagan head off toward the tube, waving goodbye over their shoulders.
“Good day?” Dante asks, taking my hand.
“The best day.” I lean into him, letting myself soak up his warmth. “The reopening was a success, Aunt Moira gave us her blessing, and I actually enjoyed it. All of it. Without feeling like a fraud.”
“Because you’re not a fraud.” He squeezes my hand. “You never were.”
We walk toward the car in comfortable silence. The city moves around us, oblivious to everything we’ve been through to get here. I don’t mind. Let them be oblivious. Let the world keep spinning. All that matters is this moment, this man, this life we’re building together.
“Take me home,” I say.
The drive back feels different than it did this morning. Slower. More peaceful. Charged with quiet contentment. Dante keeps one hand on my thigh, warm and grounding, and I watch the city lights begin to twinkle as evening settles in.
When we walk through the door of the penthouse, I head straight for the window. The view still takes my breath away, all of London spread out below us like a glittering map.
Home. The word wraps around me like a blanket.
For so long, I didn’t know what home truly meant. My parents’ house in Ireland was never safe. My flat near the bakery was comfortable but lonely. Dante’s old place was complicated, tangled up with fear and the strange, unexpected tenderness that grew between us.
But this. The penthouse, the bakery, the life we’re building together. Dante’s arms around me and the city glittering below and the knowledge that tomorrow I get to do it all again.
This is home. This is everything I never dared to hope for.
Dante comes up behind me, his arms wrapping around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder.
“I have something to tell you,” Dante says.
My heart stutters for a moment before I catch myself. After last night’s confession, I don’t think I’ll ever hear those words without a flicker of panic.
“What is it?”
“I spoke to Ginni this afternoon, while you were in the kitchen.” He pauses, and I can feel something shift in him. Something settling. “I’ve officially handed over the reins. The training is complete. He’s ready to take over.”
It takes me a moment to understand what he’s saying. “You mean...”
“I mean I’m done.” His arms tighten around me. “No more butcher work. No more interrogations. No more any of it. Ginni is the family’s new specialist, and I’m...” He hesitates, like he’s trying the words on for size. “I’m a bakery assistant. Apparently.”
I twist in his arms to look at him properly. “You’re serious? You’re really done?”
“I’m really done.” His dark eyes are soft, certain. “I told you I wanted to be part of your life. Your real life. I can’t do that if I’m still disappearing to hurt people. So I’m not going to disappear anymore.”
Something cracks open in my chest. I think of everything he’s giving up. Not just the work, but the identity. He’s been the butcher for years. It’s who he was, how the family knew him, what made him valuable. And he’s walking away from all of it.
For me.
“Dante.” My voice comes out rough. “Are you sure? That’s... that’s everything you were.”
“No.” He shakes his head slowly. “It’s everything I did. It was never who I was. I think I’m only just figuring out who I actually am.” His almost-smile appears. “Turns out I’m someone who’s very bad at customer service but willing to learn.”
I laugh, even as my eyes sting with tears. “You’re getting better. That customer only looked mildly terrified today.”
“Progress.”
I reach up to touch his face, marveling at this man. This former monster who’s choosing to become something else. For me. With me.
“Happy?” he asks quietly.
“So happy.” I lean back into him, letting myself be held. “I got my bakery back. I have my friends, my aunt, you. And for the first time in weeks, I don’t feel like I’m hiding anything. I can just... be.”
“You can just be,” he agrees. “That’s all I ever wanted for you.”
I turn fully in his arms, looping my hands behind his neck. “What if I want more than that?”
His almost-smile appears, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “What did you have in mind?”
“Forever.” The word comes out steady, certain. “I want forever with you, Dante. This flat, this life, this feeling of being home when I’m with you. I want all of it, for as long as you’ll have me.”
“For as long as I’ll have you?” He pulls me closer, his dark eyes soft. “Dylan, I want to have you forever and then some. You’re everything I never knew I wanted. Everything I never thought I could have.”
I kiss him. Soft at first, then deeper, pouring everything I feel into it. Gratitude and joy and relief and the kind of love I never thought I’d find.
“I love you,” I say against his lips.
“I love you too.” His hands are warm on my back, holding me close.
It’s perfect. The perfect end to a perfect day. And the beginning of a perfect life.