11. A Different Kind of Wealth
Chapter eleven
A Different Kind of Wealth
Iassembled the pastry boxes, sliding the tabs into their pre-cut slots until they snapped into shape.
The air inside The Salty Crumb smelled of melted butter and yeast. Heat radiated from the commercial ovens in the back kitchen, warding off the bitter coastal winter outside.
I stacked the boxes inside the display case.
A dull ache spread from the base of my spine. I stopped reaching for the next flat sheet of cardboard. I pressed my palm against my lower back, pushing into the muscle. The pressure provided a brief moment of comfort, though my ankles still swelled against my work boots.
Eight hours of standing on these floorboards left my legs exhausted. I shifted my weight to one side, trying to find some relief.
Every pulse of pain is mine.
Earning this paycheck offered a quiet, undeniable satisfaction.
The Kensington empire kept me wrapped in silk and entirely alone.
But here, scrubbing the glass and managing the lunch rush for an hourly wage meant the money at the end of the week belonged solely to me.
That money formed the armor I would use to protect my daughter.
I didn’t need a billionaire to survive.
The bell above the front door rang. A blast of winter air pierced the warm bakery, carrying the scent of road salt. I looked up at the sound of the bell.
Mrs. Higgins stepped into the shop. She pulled a knitted scarf away from her chin and stomped the snow from her boots.
“Good morning, Mrs. Higgins,” I said. “Give me just one second to close this case.”
“Take your time, dear,” she said, unbuttoning her coat. “I’m in no rush.”
The door rattled shut along its track as I wiped my hands down the front of my apron, brushing away a streak of flour. The fabric caught against my palms. I walked over and took my place behind the cash register.
Mrs. Higgins approached and rested her purse on the counter. She paused, taking a longer, worried look at my face.
“Good morning, Wren,” she said. “I’ll take my usual half-dozen blueberry muffins, please. You’re looking a little pale today, honey.”
I braced my hands against the till. Octavia’s scrutiny always searched for a flaw to exploit or a weakness to mock. Mrs. Higgins just searched for a reason to offer care.
“Just the normal aches and pains of carrying a baby, Mrs. Higgins,” I said, pulling out a paper bag. “It’s worth it. Let me grab those for you.”
Turning to the shelves behind me, I grabbed six muffins from the cooling rack with the tongs. The warm crust gave way slightly under the pressure. I folded the top of the bag and handed it to her.
I accepted her ten-dollar bill and typed the total into the machine. The drawer popped open, and the sight of the crinkled cash inside filled me with pride as I counted out her change.
“You make sure Gemma lets you sit down for a minute later,” Mrs. Higgins said, dropping the coins into her purse. “You’re working too hard for a pregnant woman.”
The front door swung inward. Carl, the local delivery driver, backed into the shop, pulling a hand truck over the threshold.
“Watch your toes, coming through,” Carl said, maneuvering the dolly around a display stand.
I pulled the clipboard from its hook and stepped around the counter to meet him.
“I have a clear path for you, Carl,” I said.
He tilted the dolly back, balancing a towering stack of flour sacks.
“Morning, sweetheart,” Carl said, pausing in the center of the room. “I’ve got your ten sacks of flour, so where do you want them?”
I held the clipboard against my apron and pointed toward the corner of the bakery.
“Keep them against the far wall, please, safely away from the radiator heat,” I said.
Carl nodded and wheeled the cargo toward the designated spot. He unlatched the support bar and shimmied the hand truck out from beneath the stack. The bottom sack settled against the floorboards with a thud, puffing a fine mist of flour into the warm air.
I looked down at the delivery manifest. The typed list laid out the kitchen’s needs for the week.
I scanned the columns, tracking the incoming weights against the required totals—the reconciliation felt identical to managing catering vendors for Octavia’s high-society galas.
Here, nobody in this bakery waited for me to make a mistake so they could mock my background.
Following the column down, I spotted a discrepancy near the bottom margin.
“The manifest says we’re supposed to have two cases of vanilla extract as well,” I said.
Carl grabbed a rag and wiped a powdery smudge from his forehead. He glanced down at the empty dolly.
“Good catch, Wren,” Carl said. “They’re still on the truck, so I’ll go grab them right now while you sign the invoice.”
He turned and headed back out the front door, leaving the hand truck parked by the wall.
I pulled the pen from my pocket. Bracing the clipboard against my hip, I clicked the ballpoint and pressed the tip to the bottom line of the carbon-copy invoice. The ballpoint scratched across the page as I signed Gallagher, making sure the Kensington name stayed off the record.
I hung the clipboard back on its hook beside the register, my fingers lingering on the edge.
The bell above the front door chimed, cutting through the low hum of the refrigerators.
Silas stepped over the threshold, his broad shoulders filling the doorway as he kicked the slush from his boots onto the entry mat.
“Morning, Silas,” I said. “Just a black coffee today?”
“You know it,” Silas said, skirting a display of sourdough loaves. He stopped, looking at the bulk delivery resting against the far wall. “Looks like you’re managing the heavy logistics today. How are the drafts on the fourth floor? Boiler keeping up alright?”
“It’s perfect,” I replied, turning toward the espresso machine. “Best sleep I’ve had in months.”
As I reached for a paper cup, sudden exhaustion washed over me. I paused, my breath hitching as the weight of the long shift finally caught up with my body. Leaning against the counter, I gripped the edge to hide my grimace and relieve the tension in my swelling ankles.
The door swung open again as Carl nudged his way back inside, carrying both cases against his chest.
“A little help here?” Carl grunted, losing his footing on the wet floor.
Silas didn’t hesitate. Stepping away from the counter, he took one of the boxes from Carl’s arms and carried it toward the back wall. He set the crate down next to the stacked flour sacks without a single complaint.
Cassian would never do this.
The realization hit me instantly. If a delivery blocked the foyer of the penthouse, my husband would summon the estate logistics manager and pace the marble floors in a suit, turning a minor inconvenience into an excuse to assert his dominance.
That version of safety always came with a steep cost. Cassian protected me, but only as long as I followed his rules.
Silas left the crate against the wall and walked back to the register. He didn’t demand a thank-you. He didn’t leverage the favor to control my schedule or tell me how to run my life. This was what basic, decent community actually looked like.
I set his coffee on the counter. Silas didn’t reach for it. He stared down at where my hand was pressed hard against my lower back. I dropped my arm, suddenly self-conscious of my own posture. He didn’t ask a single question.
He turned his back on me and walked to the far corner of the shop. Grabbing the back of a tall stool, he dragged it across the floor, planting it squarely in the narrow aisle beside the register.
“Sit down, Wren,” Silas said, stepping back to give me room. “You’ve been on your feet for hours, and you’re pale. The register isn’t going anywhere.”
I stared at the empty seat. The instinct to refuse flared up immediately. In the penthouse, acknowledging my pregnancy aches meant handing Octavia ammunition. She viewed any physical limitation as an ugly flaw that ruined her events.
Cassian always sighed and told me to take a pill, annoyed that my discomfort interfered with his plans. I had learned to smile and endure the pain.
“I’m fine, Silas, really,” I said, pointing toward the front windows. “We still have the lunch rush coming in, and Gemma needs help in the back.”
The kitchen doors flew open. A wave of dry oven heat rolled over the counter, bringing with it the scent of caramelized sugar and cinnamon. Gemma stood in the doorway, wiping her hands on her flour-coated overalls. She stopped in her tracks, fixing me with a no-nonsense look.
“Listen to the giant, honey!” Gemma shouted across the counter. “If I see you standing up before you drink a glass of water, I am docking your pay!”
I blinked, feeling my guard slowly drop.
They weren’t testing me. They weren’t waiting for me to fail so they could ridicule my past or complain about the delay.
They saw a pregnant woman standing on swollen ankles, and they demanded I stop hurting myself.
Accepting their help didn’t make me weak; it proved I finally belonged somewhere safe.
I sank onto the seat, letting out a long breath as my back finally found support.
The throbbing in my calves began to ease the moment I sat down. I reached into my apron pocket and pulled out a spiral notebook and a pencil.
Gemma stepped fully into the shop, carrying a damp rag and a spray bottle. She paused near the espresso machine, gesturing toward the floor.
“Move that milk crate before someone trips and breaks an ankle,” Gemma ordered.
Silas grunted. He kicked the stray crate out of the narrow walkway, sliding it flush against the baseboards. He didn’t leave the cramped space behind the register. Instead, he leaned his hip against the counter and crossed his arms.
I flipped to a dog-eared page in my notebook, pressing my pencil down to trace over my handwritten numbers.
The steady rhythm of the math anchored me to the quiet warmth of the bakery.
Tallying my heating bill and the cost of oatmeal and apples for the week, I subtracted my upcoming rent from my total wages.
The final number at the bottom was small.
Every single dollar came from my own labor.
I traced the total again, bearing down hard against the paper.
Cassian’s bank accounts controlled luxury high-rises and international corporate mergers.
That money bought isolation and silence. My meager wages bought my freedom.
“If I stick to the grocery budget this week, I have exactly enough left over to buy the nursery paint,” I said, looking up from the notebook. “I really want to get the walls finished before the third trimester hits.”
Silas watched my pencil move across the page. He unfolded his arms, shifting his weight.
“Don’t buy paint from Miller’s Hardware. He marks up the prices for the tourists,” Silas said. “I have three unused gallons of a warm neutral sitting in my basement you can just have.”
I stopped writing. My hand hovered above the paper. Taking charity usually put me on edge. Every gift inside the Kensington estate came with strings attached; Octavia bought designer clothes just to criticize my posture.
But Silas didn’t give a forced smile or expect my gratitude. He offered the supplies the exact same way he had fixed the leaky pipe.
Gemma stepped closer, spraying cleaner onto the pastry case. The rag squeaked against the glass as she wiped away the stray powdered sugar.
“Take the free paint, Wren,” Gemma said. “Silas owes us both for dealing with his grumpy attitude before he’s had his morning coffee.”
I laughed, looking between Gemma and Silas. He rolled his eyes at her, fighting a subtle grin. The front bell chimed, signaling the start of the afternoon lunch rush as a line of local workers stepped through the doorway.
I dropped the notebook back into my apron pocket and stood to greet them.