13. The Unseen Apology
Chapter thirteen
The Unseen Apology
The crisp paper bills snapped between my thumbs.
I stood behind the bakery counter, sorting the end-of-day cash from the till into neat stacks.
Fifty feet away, a wet pan scraped against the cast-iron sink in the back kitchen.
The rhythmic, agonizing sound bled through the gap in the swinging doors, filling the empty storefront.
I fixed my gaze on the open register drawer, refusing to look toward the back room.
“Forty, sixty, eighty,” I muttered to the scattered cash.
My lower back throbbed with a dull, persistent ache.
Eight hours of standing left my boots pinching.
I ignored the fatigue, sliding a rubber band off my wrist to wrap around a stack of tens before setting them aside.
Another baking sheet clattered into the dishwater in the back, followed by the harsh, desperate scrub of a wire brush.
The sound grated on my nerves. I reached into the till for the twenties, crushing the wad of bills inside my fist. Cassian was back there.
The former CEO of Kensington Holdings was currently scrubbing dirty pans in Gemma’s sink just to prove a point.
I focused on the face on the bill to keep my hands steady.
The bell above the front door jingled. A sudden gust of freezing coastal wind swept into the warm room, carrying the scent of road salt.
Silas stepped over the threshold, his winter coat caked in fresh snow.
Hauling the door shut against the wind, he leaned his broad shoulder against the doorframe and shook a layer of white flakes off his collar.
“You’re shivering. Step away from the glass,” Silas said.
The freezing air clinging to his jacket brought a sudden chill to the counter.
I dropped the twenties onto the counter and rubbed my bare arms. His arrival meant the grueling shift was finally over.
The billionaire currently destroying his dress shirt in the dish pit did not get to disrupt this routine.
I refused to let his grand gesture ruin my night.
“Shift is over, Wren. Let Gemma handle the final count before you collapse,” Silas said.
His gruff voice carried all the way to the kitchen doors. I picked up the stack of twenties again and slipped the money into the deposit envelope, letting the simple counting quiet my thoughts. Every bill I stacked was a dollar that didn’t have the Kensington name attached to it.
“I am almost finished, Silas,” I said. “I just need to balance the twenties and drop the deposit in the safe.”
He pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room, his boots leaving wet tracks across the floorboards. His damp coat brushed against the counter as he stopped in front of the register. He rested his hands on the surface, his broad shoulders blocking the icy draft leaking from the front windows.
“The deposit isn’t going anywhere tonight. Wrap it up, because the temperature is dropping fast outside and I want you home.”
Silas stepped away from the front counter and headed for the back of the bakery. The wet rubber soles of his boots squeaked against the floorboards.
“Let’s see how the new dishwasher is holding up,” Silas said.
He forced the swinging door open, the hinges groaning in protest. Instead of stepping into the kitchen, Silas simply planted his shoulder against the frame, using his weight to hold it open.
A wave of humid air rolled out from the dish pit, carrying the acrid stench of burnt sugar and industrial degreaser.
The scraping from the sink stopped. Through the open doorway, I caught the stiff, defensive posture of my husband out of the corner of my eye. Cassian leaned over the sink, his forearms soaked in gray dishwater.
“Look at those blisters, rich boy,” Silas said. “You wouldn’t last a single afternoon on a real construction site with hands that soft.”
I stared at the track of the cash drawer. I refused to turn my head. I refused to look at the ruined, soaked dress shirt clinging to Cassian’s back. If I looked, I risked giving him the exact audience he wanted in Gemma’s kitchen.
“I’m not here to impress a small-town landlord, Silas,” Cassian shot back. “I am doing this to prove a point to my wife.”
I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, bracing against the defensive, aggressive edge in his voice.
Cassian was willing to defend his pride against a stranger in a bakery.
He didn’t hesitate to snap back at Silas.
Yet, when Octavia humiliated me in front of fifty relatives at the Kensington estate, he had sat silently and rubbed his temples.
He wouldn’t defend me. But he’ll defend himself.
I reached for the envelope. A few blisters and a ruined dress shirt did not erase half a year of empty rooms and broken promises. I licked the adhesive strip on the flap.
“Just the deposit left,” I muttered to the empty till.
I pressed my thumb hard along the sealed flap, forcing the cheap glue to hold. Turning my back on the open kitchen doorway, I picked up the envelope and slid it into the narrow drop-slot of the floor safe.
I slammed the empty drawer shut. The sound echoed through the quiet storefront, a final clack confirming I was off the clock. I didn’t care if Cassian was listening. I didn’t care how hard he scrubbed the pans.
Silas remained planted in the doorway, blocking Cassian from taking a single step toward the storefront. He looked over his shoulder at me, taking in my stiff posture and the closed register.
“Well, your wife hasn’t looked at you once all night,” Silas said.
He stepped back from the doorway.
“Keep scrubbing the grease, because maybe you’ll find your dignity at the bottom of the sink.”
Reaching under the cash register, I grabbed my scarf. I kept my spine straight, refusing to look back toward the kitchen door. The hinges whined a little as Silas shifted his weight, letting the door swing shut just enough to narrow the gap.
“You got all your things?” Silas asked, zipping his damp coat. “It’s miserable out there.”
“Just finishing up,” I replied.
I pulled the scarf around my neck, crossing the ends over my chest and holding onto the edges until my fingers stopped trembling.
Fifty feet away, the desperate, rhythmic scraping of the wire brush started up again, echoing from the deep dish pit.
Cassian was currently scrubbing his billionaire ego away in Gemma’s sink.
I refused to be his spectator.
Reaching beneath the counter again, I dragged out my purse, shoved my notebook inside, and grabbed my keys from the shelf before pulling on my winter coat.
He needs to hear what it sounds like when someone actually shows up.
I raised my voice, letting the words carry clearly across the empty storefront and straight through the crack in the kitchen doorway.
“Are you still available to look at the radiator in my living room tomorrow?” I asked Silas. “It’s been clanking every time the boiler kicks on.”
The grating noise of the wire brush stopped.
An uncomfortable silence fell over the back room.
Cassian was standing on the other side of that door, his hands plunged into scalding dishwater, trapped on the wrong side of the threshold.
He had spent his life ordering private concierge services and managing estate staff.
Now, he was reduced to an eavesdropper, forced to listen to me rely on another man.
I dropped the keys into my purse.
“I’ll come up with my toolbox first thing in the morning before you leave for your shift,” Silas said, unbothered by the sudden quiet in the kitchen. “We can’t have you freezing in that unit.”
The weight of the Kensington name finally lifted from the bakery. There were no frantic phone calls to high-end HVAC contractors. There was no Arthur demanding immediate results from terrified employees. Silas offered his time and his basic skills to fix the issue, demanding no obedience in return.
I zipped the bag shut. I was done waiting.
“Thank you, Silas. I really appreciate you always making sure the apartment is secure for us.”
I pushed my shoulder against the bakery door. It swung wide to the street. The coastal wind rushed inside, carrying the sharp, briny scent of the ocean. I stepped across the threshold onto the concrete sidewalk.
“Watch the ice just past the edge,” Silas said, stepping out right behind me. “It froze over while we were inside.”
“It dropped ten degrees,” I muttered, shivering as the cold bit into my cheeks.
I stopped a few feet from the entrance, pulling the lapels of my coat tight against the wind.
The yellow glow of the streetlamps reflected off the fresh layer of snow covering the pavement.
Behind me, the bakery windows were illuminated, turning the storefront into a massive display case.
I knew exactly what was visible from the back kitchen.
Trapped behind those doors, Cassian was forced to peer all the way across the shop.
I shoved my bare hands deep into my coat pockets. Down the block, a shadow moved under the nearest streetlamp. Mr. Henderson, the owner of the adjacent grocery store, was pulling a rolling gate down over his shop windows. The rusty track shrieked in the cold air.
He locked the padlock and turned around, his keys jingling as he spotted us standing outside the bakery.
“Cold one tonight, Wren!” Mr. Henderson called out, his breath pluming in the icy air. “Do you need me to swing by and throw some salt on your walk-up steps so you don’t slip?”
His voice echoed down the quiet, snow-packed street.
The unprompted offer carried more genuine care than any curated, high-society greeting Octavia had ever given me in the penthouse.
I braced my boots against the frozen concrete, leaning into the biting wind.
The bitter cold wasn’t a punishment. It was a shield.
This town protected me. Cassian expected poverty to break me, but he was watching me thrive in a community his billions couldn’t buy.
I made sure he could see it from the window.
“That is so sweet of you, Mr. Henderson, but Silas already salted the landing this afternoon,” I called back. “Go get inside before you freeze.”
“Alright, you have a good night, sweetheart,” Mr. Henderson said, waving a gloved hand. “Tell Gemma I need two black coffees ready by seven tomorrow.”
Mr. Henderson turned away, his boots scraping against the salted concrete as he walked toward the end of the block. I huddled deeper into my collar, shivering as the wind whipped down the narrow avenue. The streetlamps overhead illuminated the frozen glaze underfoot.
“Step behind me, Wren,” Silas said. He pulled his collar up against his jaw. “The wind off the water is turning brutal tonight. Watch your step on the slick spots.”
I stepped closer to him, letting his shoulder block the freezing air.
The sudden chill stung my exposed skin. Behind us, the bakery window cast a long, rectangular beam of light across the snowy pavement.
From out here in the dark, the glass showed every inch of the front room.
I knew exactly who stood on the other side.
I fought the familiar reflex to look over my shoulder. For months, my life revolved around monitoring my husband’s moods. I spent my days managing his temper and tiptoeing around his anger.
Looking back at him now would validate his dramatic gesture and give him a sliver of hope.
I kept my head down, forcing myself to stare at the salted pavement. My knuckles ached as I gripped the inner lining of my pockets. The bitter air slicing through the street felt like a physical barrier between me and the man trapped behind the glass.
“I don’t have time for this right now, Wren.” Cassian’s voice echoed through my mind. “Just take the private car home and I’ll deal with you later.”
“I just wanted to see you,” I had whispered back to him in the marble foyer. “I haven’t seen you all week.”
I blinked the memory away, refusing to let his indifference drag me down.
The man scrubbing pans was the exact same man who abandoned me to boardroom meetings and gala logistics.
A ruined shirt couldn’t make me forget half a year of eating dinner alone.
I focused on the steady pace of Silas walking beside me.
“Let’s hurry,” I said, raising my voice to be heard over the gale. “The wind is picking up, and I just want to get home and lock the door.”
Silas nodded, matching my urgent pace. We moved down the street, our boots crunching loudly against the icy pavement.
The streetlamps cast long shadows across the snow.
I kept my eyes fixed on the path ahead, refusing to give in to the temptation of the bakery light.
I walked away into the freezing dark beside Silas, leaving my husband behind.