Chapter 20
twenty
. . .
The Secretary Has Receipts
HALSTON
The bell above Bitter Bloom’s front door rings at 2:13 on a Thursday afternoon.
That’s the exact time that the woman who slept with my fiancé walks into my bakery.
For a second, I don’t recognize her. She doesn’t look different, but my brain refuses to place her. Especially in my bakery.
I take in the polished camel coat, the dark hair tucked behind her ear, and the careful makeup. But what gets me is the necklaces. The delicate gold chains that hang around her neck.
None of it belongs inside Bitter Bloom. Not beneath the pink-and-blue chalkboard and certainly not near the pastry case.
She turns toward the counter, and my stomach drops.
Elise Harding. Grant’s secretary.
A desk decoration.
No.
That’s cruel, and I refuse to let cruelty seep into me.
She wasn’t decoration. She was a woman. A woman with an unbuttoned blouse and surprise in her eyes when Grant reacted to me.
A woman I’ve hated in sharp flashes. Who I’ve avoided thinking about in order not to compare myself.
She stops just inside.
I grip the edge of the counter.
Dev is steaming milk beside me, humming quietly. Lisa is taking cookies out of the oven for a bulk order, and Marley is in the corner with her laptop pretending not to watch our social metrics. Warren is in the kitchen.
When her eyes find mine, her face goes pale.
No one speaks.
Then Dev, sweet, innocent, disastrous Dev, says, “Welcome to Bitter Bloom! Where sweetness is not weakness. What can I—”
He looks at me.
Then at Elise.
Then back at me.
His mouth closes.
Good instincts. A little late, but good.
Elise takes one step forward. “Halston.”
My name sounds wrong in her mouth. I mean, she’s not saying it wrong, but the last time she said it she was half-dressed and apologizing.
Marley rises slowly from her chair, her laptop still open and a murderous scowl on her face.
“No,” I say quietly.
Marley freezes, but her eyes don’t leave Elise.
“She can order,” I say.
Elise’s mouth trembles. “I’m not here to order.”
And while that’s not surprising—people who do what she did rarely walk into the bakery of the woman they helped humiliate—my heart jumps into my throat.
“Then why are you here?” I take my apron towel from my shoulder and fold it once, then again, because my hands are desperate to do something.
She looks around the bakery. At Dev and Lisa, and finally at Marley. At the kitchen doorway, where I can feel Warren’s presence behind me.
I look behind me and find him staring, his jaw tight.
“I was hoping we could talk privately,” Elise says.
Marley laughs once. “Absolutely not.”
“Marley,” I warn.
“What?” She looks at me, anger all over her face. “You said she can order. She’s choosing not to. That concludes the customer experience.”
Elise takes the hit without flinching, which surprises me. Maybe I wanted her to. Maybe I want her to defend herself.
Maybe I was hoping she would be easier to hate.
“I understand,” she says.
“No,” Marley says. “I don’t think you do.”
“Marley.”
She looks at me, and I don’t have to say anything else. Her face softens just a touch before she grabs her laptop and storms out the door toward Saints & Sinners without another glance.
Warren steps forward, his fingers barely touching my back. “Do you want me here?” he asks.
I close my eyes, breathing him in. “Yes.”
When I open them, I find his eyes burning into mine. A second later, he moves to stand at the end of the counter.
Elise’s eyes flick to Warren, then back to me. “I can come back.”
“No,” I insist. “You’re already here.”
Her shoulders lift with a breath.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, the words soft but landing loudly against my chest.
I don’t respond.
“I know that doesn’t fix anything,” she starts.
“It doesn’t.”
She looks at the ceiling, her eyes shining. “I’m not here to ask you to forgive me.”
“That’s wise of you.” My voice comes out stiffer than I’d like.
Elise nods. “I’m here because you need to know something.”
Something in my stomach tightens, and the bakery suddenly feels too bright. A couple by the window stops pretending not to listen. Dev, bless him, moves toward them with a tray.
“Hey! Emergency pastry sample. We need your opinions on…” His voice fades around me.
Lisa places a sign on the door that reads BACK IN TEN.
Elise watches the people move around me as a tear slips down her cheek.
“Come to the back,” I tell her.
Warren looks at me, but he doesn’t question it. I nod, assuring him that I want him there.
Elise follows me, maneuvering around Warren, who stands at the counter with his arms crossed over his massive chest. When we’re all in the kitchen, he takes his place by the sink.
Elise looks smaller back here. Her coat too polished for the flour-coated floor, her shoes much too careful.
“What do I need to know?” I ask her, chewing on my lower lip as I lean against the table.
She reaches into her bag and pulls out a cream-colored folder. “Emails,” she says. “Some texts. Screenshots. I printed them because I didn’t know if sending them would be…” She pauses. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want my number or if I’d be blocked immediately.”
I nod.
She sets the folder on the prep table and slides it toward me. I don’t pick it up.
Her fingers curl around the strap of her bag. “Proof that the review wasn’t random.”
The kitchen goes still.
She takes another breath. “After you ended things with Grant, Caroline was angry first. Publicly, I mean. She cared about the wedding optics. The venue. The guest list. Her friends asking questions.” Elise looks down. “Grant was angry too, but not in the same way.”
My hands ball into fists. “How was he angry?”
“He kept saying you were trying to embarrass him.”
A laugh leaves me. “I walked in on him with you.”
She flinches. “I know.”
“Go on.”
Elise looks at the folder again. “Barrett was more strategic. He told Grant not to contact you directly after you blocked him because it would make him look desperate. He said if you wanted to turn the breakup into a spectacle, the best response was to make you look unstable.”
My pulse thrums hard enough to shake me.
I meet Warren’s gaze for just a second.
Elise’s voice grows quiet. “Grant told him about the latte names. The chalkboard. The social posts you made. He sent screenshots.”
“Screenshots of what?”
“Anything. Anything that made you look like you were using what happened for attention.”
I stare at her.
Men Are Decorative at Best Latte. The Legacy Latte. Sweetness Is Not a Weakness. The Vanilla Proof. Everything I made to keep myself afloat. Everything customers loved and that I worked so hard for. Everything that made me feel safe.
Like I could turn humiliation into something beautiful.
Grant had been watching.
I look at the folder again. “And Barrett used it,” I say flatly.
She nods.
“For the review.”
“Yes.” Her eyes fill with tears, and she blinks hard. “He knew what it would do.”
Some part of me knew from the headline. No one writes something like that without expecting it to beat someone down.
But knowing without proof allows for doubt.
Maybe I had overreacted. Maybe he revisits every place he’s reviewed after a certain amount of time, and mine was just unfortunate timing.
Maybe Barrett was just being honest. Maybe I’d only made it personal because I was hurt and loud and unstable, exactly as Grant said.
Having proof is different.
“I overheard a call where Barrett said people forgive a messy man faster than a messy woman. He said if the review was too harsh, people would defend you. So it needed to be restrained. Plausible. About discipline to make it look like you left because you were lacking, or Grant left because you weren’t serious enough. ”
Not for the first time, I feel as if I’ve been punched in the gut.
My vision blurs, and I blink it away.
I pick up the folder, my fingers steady.
Inside are printed emails, forwarded links, screenshots of text chains. Grant’s messages are short and polished and concerned.
She’s not taking the breakup well. Trying to make everything public. I’m worried Bitter Bloom is becoming an extension of the situation.
Another.
She’s always been impulsive. It used to be charming. Now I’m concerned she’s making choices that will hurt both of us.
Another.
Dad, I don’t want to pile on, but if you’re going to address the bakery, focus on the lack of restraint. That’s the issue. She won’t hear it from me.
The air leaves my lungs.
Warren steps closer. “Halston.” His voice is low and careful.
“I’m fine,” I promise.
“There’s more,” Elise adds.
My laugh is hollow. “Fantastic.”
I flip through the pages. Grant telling people I was emotionally volatile.
Grant saying I was “drinking heavily” after the breakup, which is a neat little way to turn a few careful drinks at Oliver’s bar into something concerning.
Grant saying Marley was “encouraging the spiral for social media.” Grant saying Oliver was “aggressive and unstable,” which is probably the only thing Grant has ever said that Oliver would actually take as a compliment.
Then one more.
Bitter Bloom only survived early on because of Dad’s endorsement and our family network. She forgets that.
That hits harder than anything else he’s ever said or done. Harder than the cheating. Harder than the review itself. Like I had been borrowing success from people who could revoke it at any point if I wasn’t grateful enough.
My hands are shaking.
“Why are you giving this to me?” I ask, swallowing hard.
Elise looks as if she knew this question would come but is still searching for the right answer. “Because it’s wrong.”
I stare at her. “And because you helped create the problem?”
She nods. “I did.”
She grips her bag tighter. “I knew you guys were engaged. At first, I told myself it wasn’t serious between you two because he made it sound like you were more invested than he was. Like the engagement was something his family had swept him into. You were emotional and he was kind.”
I feel numb.
“I believed him because it made me feel less guilty,” she admits.
“I wanted to believe I wasn’t hurting anyone. He talked about you like you were a problem he loved.”
My brows furrow. The condescension of it all chokes me. Halston is a lot, but I love her. Halston gets carried away, but she means well. Halston has big ideas, but she needs grounding.
A problem he loved.
Not a person.
“I should have stopped,” she says. “Long before you walked in.”
“Yeah.”
The kitchen is quiet.
“Are you still with him?”
She shakes her head.
“When did it end?”
“The second you walked in,” she says firmly. “I stayed a little while longer because I couldn’t afford to get fired or quit. But I found a new job and quit.” Her gaze flicks to the folder. “But I made sure to take anything I could with me.”
“How did you get access to these?” I ask.
She smirks a little. “He was never great at locking down his phone. And I had access to his emails already.” She bites her lip. “It wasn’t fun anymore. It wasn’t exciting. He needed someone to blame, and I was convenient once you weren’t there to absorb it.”
A sharp, unpleasant understanding moves through me.
Because as much as her confession stings, I understand it.
Powerful men do not destroy only one woman at a time.
She reaches into her bag and takes out a small black flash drive. “This has all the digital files. I didn’t alter anything. There are also names of people Grant has spoken to. It’s not all proof—some of it is just notes I made from calls. You can use it, or don’t.”
I take the drive from her hand.
“Did you keep copies?” Warren asks.
His voice makes Elise straighten.
“Yes. In case anything happens to those.”
“Where?”
“In my personal email and with a friend.”
He nods. “Okay.”
“You should send them to yourself, too. Somewhere you can make sure Grant can’t access.”
A bitter smile pulls at my mouth. “Grant has never had access to anything important in my life.”
The lie hangs between us. Because he did have access to some important things. He made sure to destroy some of them.
“What do you want from me?” I ask her.
“Nothing.”
“No one wants nothing.”
“I wanted to tell the truth.”
“That’s what you did. What do you want?”
Her eyes move to the floor. “I wanted you to know I’m sorry.”
“I know you’re sorry.”
“And?”
I look at her.
“I believe you,” I say softly.
Her eyes fill with tears.
“And I’ll use what you gave me.”
She nods quickly. “Good. That’s good.”
“But I don’t forgive you today.”
Her face goes still.
“I might someday.” I nod. “I don’t know. But I’m not going to hand you forgiveness because you finally told the truth after it took something from you too.”
Her mouth trembles. “I understand.”
“I hope you do.”
“I do.”
I let myself relax. “Don’t go back to him,” I whisper.
Elise breaks into sobs, her hand covering her mouth, her eyes squeezed shut. “I won’t,” she promises.
There’s silence.
Then, “Do you need someone to walk you to your car?” Warren asks.
Elise looks at him, startled by the lack of cruelty. Warren is angry. Anyone with eyes can see it.
“No,” she says. “I took an Uber.”
“Wait inside until it arrives,” I say.
She looks at me.
“I’m not forgiving you, but it’s clear Grant is watching me. I don’t want you standing out on the sidewalk and getting yourself into trouble, too.”
Before Warren has time to talk to me, Dev, Lisa, Marley, and Oliver crowd around.
“She brought proof,” I say, holding up the folder. “Grant helped Barrett write the review. He’s been telling people I’m unstable and impulsive and that’s why we called off the engagement.”
Dev gasps. “I’m going to hire an Etsy witch to curse him.”
Lisa elbows him. “I know a woman.”
The others start arguing.
Warren’s voice is quiet. “What do you want to do?”
Everyone looks at me.
I look at the chalkboard and the pastries.
Grant has been calling me unstable. Impulsive. Too public and too messy for his reputation. His father built the review around his words.
“I don’t know yet,” I confess.
Warren nods. “That’s okay.”
Marley rubs my arm. “We can sit with it.”
“Can I make a pastry called The Receipt?” Dev asks, his hand raised.
“No,” Warren says immediately.
My eyes burn.
Women can hurt each other under the influence of powerful men. Women can make ugly choices because proximity to power can feel an awful lot like safety.
And still.
Still, I do not have to hand over forgiveness to be fair. I don’t have to make myself softer for someone else’s redemption arc. I can take the truth and leave absolution on the table for another day.
I look down at the folder again. Then, at my people.
“I want copies,” I tell them firmly.
“And then?” Marley asks.
“Then we decide how loud the truth needs to be.”
Oliver smiles.
Marley opens her laptop on the counter.
“The Receipt pastry is happening,” Dev whispers.
Warren looks at me like he sees every emotion I’m feeling and desperately wants to take them away. The rage and restraint. The refusal to become smaller.
“Are you okay?” he asks softly.
I’m not.
“No,” I say honestly. “But I’m ready.”
His eyes warm. “Okay.”