Chapter 13 Adrianna
Chapter Thirteen
Adrianna
I sit at my desk, staring at the letter like it’s a live grenade.
It looks grimy—cheap envelope, smudged ink—even though I can tell it’s from a real attorney’s office.
Thick paper. Official headers. Perfect formatting.
But the name on the letterhead makes bile rise in my throat.
Giovanni Russo.
Or more accurately, his attorney, who apparently thought it appropriate to send this nightmare in the middle of a goddamn Wednesday morning like it’s a pizza coupon.
It’s a letter of intent to sue for temporary custody of Bella.
Temporary custody.
Temporary.
Like she’s a fucking library book he wants to borrow.
The grounds?
That he and his wife—WIFE??—can provide a more stable, financially secure household for the minor child, Bella Bosco.”
What.
The.
Actual.
FUCK.
My vision blurs.
My heartbeat slams against my ribs.
My throat feels too tight to swallow.
Bella isn’t a bargaining chip.
She isn’t property.
She isn’t a pawn this criminal bastard gets to claim after eleven years of being nonexistent.
Borderline hysterical doesn’t begin to cover it.
My brain starts throwing questions at me like flaming arrows.
Does he think being married means he can steal her?
Where the hell did he even come from?
How does he know who Bella is?
Did he hire someone to follow us?
Does the law actually allow this?
Am I going to lose her?
Oh God, no. Please no.
I can’t stand the thought of losing her.
But twenty minutes on the internet tells me his odds are far more favorable than I’d ever want to believe.
Biological parents—no matter how shitty—have leverage.
Courts love two-parent stable households.
Tears prick my eyes, but I shove them down. I don’t have time to cry.
A ruckus erupts in the storefront—loud voices, excited chatter—which barely registers through the fog of panic.
At least not until Adele’s high-pitched laughter pierces the wall like a dental drill.
I groan, scrub my face with my hands, and push myself up to go see what the hell is going on because I cannot handle another surprise today—of course.
OF. FUCKING. COURSE.
Nathan Thorn is standing in my bakery.
And not just standing.
He’s surrounded by a mob of customers snapping selfies, giggling, thrusting napkins and paper bags at him to sign. He’s smiling politely, overwhelmed but obliging, and the second our eyes meet—there it is.
The same helpless, save me please expression he used to wear when we were kids and he got swept into something he didn’t want to be part of.
I narrow my eyes.
He lifts his eyebrows.
A silent plea. I can even hear his voice in my head.
Come on, Ad. Please.
God help me.
I give in.
I clear my throat and call out, loud enough for the room to hear, “Mr. Thorn, I have that order you requested ready for your approval, if you’ll just follow me.”
Half the room gasps.
Nathan flashes an apologetic, relieved smile.
“Thank you,” he says quickly. “Excuse me, ladies—I must go.”
He follows me through the swinging door into the back hallway, slipping out of sight of his fan club.
The bakery noise dies behind us.
I keep walking, furious and shaking for entirely different reasons now.
He’s close enough that I can feel his warmth at my back, and I have exactly zero emotional bandwidth left to deal with the earthquake inside me.
And he has no idea the shitstorm waiting in my office.