7. Bianca
BIANCA
Pistachio flour.
That’s all I need. One bag of pistachio flour, because I’ve been developing a new tart shell. The grocery stores near my bakery only carry almond flour. I called nine stores until I found a high-end grocery store across town that carries it.
I’ve been meaning to come in for weeks and keep not getting around to it. But no more excuses! Eliza is running the bakery, and I don’t have any excuse to keep putting it off.
I find the baking section without trouble and crouch in front of the bottom shelf, reading the labels. Two brands. One is a commercial blend cut with cornstarch. The other is pure blanched pistachio flour.
That’s the one.
I’m checking the weight on the bag when I notice shoes.
Black. Italian leather.
I look up. It’s one of the triplets, and it only takes me a moment to figure out which one.
It’s the hair that gives him away.
Dark hair, kept short. Not Theo’s length, not Ander’s mess.
Gideon Sawyer is standing at the end of the aisle, a basket hanging from one hand.
He’s reading a label on a bottle of olive oil, and he hasn’t seen me.
For approximately three seconds, I weigh my options.
Then I stand up, tuck the pistachio flour under my arm, and walk toward him, because I am not the kind of person who hides in baking aisles.
“Gideon.”
He looks up. No surprise registers on his face. He sets the olive oil back on the shelf.
“Miss Donovan.”
“Bianca,” I correct, pleasantly. “We’ve met twice now. I think we can drop the formality.”
He doesn’t agree with that. He doesn’t disagree either. His expression isn’t giving away any emotion.
“Pistachio flour,” I say, holding up the bag. “You?”
He glances at the basket. “Dinner.”
He picks up a different bottle, reads the label.
He’s going to stand there and pretend I don’t exist until I leave. But I have something to say, so I’m going to say it.
“I promise I’m not following you,” I say. “For what it’s worth, I haven’t said a word about your family since the gala. Not one interview. Not one comment. The video is out there, and I have nothing to do with that. So, let’s move on.”
“The fallout is ongoing.” He shifts the basket to his other hand.
“We’ve lost a lot of money. Deals have been stalled.
Contracts have had to be renegotiated. That video created a fucking mess.
For us. For my father.” His grip tightens slightly on the basket handle. “Your silence didn’t stop any of that.”
Both brothers have brought up their father. Maybe the revenge is coming from him.
“No. I couldn’t possibly stop any of that. But I didn’t cause it either.” I keep my voice even. “Your brother knocked a tray out of my hands and screamed at me. I didn’t apologize for it.”
“You should have.”
“Even though he ran into me?” I ask incredulously.
“It would have been simpler.”
I look at him for a long moment. He’s not wrong that it would have been simpler. But he’s also asking me to accept someone else’s cruelty because his last name makes it the polite thing to do.
But continuing the fight will only make this worse. “I’d like to call a truce.”
“Why would we?”
“Because I’m not going anywhere. You’re clearly not either.” I shift the pistachio flour in my arms. “This doesn’t have to keep going.”
He pauses. “You should have walked away.”
“Because you have money? And I’m a nobody?” It comes out quiet. “Because your family is more important, so I should have just taken it?” I shake my head. “I didn’t deserve that. Nobody does.”
His grip tightens slightly on the shopping basket.
The aisle goes strangely quiet around us.
“It’s too bad.” His gaze catches briefly on my mouth before lifting again. “This could have gone differently.”
He turns and walks to the end of the aisle, and without looking back, he walks away.
I stand there holding my pistachio flour for a moment longer than I need to.
Then I go to check out.
Daphne is on my couch by seven for moral support. And to offer her legal guidance. Because after my interaction with Gideon, I might need it.
“Talk,” she says, uncorking a bottle of wine.
I talk. I tell her about the grocery store while I pull ingredients from the refrigerator to make dinner. Roasted vegetables. Leftover braised chicken. Good bread from the bakery, because bread fixes most things.
I fix us both plates.
Daphne listens without interrupting.
“Okay.” She turns on her tablet when I’m done talking.
“Here’s what we’re dealing with. Cease and desist options if they touch your suppliers again.
Documentation protocol for any inspector contact going forward.
And I found a precedent—a small business harassment case in 2019, different industry, but the pressure pattern is almost identical.
” She taps a tabbed section. “If they escalate, we have standing.”
I pick up my fork. “They’re not going to stop, are they?”
“Not from what you’ve told me.” She says it without apology, because Daphne loves me too much to soften things that need to be unsoftened. “They have resources and a bruised ego and a father who apparently makes the bruised ego worse. That’s a bad combination, Donovan.”
“I think their father is putting pressure on them. I looked him up. His name is Charles Sawyer.” I pull a piece of bread apart. “Theo mentioned him. Gideon mentioned him tonight. That’s not a coincidence.”
Daphne looks at me over her wine. It’s the look. The one that means she’s about to say something I won’t love.
“They are grown men,” she says. “Thirty years old. They are responsible for their own actions.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because I know what you do with people who are hurting. You find the reason. You make room for it.” She pops a piece of broccoli into her mouth, chews, and swallows. “You can’t fix them.”
“I’m not trying to fix them.”
“You’re making excuses for their terrible decisions.”
She’s not wrong. I love that she can be honest with me. But I also hate hearing the truth.
“I just recognize it,” I say quietly. “Being hurt turns people into versions of themselves they wouldn’t choose. I lived that. It doesn’t make what they’re doing okay.” I set the bread down. “It only means I know what it looks like.”
Daphne is quiet for a moment. When she speaks again, her voice is gentler. “I know you do, Bianca.” She takes another sip of wine. “And that’s one of the things I love most about you. But recognition isn’t the same as responsibility. Their pain is not yours to carry.”
I nod.
She refills both our glasses and levels me with a look so direct I almost flinch.
“I need you to promise me something.”
“What?”
“Promise me,” she says, “that you will not, under any circumstances, fall for one of those men.”
I laugh. It comes out genuine and startled and a little too loud for my small kitchen, and Daphne’s mouth curves into a grin.
“I promise,” I say. “Obviously. They’re trying to destroy my bakery.”
“Swear it.” She holds out her pinkie finger. “Pinkie promise.”
I connect my pinkie with hers. “I swear.”
We finish dinner. We finish the bottle of wine.
Daphne falls asleep on my couch around ten p.m., and I feel lucky to have her. At least I’m not alone in this completely ridiculous situation.
I wash the dishes. Wipe down the counter. Turn off the kitchen light.
And when I go to sleep, I won’t think about the triplets.
Because I promised.