Chapter 21
Tess
I hang up the phone and drop it on the counter.
The sound lands like a gunshot in my chest.
I rest my forehead against the wood. It is still warm from the ovens, still smells like yeast and sugar and yesterday’s hope. The bell above the door gives one last, pathetic jangle, like it is laughing at me.
Behind me, Gwen moves. Her hand lands on my shoulder. Solid. Warm. Real.
“Tess,” she says softly. “I’m so, so sorry.”
I don’t turn around. I don’t trust myself to speak. When I finally do, the words come out thin and wrecked, like they scraped themselves raw on the way up.
“He was nice to me, G,” I whisper. “He brought me coffee. I should have known better.”
That is it.
That is the crack.
Everything I have been holding back, the rage, the betrayal, the fear, the stupid, fragile hope, shatters all at once. It is not loud. It is not dramatic. It feels structural, like a beam snapping somewhere deep inside me.
My legs stop working.
I slide down the door and hit the floor hard, the cold tile biting through my jeans. Gwen goes down with me instantly, no hesitation, her arms wrapping around me like she is anchoring me to the earth.
I bury my face in her apron and cry.
I cry for my family.
For Auntie June.
For the spreadsheet, I thought, could save us.
For the bakery that almost became something ugly.
For the man I wanted him to be.
For the man he never was.
The ovens are cold. The lights hum softly. The bakery feels hollow, like the magic leaked out through the cracks and ran into the street after him.
Then Gwen stiffens.
I feel it before I hear it, the shift in her breathing, the tension snapping tight.
“Shit,” she mutters.
She pulls out her phone. The buzz comes again, harsh and insistent. I lift my head, my face aching, my throat raw.
“What?” I ask. “What now?”
She looks at the screen, and the fury on her face is fresh and sharp, like a blade just pulled from the forge.
“It’s TMZ,” she says. “A reporter.”
My stomach drops, hollow and weightless.
“They know, Tess.”
She turns the phone so I can see it.
An unknown number.
A cheerful message.
Congratulatory.
Just got a tip that Ashford Ventures and Sunrise shadows carved deep under her eyes. She’s holding the bakery phone, thumb hovering over the power button.
“They’ve been calling since three,” she says flatly. “TMZ. The Chronicle. A food blogger from New York. Eater. They all know. They’re congratulating us. On the… ‘major deal.’”
“He leaked it,” I say. The words taste like poison. “Rex. He leaked it to force me.”
“It’s not just him,” Gwen says. She nods toward my tablet on the counter. “Check the socials.”
My stomach knots, but I do it anyway. I open the bakery’s Instagram.
It’s a bloodbath.
The same accounts that were posting heart emojis two days ago are tearing each other apart in the comments.
OMG, she sold out. I KNEW IT
#SunriseAndSoulless
Ashford is a vulture
She played him for money
No, he saved her brand
Cancel Ashford
They’re fighting over me. Over my life. Over something they’ve flattened into a hashtag.
“They think I was in on it,” I whisper. “They think I’m a gold digger.”
“And the other half think he’s Satan,” Gwen mutters. “It’s a full PR spiral. His name’s trending. Ours too.”
The back phone rings. Sharp. Violent. Caller ID: ASHFORD VENTURES.
I rip the cord out of the wall.
“No.”
I turn to the workbench and grab a fifty-pound bag of flour, hauling it up onto the steel with a grunt. The thud is the first thing that’s felt good all morning.
“What are you doing?” Gwen asks.
“I’m baking,” I say, ripping the bag open. Flour explodes into the air, dusting my clothes, my hair, my face. “They don’t get to take this. He doesn’t get to take this.”
I start working, but it’s wrong. My hands are too rough. Too fast. I’m angry, and the dough knows it. I’m punching it, tearing it, trying to break it before it can break me.
You don’t get to make my choices.
You branded my soul.
A hot tear drops off my chin and lands in the dough.
I freeze.
The spot where it falls darkens instantly. A stain. A contamination.
“I can’t,” I whisper. “Gwen… I can’t. He broke it. He broke my hands.”
“No,” Gwen says fiercely, stepping in close. She puts her hands over mine, steady, solid. “No, he didn’t. He’s not magic. He’s just a stupid, rich himbo who made a catastrophic mistake. You are Sunrise & Salt. Not him.”
She presses my hands back into the dough. “Breathe. Slow. He doesn’t get to win. Not here.”
I inhale. Shudder. Nod.
I start again. Slower. Feeling the flour. The water. The weight of it.
The front bell jingles.
We both freeze.
It’s 5:15. Too early.
“We’re not open,” Gwen calls, her voice tight.
“We just want to talk!” a woman says.
I step to the swinging door and look through the round window.
Five people. Phones raised. Filming. Waiting.
“Tess!” someone calls. “Did you dump the Billionaire Baker?”
“Is Sunrise & Soul real?”
“Did he buy you?”
I stumble back like I’ve been struck.
“They’re here,” I whisper. “They’re at the door.”
The front window feels enormous. Exposed. A stage.
This isn’t my bakery anymore.
It’s a fishbowl.
“Lock it,” I say. My voice is empty. “Lock the front.”
“Tess, we have to…”
“LOCK IT!” I scream. “Pull the blinds. Flip the sign. We’re closed.”
Gwen runs. The deadbolt slams home. The bamboo blinds crash down, cutting off the world in ugly slats of dim light.
She comes back holding the OPEN sign.
I stare at it. At my flour-dusted hands. At the violated dough.
Something inside me sinks all the way to the bottom.
I didn’t just lose him.
I lost the ability to breathe.
I lost the quiet.
I lost the illusion that if I worked hard enough, carefully enough, I could keep my world small and safe.
He didn’t just break my heart.
He changed the rules.
And for the first time since I opened Sunrise & Salt, I don’t know how to bake my way out of this.