Chapter 25
Tess
Saturday comes whether I am ready or not.
The park is loud. Colorful. Alive. Vendors shout prices. Kids dart between stalls. Music thumps from somewhere down the line. The air smells like coffee, citrus, and grilled onions. I move through it with practiced ease, Gwen following close behind.
I told her I needed to do this alone, but she insisted on staying nearby for moral support.
“Do you want me to hide behind a newspaper?” Gwen asks, making me laugh. “I can pretend to be a Grizzlies hockey fan and admire the stadium from a distance.”
“Whatever you think is best, G.”
And then I see him.
Leo stands at the edge of the crowd, hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders tight with tension. He does not approach. He does not wave. He does not try to catch my eye. He just waits, like someone who understands that this moment is not his to take.
I breathe in. Slow. Deep.
I glance at Gwen. “I am going.”
Her expression hardens instantly. “You want me to…”
“No,” I say quickly. “No. Just stay.”
She looks like she wants to argue, but she swallows it down. “I will watch from here.”
“I know.”
She reaches out and grips my wrist for a second. Quick. Firm. Grounding. “You do not owe him anything.”
“I know,” I say again. My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
I step away from the table. The moment I leave my spot behind it, I feel exposed. Like a turtle without a shell. Like the table was my barrier, my armor, and now I am just me.
I move through the crowd toward him. My feet feel heavy. My body wants to bolt in the opposite direction.
When I get within a few feet, Leo straightens as if he has been called to attention. He does not step forward. He does not reach out. He simply waits.
Respecting the boundary. Not taking.
That counts in his favor, and I hate myself for noticing.
He meets my eyes, and for a brief second, I see something raw and wrecked there. No performance. No charm. Just a man who knows he did something unforgivable and understands he does not get to argue about it.
“Tess,” he says quietly.
My name hangs in the air between us like a question, like he is asking permission to say it.
I keep my face neutral. “You said ten minutes.”
His throat moves as he swallows. He nods once. “Yes.”
I look around deliberately. Open space. People passing by. Noise. Movement. Public. Safe. No private room. No door to close. No intimacy to blur the lines. This is me protecting myself.
“Talk,” I say.
He flinches, just slightly, like he expected more. More anger. More softness. More anything.
He deserves none of it.
So, I give him nothing.
He takes a breath. “First, thank you for coming.”
I don’t react.
“I’m not here to convince you to forgive me,” he continues quickly, like he knows that’s a trap. “I’m not here to ask for that. I’m here because I said I’d listen, and because I owe you…” His voice catches. “I owe you a plan that doesn’t steal your agency.”
I hold his gaze. “And?”
“And I made it,” he says. “But it’s not mine. It’s yours. It’s built around your spreadsheet. Your model. Your timeline.”
My stomach clenches. My spreadsheet. My dream. The thing he already violated once. I cross my arms.
“Leo, I want to know if you understand why what you did was unforgivable,” I say. My voice is quiet, but it doesn’t shake. “And I want to know if you can stop trying to be the hero long enough to let me decide what happens to my life.”
He nods once. Slow. “Ok.”
I wait.
He takes another breath. “What I did was unforgivable because I treated your dream like an asset,” he says. “Like something that could be acquired. Controlled. Optimized.” His jaw tightens. “I used your trust as information. I took something sacred and turned it into leverage.”
My stomach twists. The words are accurate. Too accurate.
“And,” he continues, his voice rougher now, “I did it because I wanted to feel like I earned something, and I panicked when you didn’t accept the version of help I know how to give.” He swallows. “So, I did the worst thing possible. I tried to force you.”
My chest aches, a dull bruise. “You did.”
He nods. “Yes.”
I watch him carefully. Waiting for the pivot. Waiting for the but. Waiting for the way men like him always try to soften their guilt by dressing it up as an explanation.
He doesn’t.
“I burned the LOI,” he says. “I terminated it. My lawyers sent Rex Chen a formal notice. There’s no Sunrise & Soul deal. There’s no franchise pipeline. There’s no exclusivity.”
I don’t let my face change. “I saw.”
He nods again. “Good.”
A beat. He looks like he wants to say something, then stops himself.
I tilt my head. “Say it.”
His eyes lift to mine. “I don’t deserve credit for that.”
My breath catches, just a little.
He continues anyway. “That was the minimum. That was me stopping the bleeding I caused.” He exhales. “And it didn’t fix what I did. It doesn’t undo it.”
The crowd surges behind us. Laughter. Music. A dog barking. A child drops a balloon and starts to cry. The world keeps moving.
My life keeps moving. I hate that I’m still standing here, talking to him like this is normal.
“So, what’s the plan?” I ask. “What is it that you want to present?”
He hesitates and looks at my face.
“Can I ask you something first?”
I narrow my eyes. “Sure.”
“I want to ask because it matters for whatever happens next.” He pauses. “Do you want me to stay away completely? From you. From the bakery. From everything. If that’s what you want, say it, and I’ll do it.”
The question makes something inside me go very still. Because it would be so easy. So clean. Say yes. Cut him off. Protect myself. And part of me wants that. Badly.
But another part of me, the part that watched him learn dough, the part that felt his hands stop taking and start asking, the part that hates itself for being moved by him crying on camera, wants to know if he can actually become someone different.
I don’t forgive him.
But I also don’t want to lie.
“I want you away from my bakery right now,” I say carefully.
He nods immediately. No argument. “Ok.”
“And I want you away from my decisions,” I add, sharper. “Forever. You don’t get to be in the room where my choices happen unless I invite you.”
“Yes,” he says, voice soft. “Yes. Agreed.”
“Ok,” I say finally. “Talk.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath since he texted me.
He reaches into his hoodie pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. Not a leather folder. Not a pitch deck. Not a glossy packet.
Just paper. Creased. Plain. Human.
He holds it out. Not pushing it into my hands. Just offering.
I don’t take it immediately. “What is that?”
“It’s a summary,” he says. “One page. No brand language. No partners. No logos.” His mouth tightens. “I asked Julian to help me remove any bullshit.”
The mention of Julian makes me want to roll my eyes, but I’m too busy noticing that he said remove. Not enhance. Not spin.
I take the paper. It’s handwritten in parts and typed in others. There are messy margins. Notes. Cross-outs. It looks like someone fought with it.
My stomach twists again.
At the top, it says:
TESS’S APPRENTICESHIP PROGRAM
SUPPORT STRUCTURE
NO STRINGS
I glance up sharply.
He meets my gaze. “I’m not asking you to trust the title,” he says quickly. “I’m asking you to read it and tell me what you hate.”
I look back down. My eyes scan the page. It’s not what I expected.
It outlines a foundation that is independent, legally separate, and governed by a board that includes community partners, a youth center representative, a labor lawyer, an accountant, and a baker not connected to Sunrise & Salt.
It includes terms like non-revocable funding, restricted endowment, and no discretionary withdrawals by the donor.
Donor. Not owner. Not a partner.
The plan outlines that the bakery funds the apprenticeship on its own, like I wanted, through a dedicated apprentice line item in the budget, supported by grants and revenue.
The foundation’s role isn’t to fund the bakery. It’s to fund the apprentices directly, so the bakery doesn’t have to carry the entire social safety net on croissant margins.
It’s smart.
It’s terrifying.
I look up slowly. “This is still money.”
“Yes,” he says immediately. “It is. That part doesn’t go away.”
“And you,” I say, voice clipped, “are still a billionaire.”
He doesn’t flinch. “Yes.”
I tap the paper. “So, where’s the trap?”
“There isn’t one,” he says quietly.
I laugh once, sharp and humorless. “You understand why I don’t believe you.”
He nods. “Yes.” A beat. He swallows. “The only protection in this is from me.”
I force myself to stay sharp. “Why now?”
He exhales. “Because I already did the damage.” His voice cracks slightly, then steadies. “And because your program is bigger than my guilt. And,” he adds, voice quieter, “because I learned something from you.”
I narrow my eyes. “What?”
He hesitates, like he’s afraid this will sound manipulative. “That the work is the point.” A beat. “And that I don’t get to skip it.”
My throat tightens so hard it almost hurts.
I look away. Toward Gwen, who is very pointedly not staring at us but definitely watching like a hawk. A protective, sarcastic hawk.
I look back at Leo. “You realize none of this fixes what you did.”
“Yes,” he says instantly. “I’m not offering it as a fix.”
“Good,” I say.
He nods. “Good.”
I should walk away right now. I should fold the paper, hand it back, and tell him to disappear. But my feet don’t move.
“Tess,” Leo says.
“Ten minutes,” I remind him. “We had ten minutes.”
He nods. “Right. Ten minutes.”
“I won’t do this again,” he says quietly. “If you tell me no, that’s it. I won’t ask twice.”
My chest tightens despite myself.
“Ok,” I say. “Talk.”
He inhales, slow and steady, like he’s bracing himself for impact.
“I don’t want the last thing between us to be the worst version of me.”
That hits. Not because it’s romantic. Because it’s honest.
“I don’t want to fix you,” he says quickly, like he knows how that would sound. “And I don’t want you to fix me. I just…” He swallows. “I want a chance to show you who I am when I’m not panicking. When I’m not hiding behind money or momentum or leverage.”
Silence stretches between us.
“I’m asking for something smaller,” he says. “Something you control.”
I tilt my head. “Like what?”
He hesitates, then meets my eyes fully. “One date.”
I bark out a laugh before I can stop myself. It’s sharp. Incredulous. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“I’m not,” he says. “And I know how ridiculous that sounds, given everything.”
“I’m sure you can find someone more suitable to go on a date with,” I tell him coldly.
His jaw tightens. “I choose you,” he says quietly. “If you’ll let me.”
I stare at him for a long moment.
This is the dangerous part. Not the kiss. Not the fight. The choosing. Because choosing means responsibility. It means I don’t get to hide behind anger if I walk into something that might hurt.
I exhale slowly.
“One date,” I say. “On my terms.”
“Yes,” he says.
“Somewhere quiet,” I continue. “Where we can talk. Not expensive. Not flashy.”
“Yes. When?” he asks softly.
“Wednesday,” I say. “After close.”
He nods. “Where do you want to go?”
I hesitate. “The Moonlight Lounge. A little hole in the wall that doesn’t care who you are as long as you tip well and don’t make a scene.”
“I’ll be there,” he says.
I hold his gaze for a beat longer and catch the softest smile on his face.
I turn away before he can say anything else.
I walk straight toward Gwen.
“Well?” she whispers, as if Leo can hear us.
I lift the paper slightly.
“Tell me this time the paper’s a good thing?” she asks. I nod. “Did he try to apologize his way into your pants?”
I glare at her. “Gwen.”
She grins, completely unrepentant. “It’s a valid question.”
“He listened,” I say quietly. “And he asked me out on a date.”
I can’t help the smile that slips out with the words.
Gwen’s expression changes immediately. “I knew it.”
I nod once. “Yeah.”
“Do we go shopping for an outfit now? I don’t know what to do,” Gwen says, and I laugh.
The sun shifts overhead. The air smells like coffee, oranges, and hot pavement.
I hook my arm through Gwen’s, and together we walk back toward the city.