22. Radio Silence #2
"Or he's going to understand that you were terrified and alone and Marcus deliberately manipulated the situation to make you doubt everything." She squeezed my shoulder. "Give yourself the same grace you'd give him if the situations were reversed."
My phone finally—finally—rang. Ethan's name flashing on the screen.
I answered before the second ring. "Ethan—"
"Maya, I'm so sorry." He sounded exhausted, stressed, guilty. "I just got access to my phone and saw all your messages and the lawsuit notification and—God, I should have found a way to call you. Should have warned you. Should have—"
"Richard explained," I cut him off. "It's okay. I know you've been with the prosecutor."
"It's not okay. You were blindsided by a lawsuit because I was unreachable for two days.
That's the opposite of okay." He took a shaky breath.
"But Maya, the criminal case is solid. We have everything.
Documents, communications, payment records—all of it.
The prosecutor is filing charges Monday morning.
Conspiracy to commit fraud, extortion, falsifying documents. They're going down."
"That's good." I tried to focus on the victory instead of the fact that I was still being sued for three-quarters of a million dollars. "That means justice actually happens."
"And once the criminal charges are public, Marcus's civil suit becomes much harder to justify. It's one thing to claim malicious disclosure when the fraud is debatable. It's another thing entirely when criminal prosecution proves everything was real."
"But we're still facing seven hundred fifty thousand in damages—"
"Which is why I'm not leaving Seattle until I fix this.
" His voice was steel now. "I'm meeting with the prosecutor tomorrow to finalize testimony.
Then I'm finding the best lawyer I can to defend against this civil suit.
I'm not letting Marcus destroy you financially.
Whatever it takes, however long it takes, I'm making this right. "
A small, petty part of me wanted to point out that "making it right" from Seattle while I dealt with Sweetheart Week alone wasn't exactly ideal. But the larger, more rational part understood that sometimes fighting for someone meant being away from them.
"When are you coming home?" I asked instead.
Silence. Then: "I don't know. Maybe another week? The prosecutor needs me available for follow-up questions. The ethics board scheduled another interview. And I need to deal with Marcus's lawsuit, find representation—"
"Another week." It came out flatter than I intended.
"I'm sorry. I know Sweetheart Week is happening and you need support and we were supposed to have that conversation about our future—"
"It's fine." I tried to sound understanding even though it really, really wasn't. "Do what you need to do. The bakery will survive. I'll survive. We'll talk when you get back."
"Maya—"
"Really, it's fine. I have like forty orders to fill and Tessa's giving me her concerned face, so I should probably go." I stood, needing to move, needing to do something other than feel sorry for myself. "Just... be safe. And call when you can. Even just a text so I know you're alive."
"I love you," he said, the words urgent. "Whatever's happening with the lawsuits or the ethics stuff or how long this takes—I love you. That hasn't changed."
"I love you too," I said, and meant it. "Talk soon."
I hung up before he could hear the tears in my voice.
Tessa was there immediately, wrapping me in a hug. "You okay?"
"No. But I will be." I pulled back, wiping my eyes. "Another week minimum. Maybe longer. While I face a lawsuit that could destroy me and run the busiest week of the year and try not to completely fall apart."
"Then we focus on what you can control. Making beautiful pastries. Serving customers. Getting through Sweetheart Week." She grabbed my shoulders. "And when he comes home—because he will come home—you figure out the rest together."
"What if we can't? What if his life in Seattle and my life here just don't fit together?"
"Then you make them fit. Or you find a compromise. Or you figure out something neither of you has thought of yet." Tessa smiled. "But spiraling about hypothetical problems while you have actual ones to deal with is just borrowing trouble from the future."
She was right. Of course she was right.
So I threw myself into work—baking and decorating and serving customers and pretending my entire world wasn't being held together by hope and legal strategy.
By 6 PM, I was exhausted, flour-covered, and desperately wanting my boyfriend home instead of in Seattle fighting legal battles I could only help with from a distance.
My phone buzzed with a text from Ethan: "Just finished with prosecutor. Criminal charges are happening Monday. This is going to work, Maya. Justice is coming. Hold on a little longer."
I typed back: "I'm holding on. But I miss you. A lot."
"Miss you too. So much it physically hurts. I'll be home as soon as I can. Promise."
I wanted to believe that promise. Wanted to trust that everything would work out and we'd figure out how to build a life together.
But promises were easy to make when you were in Seattle surrounded by lawyers and strategy sessions.
The hard part was keeping them when the world kept demanding you choose between love and survival.
And I was terrified that before this was over, one of us would have to make that choice.