Chapter Eleven #2
“How?” I demanded. “How did you even know?”
Saint’s gaze held mine, steady as always. “The first day I walked into your bakery,” he said, “that guy came in right behind me. The way he looked at you, the way you went cold, the way he said your name like he owned it. I knew what he was.”
My stomach dropped, and I remembered that moment. Remembered how Saint had turned, calm and dangerous, and told him no without raising his voice.
“I found out who he was,” Saint continued. “I met with him yesterday. Made a deal. He’s done. He won’t come near you again.”
My mouth went dry. “A deal,” I repeated.
Saint nodded. “Half the debt. Cash. He took it.”
Half.
Half of a debt I’d been killing myself to pay.
My brain couldn’t make sense of it fast enough. “You paid him,” I said, my voice rising. “You paid my father’s debt.”
“I paid Bill to leave you alone,” Saint corrected, still calm.
It wasn’t calming me.
It was making something inside me crack.
“All the money,” I whispered, my voice shaking now, “all the money I’ve been working for, all month… it’s mine?”
Saint’s eyes softened. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s yours.”
I stared at him.
It should have felt like relief.
It should have felt like a miracle.
Instead, it felt like someone had reached into my chest and ripped out the one thing I’d been clinging to.
Control.
I laughed once, short and sharp. “You did that without telling me.”
Saint frowned slightly. “I didn’t want to stress you out more.”
“I was already stressed!” I snapped. “I was living in it. And you thought the solution was to go behind my back and make deals with loan sharks?”
His jaw flexed. “I thought the solution was to fix it.”
“It wasn’t your responsibility,” I shot back.
Saint’s eyes hardened. “It was your responsibility?”
“No,” I said, and the word came out raw. “It was mine because no one else was going to handle it.”
He leaned forward slightly. “Belle, you shouldn’t have had to.”
“That’s not the point!” I threw my hands up, flour dusting into the air like smoke. “You don’t get to decide that for me. You don’t get to decide what problems I can handle or can’t. You don’t get to swoop in and pay off my life like I’m some charity case.”
Saint went still, and something flashed across his face. Hurt. Anger. Maybe both.
“I wasn’t buying you,” he said, voice low.
“I know that,” I snapped, then immediately hated myself because I did know that, and it didn’t matter. “But you made a choice about my life without me.”
Saint stepped closer, his presence heavy now. “I made a choice to protect you.”
I shook my head hard. “You don’t even know me.”
His voice sharpened. “I know you’ve been running yourself into the ground.”
“That was my choice,” I said.
“No,” he said, and his calm finally cracked. “That was you being forced to clean up after a man who didn’t deserve you.”
My throat tightened. “Don’t talk about him.”
“Why not?” Saint shot back. “He deserves to be talked about. He deserves to be called what he is.”
I clenched my fists. “Stop.”
Saint’s chest rose with a slow breath. When he spoke again, his voice was controlled, but I could hear the edge. “You should be happy,” he said.
That word hit like a slap.
Happy.
As if happiness was a switch I could flip because a man handed a loan shark some cash.
Happy.
As if I was supposed to smile and melt into gratitude and say thank you for saving me.
My eyes stung. “Don’t tell me how to feel,” I whispered.
Saint stared at me, jaw tight. “I’m not telling you how to feel. I’m telling you the danger is gone.”
“And replaced with what?” I demanded. “Now I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” Saint said immediately.
I shook my head, backing away, the space between us suddenly too small. “Yes, I do.”
“No,” he said, voice firm. “You don’t.”
“I am not letting you pay half of my father’s debt and just pretend it doesn’t matter,” I snapped. “I will pay you back.”
Saint’s eyes narrowed. “No.”
My anger flared hotter. “Excuse me?”
He stepped forward again. “No, Belle.”
Something in me broke loose. “You don’t get to tell me no,” I shouted.
The dogs both went still. Pepper’s ears perked, and his eyes darted between us. Salt stood, body tense.
Saint’s voice dropped, sharp with control. “And you don’t get to act like I did this to hurt you.”
I laughed again, ugly and wet this time because my eyes were burning. “Then why does it feel like you don’t trust me to handle my own life?”
His expression tightened. “That’s not it.”
“Then what is it?” I demanded.
Saint looked like he wanted to grab me, shake me, pull me close—something. Instead, he held himself in place, like restraint was the only reason this didn’t turn into a mess.
“I couldn’t watch you get threatened,” he said, his voice rough. “I couldn’t watch you smile at customers while you were terrified every time that bell rang. I couldn’t walk out of your bakery and leave you with that.”
My chest tightened again, and for one breath, the anger faltered.
Then pride came roaring back.
“You should have told me,” I whispered.
Saint’s face hardened. “Would you have let me help?”
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
Because the truth was, I wouldn’t have. Not like this. Not financially. Not in a way that made me feel like I owed him my future.
Saint nodded once, like my silence answered him. “That’s what I thought.”
My throat closed. “Leave,” I said.
His eyes flashed. “Belle.”
“Leave,” I repeated, louder this time. “I can’t do this right now. I have a bakery to open. I have customers coming. I have… everything.”
Saint’s jaw clenched. “I’m not going to let you think you have to pay me back.”
“I will,” I snapped. “By the end of the year.”
“No,” he said again, that same damn word, that same refusal.
I pointed at the door, my hand shaking. “Get out.”
Saint stared at me for a long beat, like he was trying to decide if I meant it.
I did.
His eyes flicked to the dogs, then back to me. Something in his face softened, just slightly, like he hated this.
Then he nodded once.
“Fine,” he said quietly. “But I’m not taking your money.”
“Then don’t,” I shot back. “But you’re leaving.”
Saint backed up a step, then another. He didn’t slam the door. He didn’t shout. He just turned and walked toward the back exit like he didn’t want to be seen leaving through the front.
Before he opened it, he paused, one hand on the handle. His voice came out low. “I’m sorry,” he said.
I didn’t answer.
I couldn’t.
The door shut behind him, and the bakery felt instantly colder.
Pepper whined softly and padded toward the back door like he wanted to follow. Salt stood in the middle of the floor, staring at the door like he could will it open again.
I pressed my palm to my chest and tried to breathe through the ache that had replaced my anger.
I should have felt relief.
I should have felt grateful.
Instead, I felt hollow.
Because Saint had taken the danger away, yes.
But he’d also taken something else.
The thing I’d been clinging to through all of it.
The belief that if I worked hard enough, I could fix anything.
Now I didn’t know what to do with all the money I’d earned, the debt I no longer owed, and the man who had just walked out like he thought he was doing the right thing.
I stared at the back door until my eyes blurred.
Then I wiped my face hard, sucked in a shaky breath, and turned toward the kitchen.
The mixers needed to be turned on. The ovens needed to be preheated. The front lights needed to be switched to their warm glow.
In an hour, customers would come in smiling and asking for Christmas magic.
And I would give it to them.
Because that was what I did.
Even if my own world had just tipped sideways.
Even if my heart felt like it had been split clean down the middle.