Chapter 27LARK #2
“Leave the Bluebell the hell alone,” I say, voice steady. “No bakery across the street. No ghost companies sniffing around the permits. No back-pocket inspectors.”
He watches me, silent.
“You want to keep your empire, fine. Keep it. But you don’t get to build it on top of mine.”
Tate’s face twitches—just barely—but it’s there. That flash of rage behind his eyes. It makes men like him dangerous when they think they’ve lost something they were never owed to begin with.
He leans back, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek. “You think this makes you untouchable?”
“No,” I say, calm and level. “But I think it exposes you . And that’s worse.”
His hand slides down his jaw, slow and tight, like he’s trying to scrape off the conversation with his palm. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “All this because I made you an offer?”
I laugh under my breath. “No, all this because you thought I wouldn’t notice how many strings you were pulling to make me say yes.”
He stands suddenly, eyes blazing, voice low. “Fine. You want me to walk away? You got it. But don’t think this makes us even.”
“I don’t want to be even,” I say. “I want to be free of you and your bullshit.”
He stares at me a second longer. Then, with a short, bitter nod, he turns and walks out. Shoulders rigid, stride clipped, like he’s chewing on the word no for the first time in a long time.
I don’t move right away. I just sit there, my hands pressed flat to the table, pulse thudding in my throat.
For once, it’s not from fear.
It’s from fire. From taking back what’s mine.
Josie rounds the corner with a tray in her hands, balancing a full plate. She pauses when she spots me, her eyes widening like she’s trying to make sense of something that’s not adding up.
“I thought I saw Wendell sittin’ over here.”
“You did,” I say, smoothing my palms over the tabletop like I’m brushing off the last of his presence.
Her eyebrows pull together. “So…he just left? Without eating?”
“Guess he wasn’t as hungry as he thought.”
She eyes the plate, then me. “He already paid for it.”
I reach for it without thinking, the smell hitting me before the heat even does—fluffy pancakes, golden at the edges, a biscuit split open and smothered in creamy gravy, eggs cooked just the way I like them, soft but not runny. It smells like comfort. And honestly like something I fucking deserve.
“I’ll eat it,” I say, taking the plate.
Josie lets out a soft laugh and hands it over before walking off.
I settle back into the booth, the warmth of the plate steadying something that had been shaking loose for a long time.
For the first time, I’m not just holding my ground—I’m rooted in it. Certain. Steady. A little dangerous, maybe .
And I don’t just feel good.
I feel powerful. Sure. Steady.
Unshakable.
Miller appears like she was summoned, a cup of coffee in her hands, her eyes sweeping the floor before they land on me. She spots the plate, then me, then the empty booth across from me. Her brows lift.
“Did you kill him, bury his dead body and then steal his breakfast all within the hour?”
I pick up my fork. “No comment.”
She slides in across from me without asking, reaches across the table, and tears off a piece of the biscuit while reaching for a fork. “I would’ve been impressed. Did he at least cry?”
“Not visibly.”
“Heard the ghost of it in his footsteps though, didn’t you?”
“He left without touching his breakfast. I’m guessing that says enough.”
Miller hums, tossing the biscuit in her mouth. “You’re glowing. It’s either from the adrenaline or vengeance and I respect the hell out of it.”
I lean my elbows on the table and drag my fork through the syrup pooling around the pancakes. “I thought I’d feel shaky after. I don’t.”
Miller points her fork at me. “That’s because you didn’t back down. You looked him in the eye and reminded him this place doesn’t run on fear. It runs on grit and coffee and whatever the hell you put in those lemon bars.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “I kept thinking about Alice.”
Miller’s chewing slows. “Yeah?”
“She always said I was soft in all the right places, but that didn’t mean I was weak.
” I glance down at my plate, the edge of a scrambled egg dangling off the side.
“I used to think if I just kept my head down, worked hard, did the right thing, people like Tate would just…go away. That I could outrun them with goodness or whatever.”
Miller grabs a strip of bacon, shrugs. “That’s a beautiful sentiment. Utter bullshit, but beautiful.”
I crack a smile. “Yeah. I’m done being quiet, I think. ”
She raises her coffee cup, mock-toast style. “May every little girl grow up to terrify the mediocre men who underestimate her.”
I clink my fork against her cup. “Amen.”
She takes another sip of coffee, still grinning around the rim, and I watch her for a second. Just sit with it. With her. With everything she’s been to me—not just in this, but in all of it. Every breakdown, every plan, every impossible day I thought I couldn’t make it through.
I set my fork down. “Thank you, Mills.”
She glances at me, eyes narrowed, suspicious of the sentiment.
“For what?”
“For backing me up,” I say. “For helping me with everything. For being there when I didn’t even know how to ask.”
Miller rolls her eyes, but her mouth softens. “Careful with that mushy shit, Westwood. I didn’t wear forty dollar mascara to sob over a sausage biscuit.”
I nudge her leg under the table. “I’m serious.”
“I know,” she says, quieter now. “I know you are.”
She holds my gaze a second longer, then picks up her fork again. “Now eat. You earned this. Nothing tastes better than revenge and carbs.”
I laugh—loud and honest, the kind that only ever comes when I’m with Miller. The kind that slices through the noise and settles deep in my chest like something I forgot I needed.
Then I look over at her again. Really look.
She’s perched in the booth like it was built to hold her, back straight, legs crossed.
Her lashes are so thick they cast shadows across her annoyingly perfect cheekbones, eyes lined in that way only she can pull off without looking like she tried.
Her lipstick’s still flawless, even after tearing into a biscuit like it owed her money.
Living life with Miller is like stepping into technicolor.
Like suddenly realizing the world isn’t just grayscale—it’s bold and messy and loud, and she’s all of it at once.
She doesn’t dim, doesn’t shrink, doesn’t ask for permission.
She is brightness and bite and unrelenting fire, and she does not give a single fuck what you think about it .
If there’s anyone who’s going to take down the patriarchy, it’s Miller. And she’s going to do it before lunch in a perfectly tailored Balmain blazer and Prada heels.
But more than that, more than the fire and the brilliance and the big, big dreams—is the way she loves.
Fiercely. Wholeheartedly. Without conditions or caution.
If she chooses you, you’re hers—relentlessly, completely.
She remembers your coffee order, your childhood trauma, your dentist appointments.
She makes space for all the parts of you, even the ones you’re not sure deserve it.
And somehow, she made space for me.
To be loved by Miller Jane Ashford is to be chosen, defended, and championed in ways most people only dream of. It’s not just rare. It’s everything.
When I finish the last bite of pancake, I lean back and glance at the clock. “I’ve gotta go. Hudson’s game’s in an hour.”
Miller scrunches her nose like I just told her I’m off to a war zone. “Don’t forget to reapply sunscreen every ninety minutes. Melanoma doesn’t care how cute your outfit is.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ve got the spray in my bag, okay?”
“You say that every time and then come back looking like a rotisserie chicken.”
I laugh and lean down, kissing the top of her head. “Thanks, Mills. For being here. For everything.”
She tilts her head, almost rolls her eyes—but her mouth softens, just barely. “Yeah, yeah. Go be a good mom or whatever.”
I grab my purse, sling it over my shoulder, and start for the door.
“Hey, Lark,” she calls after me. I glance back.
“I’m proud of you.”
My chest tightens. “I know.”
She lifts her coffee like a farewell salute. “Go, be an inspirational badass. Strike fear into the hearts of men. And most importantly, make sure you look hotter than the opposing team’s moms.”
I laugh as I step outside, the door clattering behind me .
Miller has always been more than just sharp edges and glossy finishes. She’s loyalty wrapped in Gucci and sarcasm. If she loves you, you never have to wonder. You just know.
The car door shuts with a soft click, and for a moment, I just sit there—hands on the steering wheel, eyes closed, heart still pacing like it hasn’t caught up to the day yet. The engine’s off, but something inside me is finally on.
For the first time in what feels like forever, I can breathe. Not the kind of shallow, careful breaths I’ve gotten used to—measured, rationed, never too deep in case it tips the balance.
No. This one’s full and clean, pulled all the way down into my chest like it belongs there.
I feel…light.
Not empty, but unburdened.
It’s so strange and new and good that I almost laugh, right there in the driver’s seat. I tap the steering wheel once, shift into gear, and start toward home.
I’ve got places to be and, for the first time in a long time, no extra weight to carry.
Just a damn good view in the rearview mirror and something like freedom riding shotgun.