Chapter 33 Broken Glass And Burning Bridges
Broken Glass And Burning Bridges
~ROSEMARIE~
The morning is perfect.
That's my first thought as Julian's sleek black Audi purrs through the quiet streets of Oakridge Hollow, the early February sun casting everything in pale gold light.
Frost still clings to the edges of windows and rooftops, sparkling like scattered diamonds. The town is just starting to wake—shop owners unlocking doors, the first brave joggers braving the cold, the smell of fresh bread drifting from somewhere nearby.
Julian insisted on driving me to work this morning.
Something about "not wanting me to walk in the cold" and "the sidewalks might be icy," which are both valid concerns but also completely transparent excuses to spend an extra fifteen minutes in my company.
I didn't call him on it. Partly because I appreciate the gesture, and partly because watching Julian North try to be thoughtful without admitting he's being thoughtful is one of my new favorite forms of entertainment.
He's getting softer. Day by day, interaction by interaction, he's letting those walls come down. And I'm pretty sure he doesn't even realize he's doing it.
His scent fills the car—bergamot and sandalwood and that underlying hint of expensive cologne that I've come to associate with safety.
With home. It mingles with the leather of the seats and the subtle warmth from the heating vents, creating a cocoon of comfort that makes me want to close my eyes and just.. . exist in this moment forever.
"You're staring," Julian says without taking his eyes off the road.
"I'm admiring," I correct. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Staring implies rudeness. Admiring implies appreciation for fine craftsmanship.
" I gesture at his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the silver hair pulled back in its usual low tail, the way his hands rest on the steering wheel with casual elegance.
"You're basically a work of art. I'm just being a cultured observer. "
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close. "Your flattery is noted and cataloged for future reference."
"Good. I expect it to be factored into my performance review."
"Your performance review?"
"As your Omega. I assume there's some sort of quarterly evaluation? Metrics to meet? KPIs for adequate snuggling and emotional support?"
He actually laughs at that—a short, surprised sound that makes my heart do a little flip. "I'll have my assistant draft the documentation."
"You don't have an assistant."
"Then I suppose you'll just have to trust that your performance is satisfactory."
Satisfactory. From Julian, that's basically a love declaration.
The bakery comes into view as we round the corner onto Main Street, and I'm already mentally preparing for the day ahead.
We've got a big catering order for a Valentine's tea party this afternoon, plus the usual morning rush, plus I promised Hazel I'd experiment with some new drink recipes for the potential expansion.
My mind is running through ingredient lists and timing schedules when Julian suddenly hits the brakes.
The car stops with a jolt that snaps me out of my planning.
"What—" I start, but then I see what he's already noticed.
Glass. There's glass on the sidewalk in front of the bakery. Shattered pieces catching the morning light, scattered across the pavement like jagged diamonds. And above them, where the front window should be displaying Hazel's carefully arranged pastries and my hand-lettered menu board—
A gaping hole. Edges sharp and angry, the window frame empty except for a few stubborn shards still clinging to the frame.
No. No, no, no.
Julian is out of the car before I can fully process what I'm seeing. He moves with military precision—which makes sense, given how much time he spends with Tank—scanning the area, checking for threats, his entire demeanor shifting from relaxed to alert in the span of a heartbeat.
"Stay in the car," he says through the open door.
"Like hell," I mutter, unbuckling my seatbelt and climbing out after him.
The cold hits me immediately—February morning air biting at my exposed skin, carrying the smell of frost and something else underneath. Something acrid. Paint, maybe? I pick my way carefully around the broken glass, my heart hammering against my ribs, and finally get a clear view of the damage.
It's worse than I thought.
The window isn't just broken—it's been deliberately destroyed.
Someone took something heavy to it, multiple times from the look of the impact points.
And beyond the shattered glass, inside the bakery itself, I can see overturned chairs, scattered supplies, flour and sugar spilled across the floor like snow.
The pastry display case has been smashed.
The menu board I spent hours hand-lettering is in pieces on the ground.
Spray-painted across the back wall, in angry red letters: GO HOME
Home. As if I have one. As if the people who did this have any idea what home means to someone like me.
"Don't go inside," Julian says, appearing beside me. His hand finds my elbow, steadying. "We don't know if whoever did this is still around, and we shouldn't contaminate the scene."
"The scene," I repeat numbly. "Like a crime scene. Because this is a crime."
"Yes." His voice is tight, controlled. The voice of a man who's very angry and very carefully not showing it. "This is absolutely a crime, and we're going to report it."
"But why?" I hear myself asking, even though part of me already knows the answer. "Who would do this? Hazel's bakery has been here for years. She's a pillar of the community. Everyone loves her."
Julian's jaw tightens. "This isn't about Hazel."
No. It's about me.
The realization settles into my stomach like a stone.
The Versailles Ball. The newspaper article about the cookie competition.
All that visibility, all that public declaration of belonging to a pack, of being claimed, of being happy—someone didn't like it.
Someone wanted to remind me that I don't get to have nice things.
That running away doesn't mean I'm free.
"The ball," I say quietly. "Word must have spread. The city gossips probably couldn't wait to share that the Late Alphas finally have an Omega. And if my family's been looking for me, if my ex-pack is still trying to drag me back—"
"We don't know it's them," Julian interrupts, but his tone suggests he's already considered the possibility. "I have enemies too. Business rivals, people who'd love to see me humiliated. This could be targeting me through you."
Or it could be exactly what I think it is. A message. A warning. A preview of what's to come if I don't fall in line.
Julian already has his phone out, dialing with quick, precise movements.
"Tank. We have a situation." He gives a brief, clinical summary of what we've found, then: "Yes.
Call Elias too. I want everyone aware." A pause.
"No, she's fine. Shaken, but fine. We weren't inside when it happened—this was done overnight. " Another pause. "Understood."
He ends the call and immediately dials again.
"Yes, I'd like to report a break-in and vandalism at the Hazel's Hearth & Home Bakery on Main Street.
The front window has been smashed, the interior has been damaged, and there's spray paint on the walls.
" His voice is steady, professional, the voice of a man accustomed to handling crises without emotion getting in the way.
"Yes, we'll wait for officers to arrive. Thank you."
He's handling this. He's handling all of it, so I don't have to. So I can stand here and process and try not to fall apart.
I should be doing something. I should be calling Hazel, assessing the damage, making plans. That's what I do—I solve problems, I push forward, I don't let anything stop me. But my feet feel rooted to the sidewalk, my eyes fixed on those angry red letters on the wall.
GO HOME.
I am home, you bastards. This is my home now. These people are my home. And you can smash all the windows you want—you're not taking that from me.
"Rose! Julian!"
I turn to see Ruby hurrying down the sidewalk toward us, her arms full of newspapers and her expression shifting from cheerful to alarmed as she takes in the scene.
She's wearing a bright pink coat and those ridiculous heart-shaped earrings from the fair, a stark contrast to the destruction behind me.
"What the hell happened?" She stops a few feet away, staring at the shattered window with wide eyes.
"I was just coming to drop off copies of the paper—they ran the front page story about your cookie competition win, and I wanted—" She trails off, finally registering the full extent of the damage. "Oh my god. Rosemarie."
"We got targeted, apparently," I say, and I'm surprised by how steady my voice comes out. Detached, almost. Like I'm describing something that happened to someone else. "Someone decided to express their opinion about... something."
"The police are on their way," Julian adds. "We're not touching anything until they've had a chance to document the scene and look for evidence."
Ruby's face has gone pale beneath her careful makeup. She glances down at the newspapers in her arms, then back up at the bakery, and something like guilt flickers across her features. "Rose... could this be because of..." She holds up one of the papers, showing me the front page.
There we are, in full color above the fold: the four of us at the Valentine's Day Fair, surrounded by our award-winning cookies, medals gleaming.
Tank is still shirtless in the photo. Elias is beaming.
Julian is almost smiling. And I'm in the center, looking happier than I've ever looked in my entire life.
The headline reads: "LOCAL PACK TAKES HOME GOLD AT COOKIE DECOR WARS."