Chapter 17
Olivia
More than two weeks had passed since the afternoon Olivia walked into her marital bedroom and found James with Amanda.
She had not gone back to the bakery.
At first, the shock had been so debilitating that she barely left the guest room.
She had slept in brief, exhausting intervals, waking up repeatedly with her heart hammering against her ribs.
Now, fourteen days later, she could function.
Barely. She could get out of bed. She could shower.
She could force herself to eat a piece of toast or drink a glass of water.
She could sit on the back patio for a few minutes and answer simple questions.
But she had not been able to return to the bakery, and that inability terrified her more than anything else.
The bakery had always been her anchor. It was the place where she knew exactly who she was.
She had built that business from the ground up.
She loved her staff fiercely, and she knew they needed her right now, especially with the cake competition looming.
Maria had been handling the daily operations, sending brief, reassuring updates through Leo, making sure Olivia knew the business was staying afloat.
But every time Olivia tried to imagine walking through the glass doors, facing her employees, answering the inevitable questions, and pretending she was not entirely broken inside, her body simply refused to cooperate. Her chest would tighten until she couldn't breathe.
The shame of it was suffocating. She felt like a coward. She did not want to abandon her life's work, but she simply could not force herself back into the world yet.
In the midst of her isolation, Brooklyn had become an unexpected, vital source of comfort.
At first, Olivia had felt awkward about Brooklyn’s presence. But Brooklyn had been nothing but kind.
A few days ago, Olivia had wandered out back and discovered that Brooklyn had set up a small studio in the guest house.
She was a sculptor. The space was warm and chaotic, lined with wooden shelves displaying unfinished clay pieces.
Specialized tools were neatly arranged next to bowls of cloudy water.
The air smelled of wet earth and dust. Delicate, half-formed figures dried near the large windows, while the finished pieces showcased a raw, breathtaking talent.
Brooklyn had tried to teach Olivia how to shape a simple clay bowl.
It had been an absolute disaster. Olivia’s piece had collapsed instantly, leaning sideways until it resembled a melted lump rather than a bowl.
Brooklyn had laughed—a bright, easy sound that held no cruelty—and to her own shock, Olivia had laughed too.
It was the first time she had laughed in weeks.
It was a tiny moment, but it mattered deeply.
Olivia felt guilty for taking up Brooklyn’s time. She felt selfish, as if she were stealing Brooklyn from her own work, her own life, and from Leo. But she could not deny that being with her helped.
With Brooklyn, Olivia did not have to explain every agonizing detail. Brooklyn did not look at her like she was made of shattered glass. She did not press for the full story unless Olivia offered a piece of it first. And somehow, in that studio, breathing felt just a little bit easier.
But even with Brooklyn’s quiet companionship, Olivia could not fully escape the memories.
They came in jagged, intrusive fragments. She did not choose to remember them. They ambushed her while she was brushing her teeth, staring at the ceiling, or drinking a glass of water.
The open bedroom door.
The twisted sheets.
Amanda’s dark hair on the pillows.
The sound of flesh slapping against flesh.
The wet, hitching moans.
The way James had looked at Amanda first.
The way Amanda had looked so satisfied until Olivia slapped her.
The memories were unwanted and invasive, turning her stomach into knots. Being in the studio helped because Brooklyn filled the room with other things—the smell of wet clay, dry humor, soft music, and the strange, vital comfort of someone who did not demand that Olivia be okay.
A few days ago, Olivia finally spoke to her parents.
They were currently traveling through Europe, a trip they had dreamed about for decades, one Olivia had helped fund as an anniversary gift. They had been calling and leaving worried voicemails. When Olivia finally answered, the conversation had been excruciating.
Her parents had heard it in her voice immediately. They asked if she was sick. If James was okay. If something terrible had happened at the bakery.
Olivia told them things were not good between her and James.
She did not tell them the full truth. She simply could not bear to say the words out loud, while they were standing in the middle of a trip they had waited years to experience.
She convinced them not to cut their trip short.
She swore she was staying somewhere safe and promised she would explain everything the moment they returned.
Her parents had insisted on booking a flight home. Olivia had begged them not to. She reminded them that this was their dream trip, promising that she was alright for now.
When the call ended, Olivia’s heart had raced so fast she felt dizzy. Telling her parents would make the nightmare real in an entirely different way. It meant saying the words out loud: My marriage is over. My husband betrayed me. He humiliated me. He might have destroyed my bakery.
The fear of that conversation stayed with her, a heavy stone in the pit of her stomach.
That afternoon, Brooklyn left for a meeting with a prospective client.
For the first time in days, Olivia was left completely alone in Leo’s main house without anyone gently guiding her toward a distraction.
She did not know what to do with herself.
She wandered into the kitchen. The room felt too large.
Too quiet. Too full of appliances and ingredients she had no clear reason to use.
She opened the large stainless-steel refrigerator and stared at the shelves.
Olivia decided to bake. She desperately needed something to do that wasn't holding onto pain.
She rummaged through the fridge and the pantry.
She found a basket of fresh apricots, heavy cream, cold butter, and a jar of raw honey.
She stepped out to Leo’s small greenhouse attached to the back patio and clipped a few sprigs of fresh thyme.
She decided to try an apricot tart with honey, sliced almonds, and a hint of thyme.
The choice was purely instinctive. She hadn't planned a recipe. It was simply Olivia reaching out for her own soul through the ingredients.
She washed the apricots carefully. She measured the flour, cut the cold butter into cubes, added ice water, and pressed the dough together with practiced ease.
She began slicing the fruit into paper-thin crescents.
The work was wonderfully tactile. The motions were so deeply ingrained that her body remembered the rhythm before her mind even had to think about it.
As she sliced the last apricot, she felt a shiver move down her spine.
She stopped chopping and turned around.
Leo was standing in the doorway, watching her.
He didn't speak at first. His expression was completely open, entirely unguarded in a way that made Olivia’s chest ache. There was profound relief in his icy blue eyes, tangled with an emotion so deep he seemed to be fighting to keep it contained.
A slow smile broke across his face, but he had to swallow hard before he finally spoke. "I don't think I have ever been so happy to see you cooking as I am today."
Olivia gave him a small, sad smile. She set the knife down. "I'm sorry, Leo."
"For what?"
"For all of this," she murmured, gesturing vaguely to the kitchen and herself.
"For being here. For bringing my broken life to your door.
For taking up your space and dragging you into a mess that just seems to be getting worse.
" She wiped her flour-dusted hands on a towel.
"I'm going to start looking for an apartment tomorrow. I need to find a place to live."
Leo crossed the kitchen instantly. "Don't even think about it."
"Leo, I can't stay—"
"You can stay as long as you need to," Leo said firmly, his tone leaving absolutely no room for debate. He glanced down at the sliced fruit. "Especially if you are going to keep baking."
The humor was gentle, not forced, and despite the heavy ache in her chest, Olivia smiled a little.
She turned back to the cutting board. Leo stepped up beside her. "Let me help."
Olivia stopped him with a floury hand. She pointed to the wooden stool on the opposite side of the granite island. "Sit."
Leo raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"I need to do this alone," Olivia explained softly.
This was the very first thing she had done in over two weeks that felt like it truly belonged to her. She needed to prove to herself that she could finish it with her own two hands.
Leo understood. He didn't argue. He walked around the island and sat on the stool.
He watched her work. His attention felt warm, protective, and heavily emotional.
Olivia felt the weight of his gaze, but she was too focused on the tactile process to fully examine what it meant.
She got lost in the rhythm of the baking.
She arranged the thin apricot slices in a perfect, overlapping spiral.
She brushed the top with a warm honey syrup, sprinkled the sliced almonds, and scattered the tiny thyme leaves over the fruit.
She crimped the edges of the buttery crust with her thumbs.
For thirty beautiful, uninterrupted minutes, her mind stopped replaying the bedroom. There was only the tart. Only the knife. Only the fruit. Only the oven waiting.
It felt like a small, vital rescue.
When she finished assembling the tart, Leo stood up to help.
He opened the heavy oven door and carefully took the pan from her hands when she offered it.
The simple, coordinated action vividly recalled all the times they had spent working together in her bakery, but this time, the emotional weight between them was entirely different.
Leo closed the oven door. He turned around, and they looked at each other.
The air in the kitchen felt suddenly charged.
Olivia took a breath. "I am going to find a lawyer, Leo. I'm going to start the divorce proceedings."
The words came out plainly. She had spent the last two weeks grieving, hiding, starving, and avoiding the world. But right now, standing in the kitchen, she knew one thing with absolute certainty: she could never, ever go back to James.
Leo went tense. Like he knew something she did not.
"We need to talk about the documents, Liv," Leo said quietly.
Olivia noticed the heavy shift in his tone. "What do you mean?"
"With everything that happened, I haven't wanted to overwhelm you with the updates from the investigator," Leo explained, his voice careful. "But if you are ready to talk about divorce, you need to understand exactly what we are dealing with."
Olivia’s stomach dropped. "Tell me."
Leo let out a heavy breath.
"The handwriting experts reviewed the copies of the financial documents you took. They do not agree with the idea that the signatures were forged in the obvious way we expected."
"What?" Olivia gasped. "But I didn't sign them!"
"I know," Leo said quickly, stepping closer. "More than one expert concluded that the signatures physically appear to belong to you. The pressure, the slant—it matches your handwriting perfectly."
Olivia felt the room tilt beneath her feet.
"They aren't saying you knowingly authorized what James did, Liv," Leo explained, keeping his voice steady to anchor her.
"They are saying the signatures are likely physically yours, which makes the legal fight much harder.
James may have slipped signature pages into routine household paperwork.
He might have had you sign incomplete forms, or used electronic authorizations connected to devices and accounts you trusted him to manage.
If the paperwork appears completely valid on its face, proving fraud becomes complicated. "
Horror bloomed in Olivia's chest. The realization was sickening.
"The issue is no longer a simple case of forgery," Leo continued grimly. "It is fraud, misrepresentation, document misuse, and improper authorization."
"What does that mean for my money?" Olivia asked, panic edging into her voice. "What does it mean for the bakery? The accounts?"
Leo did not lie to her. "It means we have to move very, very carefully."
He pulled his phone from his pocket. "Let's call the lawyer."
Leo put the phone on speaker and set it on the island. The lawyer answered on the second ring.
"Leo," the lawyer said, his tone clipped. "I was just about to call you."
Leo stood a little straighter, a flicker of hope crossing his face. "Do you have news on the investigation?"
"I have news," the lawyer replied heavily, "but it isn't good. I just got a call from a colleague down at the county Superior Court clerk's office. Specifically, in the civil filings division."
"What happened?" Leo asked, his voice hardening.
"James just filed a lawsuit," the lawyer said. "Against you, Leo. He filed an alienation of affection claim. You will likely be formally served in the next few days."
Olivia stared at the phone. Alienation of affection? Against Leo?
She looked up at Leo. His face was a mask of perfectly controlled stone, but she could see the cold, lethal anger vibrating just beneath the surface.
Blind panic seized Olivia's throat. Leo was being dragged into a courtroom because of her. James was not just attacking her anymore. He was actively using her pain, her friendship with Leo, and her desperate need for shelter as a weapon to destroy the only person who had kept her safe.
Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs as the lawyer kept speaking, but Olivia could barely hear him anymore.