34. Delilah
DELILAH
The first morning class starts at ten.
Priya and I have the workstations set up by nine-thirty. Six stations, each with a rolling pin, bench scraper, pastry brush, and pre-measured ingredients in small glass bowls. Everything is labeled and organized.
Eight people signed up. Seven show.
A middle-aged woman in a flour-dusted apron arrives first, followed by two college students, then a retired couple holding hands. A man in his twenties appears next, camera bag slung over his shoulder.
"Welcome," I say. "Find a station and we'll get started."
The photographer stays near the back, setting up his equipment.
Priya leans close and murmurs, "That's the assessor Fletcher's team requested."
I glance at him again. He's photographing the setup, the workstations, even the customers settling in.
Good. Let him document everything.
At ten, I step to the front of the room and smile at the group. "Good morning. I'm Delilah, and this is Priya. We're going to teach you how to make puff pastry from scratch."
The retired woman raises her hand. "Is it true this place burned down?"
"It did, back in April. But we rebuilt. And now we're back."
"That's wonderful," she says.
I walk them through the process. How to cut cold butter into flour. How to form the dough and fold it properly. How to achieve those thin, flaky layers.
Priya moves between stations, correcting technique and answering questions.
The photographer takes pictures of everything. The students working. Priya demonstrating a fold. Me explaining the science behind lamination.
When the dough goes into the fridge to rest, I open the floor for questions.
The college girl asks about the bakery's history. The retired man wants to know how I learned to bake. The middle-aged woman asks if we're hiring.
I answer all of it. And through every answer, I'm aware of the camera clicking.
By the time the pastries come out of the oven, golden and perfect, everyone is smiling.
The students leave with their creations boxed up and tied with string.
The photographer lingers.
I cross to him. "Did you get what you needed?"
"More than enough." He extends a hand. "Martin Cross. Independent business assessor."
I shake it. "Delilah Dorsey. Owner."
"I'll have my report submitted by Friday. For what it's worth, this is clearly a functioning business with paying customers and qualified staff."
"Thank you."
"I'll be back for the afternoon class."
"Can't wait."
He grins. "You know what? Me neither."
He packs up his camera and leaves.
Priya beams at me. "That went well."
"It did."
"And now we do it all over again this afternoon."
I laugh. "Yeah. We do."
The afternoon class runs from two to four.
By one-thirty, customers are already browsing the front counter.
Angelica rings them up while Cameron boxes pastries and Jolene restocks the display case.
Martin, the photographer, documents it all for his business assessment, along with a young reporter from The New Yorker, who keeps snapping close-ups of the pastries with very hungry eyes.
I make a mental note to send her off with a complimentary box of goodies.
I'm in the back kitchen to assemble said box when Priya pokes her head through the doorway. "You've got visitors."
I glance up. "Who?"
"Your family."
My stomach drops. "What?"
"Your mom, your sister, and Connor just walked in."
I wipe my hands on my apron and follow her to the front.
Leanne stands near the counter, surveying the space like she's inspecting it for flaws. Vivian is beside her, wearing a white sundress and oversized sunglasses. Connor hovers behind them, hands in his pockets.
I stop a few feet away. "What are you doing here?"
Leanne turns and smiles. "We came to support you, dear. It's your reopening."
"You weren't invited."
"We're family. We don't need an invitation."
Vivian lowers her sunglasses and looks around. "This place looks good. Better than I expected."
"Thanks," I say flatly.
Connor steps forward. "Dee, can we talk?"
"No."
"Just for a minute."
"I said no."
Leanne clears her throat. "Delilah Aileen, don't make a scene."
"I'm not making a scene. I'm asking you to leave."
"We only want to take a family photograph," Leanne says. "For the paper. Vivian and Connor's wedding announcement is running next week, and it would be lovely to include you."
Wait, what?
I make sure I've heard that right. "You want me to pose for a photograph with them."
"Yes. To show that we've moved past all the unpleasantness."
"Unpleasantness."
"Everyone makes mistakes. What matters is that we've forgiven each other."
I look at Vivian. She's smiling, but it doesn't reach her eyes.
Then at Connor. He won't meet my gaze.
"No," I say.
Leanne blinks. "What?"
"I said no. I'm not taking a photograph with you. I'm not pretending we've reconciled. And I'm not helping you sell the lie that everything's fine."
"Delilah—"
"You want a family photograph? Take one. But I'm not in your family anymore."
Vivian's face hardens. "You're being ridiculous."
"Am I?"
"Yes. This is why no one wants you around. You're always so dramatic."
I almost laugh. "I'm dramatic."
"You posted revenge porn at Christmas. You humiliated us in front of fifty people. And now you're refusing to do one simple thing because you can't let anything go."
"You slept with my husband for four years."
"And I said I was sorry."
"No, you didn't."
She falters. "Well, I meant to."
"That's not the same thing, Viv."
Connor steps between us. "Dee, come on. Let's just take the picture and move on."
I look at him. "You forged my signature on a four-million-dollar loan and almost lost me my bakery.
You spent our entire marriage sleeping with my sister.
You gambled away your trust fund and then tried to borrow money from me to save your wedding venue deposit.
" I pause. "And now you want me to smile for a photograph so you can pretend none of it happened. "
"I'm not pretending—"
"Yes, you are. That's all any of you do. Pretend. Perform. Act like you're the victims and I'm the villain."
Leanne's voice sharpens. "That's enough."
"No, it's not." I cross my arms. "You came here uninvited. You demanded I participate in something I want no part of. And when I said no, you called me names." I look at each of them in turn. "So here's what's going to happen. You're going to leave. Right now. And you're not coming back."
"You can't kick us out," Vivian says.
"Actually, I can. It's my bakery."
"Delilah." Leanne's tone is pleading now. "Don't do this. Not in public."
"You made it public when you showed up here."
A flash goes off.
We all turn.
A woman with a camera stands near the door. The reporter from The New Yorker, based on the press badge clipped to her shirt. Rina Kobayashi.
She lowers the camera and smiles. "Sorry. Couldn't resist."
Leanne goes pale. "You can't print that."
"Why not? It's a public business."
Connor steps forward. "This is a private family matter."
"Is it?" The reporter glances at me. "Ms. Dorsey, do you have a comment?"
I think about it. About everything they put me through. About the four years of lies and the forged signature and the Christmas slideshow that went viral.
About the fact that they showed up here, today, to use me as a prop in their redemption narrative.
"Yeah," I say. "I have a comment."
Leanne's eyes go wide. "Delilah, don't."
I ignore her and address Rina. "My ex-husband forged my signature on a four-million-dollar loan and used my bakery as collateral.
He did that while having an affair with my sister.
My mother knew about the affair and covered for them.
" I gesture to the three of them. "They're here today because they want a photograph that makes it look like we've reconciled. We haven't. And we won't."
Rina scribbles notes. "And the bakery? How did you rebuild after the fire?"
"With help from my staff." I glance at Priya, who's watching from the kitchen doorway.
"Priyanka Osborne, my head baker, kept production running from a rented kitchen while we rebuilt.
Angelica, Cameron, and Jolene kept customers informed and handled orders.
Without them, this place wouldn't exist."
Rina writes faster. "Can I get a photo of the staff?"
"Sure."
I wave Priya over. She hesitates, then crosses to join me. Angelica, Cameron, and Jolene follow.
We stand together in front of the counter.
The reporter raises her camera. "Smile."
We do.
Connor's voice cuts through the moment. "You're making me look like an asshole."
I turn to him. "You did that all on your own."
His face flushes. "These people knew us when we were married. They're going to think—"
"They're going to think you're exactly what you are. A cheater and a liar who forged his wife's signature and nearly destroyed her business."
"Dee—"
"Get out."
Leanne tries one more time. "Delilah, please. Can't we just talk about this?"
"No. We can't. You've had months to talk to me. To apologize. To acknowledge what you did. Instead, you showed up here demanding I pretend it never happened." I shake my head. "I'm done pretending."
Vivian grabs Leanne's arm. "Come on. She's not worth it."
No. You never were.
I don't say it, but I don't need to. I haven't felt the need for their validation in months. It's a freeing way to live.
My mother and sister stomp out arm in arm.
Connor lingers for a moment, mouth opening like he wants to keep digging his own grave.
Then he turns and follows them out.
The door swings shut.
The bakery goes quiet.
Priya touches my arm. "You okay?"
"Yeah. I'm fine."
Rina is still there, watching. "That was something."
"Sorry you had to see it."
"Are you kidding? That's the best story I've had all week." She tucks her notebook away. "I'll make sure to mention the staff. And the hard work you did to rebuild your bakery. People love a good comeback."
"Thanks. Oh, and wait."
I go grab the freebies. I give one to her and one to Martin, who has been discreetly lingering at the back.
"A small thank you from us."
They're both grinning as they settle at the back of the bakery to enjoy their pastries.
The second their eyes are no longer on me, I let all the tension roll off my shoulders.
Angelica lets out a breath. "That was intense."
"Sorry," I say. "I didn't mean to drag you all into it."
"Are you kidding?" Cameron grins. "That was amazing. You totally destroyed them."
Jolene nods. "I've been wanting to tell your sister off for years."
I laugh. It comes out shaky, but it's real.
Priya squeezes my shoulder. "You did good."
"Thanks."
The door opens again.
I tense, expecting Leanne or Vivian to return.
But it's Kane.
He crosses to me, eyes searching my face. "I saw them leave. Are you okay?"
"Yeah. I'm fine."
"What happened?"
I give him the short version.
Kane's jaw tightens. "They showed up here to use you."
"Yeah. But it didn't work."
He pulls me close and kisses my forehead. "Good."
Priya clears her throat. "The next class starts in ten minutes."
"Right." I step back from Kane. "I should get ready."
"Want me to stay?" he asks.
"You don't have to."
"I know. But I want to."
I smile. "Then stay."
The afternoon class runs smoothly.
Kane watches from the back, arms crossed, looking completely out of place among the aprons and flour.
But he's here. And that's what matters.
Martin compliments me again. He reasserts his initial impression—that this is a functioning business—and promises to come back regularly as a customer.
I give him an extra donut, because I'm not above bribing government officials.
When the students leave with their pastries, Rina pushes off the wall, grinning.
"One more photo?" she asks. "Of you and your staff?"
"Sure."
We gather near the counter again. Priya, Angelica, Cameron, Jolene, and me.
Rina lifts her camera. "Hold on. Is he part of the team?"
She's looking at Kane.
I glance at him. He raises an eyebrow.
"Yeah," I say. "He is."
Kane crosses to join us. He stands beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch.
The reporter takes the photo.
When she's gone, Priya looks at Kane. "You know you're going to be in the paper now, right?"
"Good," he says.
Angelica grins. "Your boyfriend's hot," she stage-whispers.
"I know," I stage-whisper back.
Kane smirks.
We close the bakery at six.
The staff leaves one by one. Priya lingers to help clean up, but I wave her off.
"Go home," I tell her. "You've done enough today."
"You sure?"
"Positive. Tell Zara I said hi."
She hugs me. "You were amazing today."
"Thanks."
When she's gone, Kane and I finish cleaning in comfortable silence.
I wipe down the last counter and step back, surveying the space.
It's mine. Completely mine.
And it's full of good memories now. The students learning to bake. The staff laughing together. The reporter documenting everything.
Even the confrontation with my family feels like a win. Because I didn't back down. I didn't let them rewrite history.
I said no.
And it felt dizzying.
Kane appears beside me. "What are you thinking?"
"That today was a good day."
"It was."
I turn to him. "Thank you for being here."
"Always."
I take his hand. "Come upstairs."
We climb to the second floor.
My apartment is warm, quiet. Just how I left it this morning.
I close the door and lean against it, looking at Kane.
He's watching me with that familiar intensity that makes my stomach flip.
"What?" I ask.
"I'm proud of you."
"For what?"
"For standing up to them and refusing to let them use you." He crosses to me and cups my face. "And for building all of this."
I close my eyes and lean into his touch. "I'm happy."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He kisses me. It's slow and deep, a promise of more.
When we break apart, I'm breathless.
"Stay tonight," I say.
"I was planning on it."
I smile. "Good."
I take his hand and lead him to the bedroom.
Because, if there's one person I want to share my happiness with more than anyone, it's Kane.