Chapter 1
A Year Later
Istood at the top of the courthouse steps, the crisp autumn air filling my lungs with a sense of newfound freedom.
The papers in my hand felt weightless, yet they carried the weight of an entire year's worth of turmoil and heartache.
Looking up at the clear blue sky, I couldn't help but smile, the first genuine smile I’d had in what seemed like forever.
For a year, Jerome, my now ex-husband, had dragged this divorce out, clinging to our marriage for his own selfish reasons.
He refused to let go, even after his betrayal, causing me nothing but stress.
The countless nights I spent crying, the endless arguments, the feeling of being trapped—it all seemed to dissolve with each passing second now that I was no longer his wife.
I was just me, Zanova Pierce, and that was more than enough.
I walked away from the courthouse, my steps light and purposeful.
The world seemed brighter, more vivid, as if I was seeing it for the first time.
I felt a surge of excitement and liberation coursing through my veins.
This was my new beginning, a chance to rebuild and rediscover who I was without him.
And for the first time in ages, I felt genuinely alive.
As I was about to step onto the sidewalk, I heard someone call out my name. Slowly, I turned around and spotted Jerome. His eyes locked onto mine, a mix of regret and desperation etched across his face.
I took a deep breath, steadying myself. "What do you want, Jerome?" I asked, my voice firm but calm.
“This doesn’t mean we’re over,” he said, his voice low, insistent. “I’m going to get you back.”
I let the silence stretch between us before answering. I wanted him to feel the weight of it—the finality.
“Yes, it does, Jerome,” I said, steady as stone. “Actually, it’s been over since the first time you cheated on me. You just didn’t have the decency or the courage to admit it.”
His jaw tensed. I saw him reach for a response, but I wasn’t finished.
“I was so in love with you, Jerome… I let myself believe you were still the man I married, even after the first time you stepped out on me. But that man doesn’t exist anymore. Maybe he never did.”
He looked like he wanted to argue, like he thought a carefully chosen apology or another empty promise might crack the door back open. But I didn’t leave it ajar. I slammed it shut last year.
“I tried to prove that I was sorry by holding up this divorce. But all you did was give me pushback.”
“Nigga, you don’t get to play the fucking victim in a story you destroyed,” I added, my voice cold now, and my gaze unwavering. “You made your choice, and I’ve made mine. Have a nice day.”
Before he could muster another lie, a little girl with a smooth chocolate complexion and two pigtails in her hair came running down the courthouse steps.
She stopped next to Jerome, clutching onto his legs, and looking up at him with big, bright eyes.
I didn’t have to ask who the little girl was because she was a spitting image of her father.
"Daddy, are we going home now?" she asked, her innocent voice cutting through the tension like a knife.
My heart sank. The sight of her, so small and innocent, brought a lump to my throat.
Jerome glanced at me, his eyes pleading silently for understanding.
I took a deep breath, trying to steady my emotions.
I looked at the little girl again, her eyes wide with curiosity.
She was beautiful, and in that moment, I felt a pang of something I couldn't quite identify.
It wasn't jealousy, but a deep-seated ache for what could have been, for the family I had once envisioned.
I didn’t stay to hear Jerome’s reply to his daughter. I turned and walked away, each step feeling heavier than the last. But I knew one thing for certain: this was still my path to freedom, and I had to keep moving forward regardless of the painful reminder of his infidelity being in physical form.
I climbed into my silver Mercedes GLE 63 S and headed to my bakery. As I cruised through the streets, Mary J. Blige’s “Not Gon’ Cry” blasted through the car’s sound system. I sang my heart out like I wrote the lyrics, turning my ride into a mini concert.
“That’s right, Mary. We not gon’ cry over these no-good-ass niggas no mo’!” I yelled over the music, my voice cracking just a little.
Mary was my girl. She would always get me right.
Whether I was in a “fuck a nigga” mood or a “I love that nigga” mood, my girl never disappoints.
I loved her music. She had a concert coming up soon, and the tickets sold out before I had the chance to grab some for Nyala and me.
I was so bummed because it was my dream to go see Mary perform.
As I continued to jam, my phone rang, cutting into my performance.
I glanced at the dashboard display, and I saw it was my cousin, Seraphina.
“Hey, Phina, boo?” I answered just as I whipped my ride through the traffic light before pulling into the parking lot where my bakery was located.
“I was calling to see how you were doing, and to see if you had changed your mind about the divorce.”
“Why would I do that? My husband cheated and had a baby with another woman. Why wouldn’t I divorce him?” I tightly gripped the steering wheel, feeling my knuckles cracking under the pressure. The weight of the revelation felt like it was crushing my chest.
“Is he going broke?”
“Phina, what does money have to do with it? The nigga stuck his dick in another bitch and created a little human. Is that not a cause for a divorce?”
I love my cousin, but she was saditty.
“Wasn’t he taking care of you? You were living in a big house and had that big diamond on your finger. So what… He slipped up and had a baby. It’s not the end of the world. Geesh! People make mistakes, Nova.”
“Mistake? Phina, do you hear yourself? And I don’t need a nigga to take care of me.
I am more than capable of taking care of myself.
Get off my phone. You can stay over there with your cheating-ass husband, who treats you more like a maid instead of his wife.
I'd be damned if I stayed married to a serial cheater!” I yelled.
I couldn’t stand Seraphina’s husband. He thought because he was rich and took care of my cousin that he could do whatever the fuck he wanted.
“That’s not true. I just like to cater to my husband, Nova. And he didn’t cheat. That whore seduced him.”
“Yeah, okay. Look, I have to go,” I said, ready to get out of the car and go inside my bakery. “I’ll call you later,” I stated, lying, before disconnecting the call.
Seraphina was my favorite cousin, and I loved her to death, but sometimes she got on my nerves with how stuck up and green she could be to the real world.
I grabbed my purse off the passenger seat and climbed out of my car.
It was still early, so most of the nearby stores were closed.
The bell above the door chimed softly as I walked inside.
The familiar scent of freshly baked pastries enveloping me like a warm hug.
The early morning sunlight streamed through the windows, casting a gentle glow over the cozy space.
I paused for a moment, taking in the sight of the rows of golden croissants, delicate macarons, and rich chocolate cakes displayed behind the glass counter.
I smiled, feeling a sense of pride and contentment.
All around me were tables that sat about twenty-five people comfortably.
Zanova’s Tasty Treats is my dream come true, a labor of love that I have poured my heart and soul into.
And for the past eight years, it has become one of the most popular bakeries in Melville.
As I stepped behind the counter, I was greeted by my store manager, Denise. “Good morning, Boss Lady," she said cheerfully, already handing me my vanilla espresso. "How are you today?”
“Good morning, Denise. I'm doing well, thank you. How about you?"
"I'm great, thank you," she replied. “It’s Friday, so it's going to be a busy day. But we are ready for the rush as always." She smiled.
“Great. Is Trish in yet?”
“Yes. She’s in the back changing, and Ziva just went to the back to get some more cake boxes. Oh, and the contractor called. He said he emailed you some samples of some tiles,” Denise stated, sounding off with things I needed to know.
The contractor’s email was music to my ears. I was opening another bakery in Melville Row in just a few short weeks, and I was ecstatic. It was an up-and-coming neighborhood near the beach. Zanova’s Tasty Treats would be the first bakery out that way.
“Perfect. Okay… I’m going to the kitchen to complete this cake order that’s due to be picked up in two hours.”
I left Denise to finish what she was doing, made my way to my office to put my things away, and went into the kitchen.
Zanova’s Tasty Treats was my baby. I loved the rhythm of the mornings in the bakery, the steady stream of customers, and the hum of the espresso machine.
It was a place where people came not just for the delicious treats, but for the warmth and community it offered.
When I was a little girl, I spent hours tucked away in my grandmother’s kitchen, my chin resting on the edge of the counter, as I watched her hands work their quiet magic.
She never rushed, never measured with precision, yet somehow everything she touched turned into perfection.
Cakes rising golden brown in the oven, pies cooling on the windowsill, cookies soft in the middle and crisp at the edges; everything she touched was delicious.
The air was always heavy with the scent of vanilla, cinnamon, and butter; scents that immediately told me I was home. To me, her kitchen was more than just four walls. Her kitchen was a kingdom of love, where every recipe told a story and every cake was a masterpiece painted in sugar and flour.