13. Marianne
Marianne
Marianne slid her thumbs across the stack of twenty-dollar bills.
The worn paper rasped against her skin. She kept her gaze stubbornly fixed on the cash, refusing to lift her chin from her chest. A grating screech bled through the gap in the swinging kitchen doors.
Screech, scrape. Tristan was attacking the cast-iron skillets.
The sound crawled under her skin.
“Just count the drawer,” she whispered to the cash.
She snapped a rubber band around the sorted twenties.
She refused to turn her head toward the noise.
The former CEO of Hawthorne Holdings actually believed scrubbing a few baking sheets erased six months of total neglect.
He expected her to collapse in gratitude because he deigned to ruin a silk shirt in dishwater. The arrogance was staggering.
She dropped the banded bills into the drop bag. A harsh gust of coastal wind slammed against the storefront glass.
Elias yanked the front door open on its groaning hinges. Icy air ripped through the heated bakery, carrying a flurry of fresh snow across the floor. Elias stepped over the threshold. He grabbed the edge of the door and shoved it shut, sealing the draft out.
He stamped his work boots against the mat. Clumps of white slush hit the rubber.
“You’re freezing the shop, Elias,” she said, watching the snow melt into the grooves.
Elias rolled his shoulders, shaking a layer of snow off his winter coat.
He stepped deeper into the warm room, ignoring the dusting of white powder clinging to his canvas sleeves.
He stepped up to the display case and crossed his arms. His gaze dropped from her pale face to where her pregnant belly pressed against her apron.
“Clock out, Marianne,” Elias said. “Leave the till for Hazel before you end up fainting behind the counter.”
Marianne pushed the canvas bag aside. The register snapped as she pulled the final ten-dollar bill from the slot. She smoothed the crumpled edge against the laminate, determined to close out the till. Leaving a messy drawer meant a burden for Hazel.
She owed her employer far too much to walk away without balancing the cash.
“I’m basically done, Elias,” Marianne countered. She flicked her thumb across the remaining paper. “Just give me one second to lock the drop bag in the safe.”
Elias uncrossed his arms. He planted a hand flat against the pastry case. The relentless scraping of the wire brush echoed from the back kitchen again, carrying easily through the quiet bakery. Elias ignored it entirely, keeping his attention fixed on her exhausted expression.
“The money is fine right where it is,” he said. “Grab your coat, because the wind chill is plummeting out there and I need to get you upstairs.”
Elias pushed off the case. He turned away from the storefront window, listening to the scraping sounds echoing from the back of the shop.
“Let’s see how the new hire is holding up,” Elias said.
He stepped past the register, his work boots thudding against the linoleum. Marianne kept her hands resting on the edge of the open till. She watched him march directly toward the kitchen doors. Elias reached out and pushed the spring-loaded door ajar. The rusted hinges protested as it gave way.
Elias stopped on the threshold. He planted himself in the narrow gap, blocking the kitchen exit.
“You missed a spot on that cast iron, suit,” Elias said, leaning his weight against the doorjamb.
Through the cracked doorway, Tristan jerked under the harsh light. The rhythmic screeching of the wire brush died. She stood perfectly still, staring straight ahead at the blank wall above the cash register and refusing to turn toward the kitchen.
She did not need to see Tristan’s face to picture the tense set of his shoulders.
“Check out the raw skin on the millionaire,” Elias mocked, his voice booming over the quiet hum of the pastry coolers. “You’d tap out before noon framing a real house with delicate skin like that.”
A tight, ragged exhale hissed from the back room.
“I didn’t come to this town to earn your respect, Elias,” Tristan shot back. His voice was raw, stripped of his usual boardroom detachment. “I’m washing these pans to show my wife I’m serious.”
Marianne curled her fingers over the edge of the till. Her husband was standing fifty feet away, bickering with a tattooed mechanic over a sink full of dirty water. The absurdity of the exchange was infuriating.
In the estate dining room, Winston Hawthorne had degraded her unborn daughter in front of fifty relatives. Eleanor had branded her a desperate social climber. During that ten-thousand-dollar dinner, Tristan had sat still, rubbing his temples and refusing to say a single word in her defense.
He gladly fed his own wife to the wolves to preserve his comfort. Yet the second a local landlord mocked his blistered hands, Tristan miraculously found his voice. He was willing to fight to protect his own bruised ego, but he couldn’t spare a single syllable to protect their baby from his father.
The realization killed any lingering urge she had to look over her shoulder. She gripped the front edge of the cash drawer and pushed it shut. The tray slammed into place, rattling the remaining coins in their cups.
Elias did not break his stance in the doorway. He crossed his arms, staring at Tristan’s ruined shirt.
“Yeah, well, she hasn’t even glanced in your direction the entire shift,” Elias said. “Keep scraping the burnt sugar. Maybe you’ll find a shred of self-respect under all that grime.”
Marianne turned her back on the cracked metal door. She refused to acknowledge the tense silence hanging in the room. Elias remained stationed in the gap, sealing off the kitchen.
She reached beneath the cash register.
“Give me ten seconds to grab my things,” Marianne said.
Her fingers closed over the knit scarf resting on the lower shelf. She pulled it upward, dragging it across the counter. She looped the yarn around her neck, pulling the ends tight to brace against the coastal draft rattling the storefront glass.
She hoisted her purse from the floorboards. The buckles clinked together. She settled the strap over her shoulder, letting the bag bump against her side. Inside, her apartment keys let out a dull jingle.
The noise echoed in the quiet shop.
“Are we still on schedule for tomorrow?” Marianne asked.
She spoke loud enough to guarantee Tristan heard every word through the open door. She smoothed the front of her apron, ignoring the flour staining the fabric.
From the back room, the relentless, grating screech of the wire brush halted.
Clank.
A cast-iron pan hit the basin. A sudden, unbroken silence spread from the sink. Tristan stood frozen fifty feet away, hanging on every syllable she spoke.
Let him listen.
Hearing the former CEO of Hawthorne Holdings bicker with a local landlord over dishwater was surreal.
He let his father tear her apart at a ten-thousand-dollar dinner without saying a word in her defense.
But suddenly he found his voice to protect his own bruised ego?
She refused to turn her head to rescue his pride.
A ruined silk shirt and some raw skin on his palms did not wipe out six months of total abandonment.
Let him hear exactly what a functional partnership sounded like.
“Elias, are you still free to check that radiator in my living room tomorrow?” Marianne called out. She kept her eyes anchored on the front doors. “The pipes are rattling every time the main heating unit kicks on.”
She did not need a Hawthorne concierge fleet or a limitless black card to manage her life anymore. She just asked the guy downstairs to grab a wrench. She was done sitting around a penthouse waiting for Tristan to eventually notice something was broken.
Elias shifted his weight against the doorjamb.
“I’ll bring my toolbox upstairs first thing in the morning,” Elias replied. His baritone carried easily over the pastry coolers. “Right before you head out for your shift. I’m not letting you freeze in that corner unit.”
The dead silence from the kitchen stretched. The hum of the refrigerators filled the quiet shop. Tristan did not make a single sound. He was trapped behind that swinging partition, forced to stand over dirty dishwater and listen to another man promise to keep his wife warm.
Marianne adjusted the strap on her shoulder.
“Thank you,” Marianne said, deliberately projecting her voice over the pastry cases. “I really appreciate you making sure the place is locked down and safe for us.”
Marianne stepped away from the cash register and shoved her weight against the front door. It swung outward, letting the freezing night air pour into the warm shop.
A brutal blast of winter air hit her.
The icy draft whipped the ends of her scarf around her chin and bit into her exposed cheeks. She ducked her head, hunching her shoulders forward as she stepped out onto the frosted concrete. The soles of her boots ground against the rock salt scattered across the pavement.
Elias stepped out right behind her. He pulled the glass door shut, locking the warmth inside the bakery.
“Zip your coat all the way up,” Elias instructed. He tugged his own canvas collar higher against his jaw. “The harbor wind is vicious tonight.”
Marianne zipped her coat up to her chin, burying her mouth in the yarn of her scarf.
“I’m layered up,” Marianne said, her words muffled by the fabric. “Let’s just get out of this wind.”
She lingered on the pavement directly outside the illuminated storefront windows. The warm, yellow light from the bakery spilled across the frozen concrete, casting long shadows ahead of them. She adjusted the leather strap of her purse, deliberately keeping her back turned to the glass.
She did not need to turn around to know Tristan was watching.
He was trapped behind the swinging kitchen partition, peering through the small window. He was staring straight through the illuminated storefront, forced to watch her navigate the freezing neighborhood he despised.
She turned her attention down the dark block.
A few doors down, the hazy amber halo of a streetlight bled onto the pavement. Mr. Carver, the owner of the local grocery store, stood beneath the glowing bulb. He leaned against the security grate covering his storefront, turning a key in the padlock.
The lock clicked shut, securing the shop for the night. Mr. Carver pulled away and spotted Marianne and Elias standing outside the bakery. He raised a gloved hand and shouted over the howling wind.
“Brutal wind tonight, Marianne!” Mr. Carver yelled.
He stepped away from his grate, pointing down the sidewalk toward her walk-up.
“You want me to jog over and toss a layer of rock salt on your stoop so you don’t take a spill?” he offered.
Marianne stood perfectly still on the sidewalk. A bright smile broke across her frozen cheeks. The simple, unprompted offer carried more genuine care than anything Tristan ever gave her during their marriage at the penthouse.
Tristan was staring straight through that bakery glass right now, watching this exact exchange unfold.
Look at this. She locked her eyes on the older man. Look at exactly how this neighborhood operates.
Standing outside the bakery in the freezing wind, she finally felt entirely secure leaving him behind.
This neighborhood had her back, and she wanted him to stand in that kitchen and watch it happen.
Tristan swore this blue-collar life would break her in a week, expecting her to shatter without his billions.
Instead, he had a front-row seat to watch her thrive in the poverty he despised.
“I really appreciate the offer, Mr. Carver,” Marianne yelled back, pitching her voice over a sudden gust. “But Elias laid down a layer of salt on the stairs a few hours ago. Hurry up and get out of this wind.”
Mr. Carver waved a dismissive hand, turning his back to the gale and jogging toward his parked truck.
“Will do, sweetheart,” Mr. Carver called over his shoulder. “Make sure Hazel has two large dark roasts waiting for me by seven o’clock tomorrow morning.”
Mr. Carver turned the corner, his truck disappearing behind a row of parked cars. Marianne moved off the curb and fell into step beside Elias. They marched down the dark street together.
The harbor gale whistled down the narrow alleyways.
Marianne tucked herself tight against Elias’s side, letting him take the brunt of the freezing wind. His canvas jacket brushed against her sleeve with every step. Their boots crunched on the pavement, the sound barely cutting through the gust.
“Just keep moving,” Marianne muttered into her scarf.
For a single, intense second, she desperately wanted to stop walking.
She wanted to turn around. She wanted to see Tristan’s face framed in that illuminated glass.
She wanted to see if the arrogant billionaire actually looked defeated, or if he was already dialing his private security team to drag her back to the city.
She bowed her head against the wind, keeping her eyes fixed on the street ahead.
One glance backward was a fatal trap.
Offering him even a second of attention gave him exactly what he wanted. It meant surrendering the hard-won distance she had sacrificed her old life to create. She refused to hold his hand while he unlearned his entitlement. He had to confront his own arrogance in the cold, alone.
The memory of the executive floor flashed in her mind, sudden and sharp.
“My schedule is entirely booked today, Marianne,” his voice echoed in her head, clipped and dismissive. “Get in the town car and I’ll handle this tonight.”
“I just wanted to drop by,” she had replied, standing in the middle of the empty glass corridor. “We haven’t had a minute together since Sunday.”
That memory was enough to keep her moving forward. She adjusted her pace, hurrying faster down the pavement under the distant amber streetlights.
“Pick up the pace, Elias,” Marianne urged, her breath pluming white in the frigid air. “The temperature is dropping fast, and I just need to get home and bolt the door.”
Elias grunted in agreement, matching her hurried stride. She kept her shoulder tucked against Elias, leaving her husband behind in the illuminated window.