12. Under Her Rules
Chapter twelve
Under Her Rules
Icut the SUV engine. The heater died, leaving a ringing silence inside the cabin. Outside the windshield, a coastal wind swept down the gray street, rattling a faded streetlamp on the corner. I sat in the driver's seat for a long moment, my eyes burning from exhaustion.
“Here we go,” I muttered to the empty passenger seat.
I pulled the keys from the ignition and dropped them into my suit pocket. I pushed my door open and stepped onto the curb. The winter draft bit straight through my suit pants. Road salt crunched under my leather shoes.
I ignored the freezing temperature and locked my eyes on the brightly lit storefront across the pavement. The wooden sign swinging above the entrance read The Salty Crumb.
“I just need a visual location by midnight, and I don’t care what it costs,” I had told Vance.
His text with the coastal address had come through just a few hours ago.
I had driven straight here, ignoring the frantic calls from my father that hadn’t stopped since I abandoned the boardroom, desperate to end this agonizing waiting game.
I crossed the icy asphalt and shoved the front door inward.
The entry bell clattered against the glass.
A suffocating wave of heat rolled over my wind-chilled skin, carrying the rich scent of melted butter and yeast. I stood just inside the threshold, letting the door swing shut behind me.
I scanned the crowded room. The space hummed with the loud grind of an espresso machine and the chatter of locals.
Men in construction jackets and winter coats stood in a chaotic line, holding paper coffee cups. This wasn’t a luxury spa retreat or a five-star hotel lobby. It was a drafty, working-class bakery. I shouldered past a man in a neon safety vest, moving toward the front of the shop.
Then I spotted her.
Wren stood behind a long display case filled with pastries. She wore a faded canvas work apron dusted with fine white powder. The straps pulled tight over her pregnant belly. The shock of seeing her in this place froze me. My wife belonged in penthouse suites and private concierge clinics.
Instead, she held a damp rag. She leaned over the display case, scrubbing a smudge of frosting off the glass barrier in front of a line of strangers. She adjusted her stance, wincing slightly from her swollen ankles. She was actually working an hourly shift.
The absurdity of my wife performing manual labor made my chest tighten.
I had assumed she was funding a lavish vacation on her hidden savings, just waiting for me to crack.
Seeing her wipe down a bakery counter shattered that illusion.
I stepped up to the register, cutting off a woman reaching for her wallet.
I ignored the irritated protests behind me. I braced my bare hands against the glass counter to steady myself. I stared at the woman I loved, desperate to bridge the gap between us.
“Wren. Vance’s team texted me the address a few hours ago, and I drove straight here.”
She didn’t drop the rag. She didn’t gasp or widen her eyes in shock. She dragged the damp cloth in a deliberate circle over the glass, right beneath my hands. She lifted her chin and looked at me. Her eyes were blank and unfamiliar.
“Welcome to The Salty Crumb. Are you here to purchase a pastry, or are you just blocking the line?”
Her polite, chilling customer-service tone threw me off balance.
She spoke to me like a stranger taking up too much space in her store.
The multibillion-dollar Sterling deal I had abandoned in the boardroom yesterday meant nothing in this room.
My money and my status offered zero leverage against that dead expression. She was just waiting for my order.
“Stop the act, Wren. We are going home right now, because you shouldn’t be scrubbing glass for an hourly wage. Wren, please. I got the divorce papers, and I walked out of the Sterling closing the second I read them.”
I waited for the shock to register. I had just blown up the biggest deal of my life to find her, and I expected that reality to at least show on her face. I expected her composure to crack, or at least a demand for an explanation.
She didn’t blink. The wet cloth squeaked harshly against the glass as she continued to scrub the same spot. The espresso machine behind her hissed and whirred, drowning out the murmurs of the crowded bakery.
“You don’t need to do this,” I said, watching her scrub the glass. “Just look at me for one second.”
She lifted her head. Her expression was vacant. Screaming or crying would have been manageable. I knew how to handle her temper.
But this hollow, scripted detachment was terrifying. She looked at me the same way she looked at the impatient construction workers waiting for a coffee.
She doesn’t care.
If she were angry, it meant she still cared enough to fight. But the emptiness in her eyes confirmed my worst fear: I had completely lost her. I pressed my palms down harder against the glass display, leaning over the cold counter.
“If you aren’t going to place an order, I’m going to have to ask you to step aside for the paying customers,” she said.
She turned away from me. She looked over her shoulder and called out toward the back of the shop.
“Gemma? I need you up front.”
I recoiled from the dismissal. She actually preferred to call a manager rather than engage with the father of her child. All the corporate power I had abandoned meant nothing here. My authority evaporated under the bright lights of the coastal bakery.
“Don’t treat me like a stranger. I am trying to fix this, so just talk to me.”
The swinging metal doors at the rear of the shop burst outward with a screech.
A blast of heat spilled into the storefront, carrying the bitter scent of scorched sugar and burnt butter.
A woman in denim overalls marched into the storefront.
Flour coated the front of her shirt, and grease stained her forearms. She carried a wooden rolling pin.
She didn’t hesitate or ask for my order. She stepped directly behind the counter, wedging herself between the glass display case and Wren. She slapped the wood against her open palm. She leveled a furious glare at me, taking in the expensive suit.
“You have exactly three seconds to get out of my bakery before I take this rolling pin to your knees, suit,” the woman said. “Leave her alone.”
She meant every word. This stranger was prepared to shatter my kneecaps in front of a dozen witnesses to keep me away from the register. A few men in neon construction vests stepped back toward the brick wall. The chatter in the room completely evaporated.
“Put the wood down,” I said. “I’m not looking for a fight.”
“Then walk out that door before I make you,” the woman said.
I stared at her, my mind running through standard executive negotiation tactics. Dropping my father’s name would just make her swing the pin. Threatening corporate litigation wasn’t going to stop her from using that wood. I looked past her shoulder to find a lifeline.
Wren remained standing near the coffee urns, holding her damp rag. She didn’t step forward to intervene. She didn’t tell her manager to back off. My wife watched the confrontation, letting a stranger fight her battles. I stood just a few feet away, but she wouldn’t even look at me.
“Wren, tell her to put that down,” I said.
Wren didn’t blink. “You heard Gemma. Step aside for the paying customers.”
The dismissal stung. If I let them push me out into the freezing street, she would close the door on me for good.
I lifted my palms from the glass counter and took a calculated step back.
I grabbed the lapels of my jacket. I slipped it off my shoulders, pulling my arms free from the sleeves.
I tossed the jacket over the back of a nearby chair.
Gemma narrowed her eyes. She squeezed the rolling pin tighter, watching my hands.
“I’m not leaving the building,” I said.
“You think taking off a jacket scares me?” Gemma said. “I have two cousins on the local police force. Try me.”
I ignored the threat and reached for my collar. I yanked my tie loose, pulling the fabric free from my neck. I dropped it onto the jacket. I reached to undo my watch.
My fingers slipped against the metal clasp. I fumbled with the tiny latch under Gemma’s glare, finally popping it open. I slid the watch off my wrist and shoved it deep into my pants pocket. I stood in my dress shirt, stripped of the last piece of my corporate armor.
“I’m not leaving without my wife,” I said. “I don’t care what I have to do, just put me to work.”
Gemma stared at my bare wrists. She glanced at the discarded jacket and tie resting on the chair. She lowered the pin, tilting her head to assess me. She looked back over her shoulder at Wren. They exchanged a silent look.
I waited in the tense storefront. A bakery manager currently held more authority over my life than the entire board of Kensington Holdings. In this room, my bank accounts were entirely useless. Physical labor was the only currency she accepted. I was desperate to pay the toll.
“You want to work?” Gemma said. “Fine, get in the back and scrub the grease traps.”
She raised the rolling pin again and pointed the blunt tip toward the kitchen.
“But if you speak one word to Wren, you’re out on the street,” she said.
I nodded. Submitting to her rules was a small price to pay to remain under the same roof as my wife. I turned my back on the register and walked toward the kitchen.
I pushed through the doors, abandoning the bright storefront. The back kitchen was a narrow, industrial corridor dominated by commercial ovens. A stifling blast of heat hit my face. The sweet scent of baked goods vanished, replaced by the foul stench of rotting grease and sour milk.
I walked to the deep dish pit at the end of the aisle. The basin was filled to the brim with murky, scalding water. Thick chunks of burnt sugar and coagulated fat floated on the surface.
“Let’s get this over with,” I muttered.