1. Chapter 1
Chapter one
Lina
My dreams of him are never exact memories. They’re something far worse.
Fragments of the past stitched together by fear. Moments that did happen, tangled with moments that could have happened. The details are never quite right, but the feelings always are.
I’m back in our old house—the one with the giant fireplace and dark, beige-colored walls that always felt like they were closing in. Cole is sitting on the couch watching me. I’m folding laundry, feverish and exhausted, and he’s picking apart everything I do.
Why are you still sick? You could at least take a shower. Are you going to be like this all-fucking day?
It’s the tone. The sneer. The way I believe I’ve done something wrong simply by existing.
Cole gets up and walks over to me. “I’m talking to you. Quit fucking ignoring me.”
“I’m tired, Cole. I don’t feel well. I need to rest.” I press a hand to my forehead, wincing at the heat radiating from my skin.
He’s been drinking, and his anger is much worse when he’s drunk.
“Quit being a fucking baby. Jesus. Get up and do something, and you’ll stop feeling sick. I’m fucking hungry,” he says, taking another sip of his beer.
The old version of me would have dragged myself into the kitchen. I would have ignored the fever, ignored the exhaustion, and convinced myself that keeping him happy was somehow my responsibility. Still, over time, something inside me started to change.
“Order something. Or go pick something up. I’m not cooking tonight. I feel like crap, Cole. I need rest,” I tell him.
“I’m not ordering anything. You can cook something,” he says, agitated.
I turn away from him, closing my eyes, trying to find patience. I push to my feet and head toward the bedroom.
Cole stands and follows. “Don’t fucking ignore me. I said I’m hungry.”
“Then feed yourself, Cole, and leave me alone.” I walk in haste now.
The words are barely out of my mouth before I realize my mistake.
I reach the room and sense the quiet calm, the stillness that comes right before a storm breaks.
A muscle jumps in his jaw. His eyes lock on mine, cold and unreadable. Then the dam bursts. Rage consumes every feature. I brace before he ever moves.
Cole grabs the lamp from the nightstand and hurls it across the room. It explodes against the wall beside me. Glass rains down around me as I instinctively crouch, throwing my arms over my head.
The sound rings through the room. Then comes the next crash. And the next.
Picture frames rip from the wall as Cole swipes them off one after another. Glass shatters and family photos scatter like confetti beneath his feet.
My heartbeat hammers against my ribs, each thud bruising from the inside. Fury. Humiliation. Terror. They collide until I can’t tell where one ends and the next begins.
For years, this was how it began.
Not with fists. With warning shots.
A shattered plate. A hole in the wall. A lamp hurled across the room. Every act carefully chosen to answer the same question before I ever asked it: See what I’m capable of?
The walls seem to inch closer with every breath.
Then he faces me. And in that instant, I’m eighteen again, and the anger seeping from him takes my breath away.
As he marches in my direction, I brace myself for what comes next.
I jerk awake, dragging in a breath that never seems to reach my lungs. My heart hammers against my ribs, each violent beat rattling my bones, threatening to split me open from the inside.
For a few disorienting seconds, I’m unsure of my surroundings.
The dream clings to me like a second skin. I’m still there. Still trapped in that house, waiting for the sound of breaking glass. Still bracing for the man I once loved to become someone I feared.
It takes several breaths before the surrounding darkness begins to take shape and reality gradually settles back into place.
I can smell the faint scent of floral detergent on my sheets, and the sound of the ceiling fan thrumming fast above me. It’s my little sanctuary.
Not his home. Not his rules.
Rest never comes easily. Even on my best days, sleep feels like something I borrow, not something I own.
Even after years apart, Cole still finds me in my sleep. Unfortunately, my subconscious hasn’t gotten the memo that I’m divorced.
My alarm explodes beside me, shattering the fragile calm. I rub my eyes and draw in a slow breath.
Three a.m. wake-ups are not for the weak.
My whole body feels weighted down. My limbs are heavy, my head thick with exhaustion. Sitting upright feels like a chore.
The nightmares are only part of it. The fatigue, however, burrows into your bones and refuses to leave.
A late-night gym session followed by several hours of reading a spicy romance novel until midnight seemed like a good idea at the time. This morning, my exhausted body strongly disagrees.
Still, it did manage to distract me from the train wreck of a date I’d endured earlier yesterday evening, so I can’t call it a total loss.
I roll over and silence the alarm on my phone. The shrill—treacherous sound feels less like a wake-up call and more like a personal attack.
I’m irritated by the alarm, but far more irritated with myself.
Why do I do this? Why do I convince myself every single night that I’ll only read a few pages before bed?
It’s a lie. A blatant lie.
Five pages somehow become ten chapters. One chapter becomes one more chapter. Then suddenly it’s midnight, my eyes burn, and I’m emotionally invested in fictional people making terrible decisions.
Every. Single. Time.
Running a bakery, bookshop, and cafe gives you unlimited access to temptation.
We only sell fiction, and I don’t have any regrets or reservations about that decision.
Nonfiction gives you information, but fiction gives you experience.
Fictional stories take you to another place.
They allow you to experience emotions you were unaware you lacked.
They ask dangerous questions—about desire, fear, morality—and don’t always give neat answers in return.
Last night, my escape took an interesting sharp turn, literally.
I found myself deep in a story featuring a masked stalker, who at one point stabs a knife into a woman’s mattress and says, “I want to watch you ride it.”
Like, excuse the-hell-out-of-me?! It was so ridiculous—and wild—yet intriguing. The thought hijacked my brain. The kind of line you read once…and reread to be sure you didn’t hallucinate it.
Naturally, my mind skipped past the romance and dove straight into logistics.
Wouldn’t that hurt? Or at least be wildly uncomfortable? How would one maneuver it? Following that, the more unsettling question arose: is this disturbing, or is it somehow hot? And if it’s hot, what did that say about me?
After I closed the book, I was wide awake, trapped in a spiral of moral confusion and unwanted self-reflection. I eventually accepted the truth. Yes, I found it very fucking hot.
I was also left wondering whether this is something I should casually mention to my therapist at our next session or quietly pretend never happened.
That, of course, is the power of fiction.
I drag myself out of bed and head for the shower. Thankfully, the shop is only minutes away.
By the time the water has worked the sleep from my bones, I’m dressed in my usual Enchanted Nook T-shirt and black workout pants.
I quickly blow-dry my hair and rapidly run my straightener through it. Next, I put on my hideous but oh-so-comfortable chef Crocs.
When you’re standing all day like I am, there’s no point in considering wearing cute shoes. You have to be far more practical.
I grab my makeup bag, Stanley, purse, and my iPad loaded with new recipe ideas, and step outside.
The morning air is cool as I load everything into the car and climb into my Ford Bronco, a maneuver that, at five-foot-two, requires a small hop and a bit of determination.
The blue Bronco was a gift to myself after we crossed one million dollars in sales only four months after opening our doors.
I’d wanted a Bronco for years. This one represented more than a vehicle. It represented everything I’d built after my life fell apart.
I pull my phone from my purse and regret it the second I do.
Twenty-three unread text messages. Six missed calls. Four voicemails.
All from Cole.