I nod, because that’s what she’s waiting for. Then I grab my keys from the counter and force a smile. “I’ve got to head to the bakery before Lucy burns the place down.”
“Tell that girl I still think her hair looks like a cotton candy machine exploded.”
I laugh, genuinely this time. “I’ll pass it along.”
As I head out, I glance once more at the phone still sitting on the counter—quiet, blank, and harmless.
And for the first time all morning, I almost wish it wasn’t.
2
Sienna
A week.
It’s only been a week, and everything already feels different.
Not in a good or bad way, just… different.
The days are quieter now. Mornings start with the same sound of the coffee machine sputtering to life, the faint hum of the fridge, and the muted chatter of morning talk shows echoing through the apartment. There’s no one pacing downstairs on a phone call, no expensive cologne clinging to the air, and no low, commanding voice asking me where I’m going or why.
The silence used to feel like relief.
Now, it feels like static.
I’ve been throwing myself into work to fill the space Benedikt used to take up with long shifts at the bakery, late nights at the new place, and early mornings testing recipes with Lucy until we’re both delirious and sugared out.
The kitchen smells like sugar and yeast and butter. Normal smells that don’t feel so normal.
Not power and danger. Just…comfort.
I keep telling myself that’s what I wanted, and I’m just frustrated that it’s falling flat.
Lucy’s been more excited about the bakery than I have, and I’m grateful because it gives me something else to think about.
Even if she’s non-stop with her random text messages, phone calls, and looking up new ideas on Pinterest rather than working the bakery job that makes us money right now.
“You realize normal people don’t stay after work to test croissant dough, right?” She props herself up on the counter, icing smudged across her cheek. “You’re a psychopath.”
“I’m a baker,” I correct, setting down the rolling pin. “There’s a difference.”
“Barely.” She laughs, picking at the corner of a pastry. “When’s our grand opening again? I’m tired of working for everyone else and not ourselves.”
“Next month, if I don’t screw up the finances.”
She grins. “You won’t. You’ve got that freaky hyperfocus thing going.”
She means it as a compliment, but the words sting a little.
Hyperfocus is just my polite way of saying I’m distracting myself from the wreckage I left behind.
Benedikt’s wreckage and the uplift of my life.
Every night when I lock up, I glance over my shoulder like someone’s following me. Like I’ll find him leaning against the car, his arms folded, and that unreadable look on his face.
But no one is there. Just the quiet hum of the city, the glow of streetlights, and the sound of my heart reminding me of what I chose.
Freedom.
