"Then I'll take them all.” Grace pulled out her wallet. "And a coffee. Black."
Hannah's hands were steady as she boxed the pastries. "Are you sure? That is?—"
"One for now, the rest for my classroom." Grace met her eyes steadily. "The kids always get hungry around mid-morning.”
Hannah rang up the order, watching this stranger—this woman who owed her nothing—count out exact change. No plain bag requested. No hurried glances toward the window to see if anyone was watching. Just calm, deliberate support.
"Thank you," Hannah whispered.
Grace accepted the bag and her coffee. At the door, she paused. "My family has a... reputation in this town." Her voice was matter-of-fact. "Nothing like what you're going through, but I understand what it's like when people decide who you are before you open your mouth."
Hannah's chest ached.
“I bet the pastries are delicious," Grace continued. "Same as they were last month, same as they'll be next month. Some things don't change just because people's opinions do."
Then she was gone, the bell chiming softly in her wake.
Hannah stood frozen behind the counter, Grace's words echoing in her head.
This stranger—this woman she'd never even spoken to before—had shown up for her. Had walked through that door knowing exactly what it would look like, exactly what people might say, and hadn't cared.
While Jake, the man who'd held her, who'd whispered promises against her skin, who'd said he'd fix anything—he was nowhere.
While her regulars, her friends, people she'd served for years—they crossed the street.
But Grace Hart, with her quiet strength and her own family's stained reputation, had simply walked in and bought a Danish.
The back alley of Sugar& Spice had always been Hannah's quiet space—where she took breaks between batches, where she could breathe in the morning air before dawn baking. Now, carrying trash to the dumpster, she stopped dead.
Red spray paint gleamed wet against the brick wall:THIEF
The garbage bag slipped from her numb fingers. Coffee grounds and eggshells spilled across the pavement, but Hannah couldn't look away from those stark red letters. They seemed to pulse in the morning light, ugly and raw against the warm brick hergrandmother had pointed to with such pride when she'd first opened the bakery.
"Quite a show you Everetts put on."
The voice made her spin around. Michael Harrison stood at the mouth of the alley, his hands tucked into the pockets of his suit.
She remembered him just last week—standing in her bakery, that warm Harrison smile as he'd talked about expanding the pharmacy. He'd ordered his usual coffee, told her how lucky she was to have such a brilliant father.
That warmth was gone now. His eyes were hard as he looked at her, then at the graffiti.
"I'm losing the pharmacy. Did you know that?"
"Michael." Her voice came out steady, surprising her. "I'm so sorry about?—"
"Sorry?" His laugh was sharp enough to cut. "You're sorry now that everyone knows? Now that you can't keep pretending?"
Hannah's spine stiffened. "I didn't?—"
"Don't." He took a step into the alley. "Don't you dare say you didn't know." Another step. "Your father sat across from me three days ago, promising everything was fine. That the investment was secure. That the pharmacy expansion was still on track." His voice cracked. "And you were there, Hannah. You were right there, pouring coffee, taking notes."
The wall was cold against Hannah's back. She hadn't realized she was retreating until she hit brick.
"You had to know," he continued, each word precise and cutting. "The way money moved through this place. The paperwork yousigned. The meetings you sat in on. What did you think was happening?"
"I thought he was helping people," Hannah whispered. "He was always helping people?—"
"Helping?" All the emotion drained from his voice. "Is that what you call it? My mother's retirement fund. My sister's college savings. The loan for the pharmacy expansion—all gone. And you expect me to believe you just served coffee and smiled and never questioned where all that money came from?"
