Holding onto pieces of a man who had never really existed. A man who had looked at her like she was everything while systematically destroying her world.
And yet...
Her hand drifted to the jar of paprika again.
Some things weren't so easy to let go of.
Some memories lived in the smallest details—in spice jars and coffee mugs and the way her apartment still felt like it was waiting for him to come home.
Hannah set her half-eaten dinner aside, suddenly not hungry.
The silence pressed in again, broken only by the distant sound of sirens fading into the night.
She should clear his things out.
Should reclaim her space.
Should stop cooking for two.
But she didn't.
Instead, she wrapped the extra portion of chicken in foil, tucking it into the fridge out of habit.
Just in case.
Even though she knew he wasn't coming back.
Even though she didn't want him to.
Even though her heart didn't quite believe either of those things.
CHAPTER 28
Hannah
Hannah's pencilmoved steadily across the ledger, each number precise and clean. The bakery was dark except for her desk lamp, casting everything in pools of shadow and warm light. She'd always loved Sugar & Spice at night—the quiet hum of the refrigerators, the lingering scent of the day's baking, the peace of being alone with her grandmother's old accounting books.
Except she wasn't really alone.
She didn't need to look up to know Michael Harrison was watching from his pharmacy window. His presence felt like ice against her skin, a constant reminder of everything her father had stolen from his family.
And across the street...
Jake.
Her body knew he was there before her mind did—some primal part of her that still recognized safety in his presence, even after everything. His truck was parked in the shadows, far enough away to be unobtrusive, close enough to make her pulse skip.
Her hand tightened on the pencil.
It wasn't fair.
It wasn't fair that her body still trusted him. Still felt safer knowing he was watching. Still remembered how his arms felt like home, how his voice could calm her racing thoughts, how he'd made her feel protected even while he was systematically destroying her world.
The numbers blurred slightly. Hannah blinked hard, refocusing on the ledger.
Revenue was down, but expenses were steady. She'd always been good at this part—the mathematics of running a business, the clean logic of debits and credits. Her grandmother had taught her well:"The numbers don't lie, sweetheart. They tell the story of your business, plain as day."
Her fingers brushed against a stack of old order forms as she reached for her calculator. They spilled across the desk—wedding cakes, birthday parties, monthly standing orders that had vanished overnight.
