I laughed, hollow and sharp. “What family are you talking about?” I gestured around us. “This is your family now. I will never be part of it. You replaced us. You have two stepsons to fill Jacob’s place, a young wife, a perfect home. Give it a year or two and maybe you will have a daughter to replace me too.”
His face drained of color. He was clearly stunned by my outburst, but I did not care. I had carried this poison long enough.
“Please, Bailey,” he said. “Do not blame Amelie or the boys. She saved me when I was drowning in guilt after your mother left. When she died, I was destroyed. I drank myself into nothing. If I could turn back time, I would fix everything. I would beg your mother to forgive me.”
“You are too late,” I snapped. “You should have fixed it before you let the divorce tear us apart.” My voice shook with anger. “Where were you when I was accused? When I was labeled trash? I needed you. Even if you were not married to Mom anymore, you were still my father, and you failed me too.”
“Mark? Is everything okay?”
His wife’s voice interrupted us from the porch. He turned and gave her a small wave. I looked up and saw her standing there, worry written across her delicate face. She was beautiful, young, soft, radiant, dressed in white like some angel he once promised my mother he would grow old with.
I had had enough.
“It does not matter,” I said coldly. “You have moved on. Goodbye, Dad.”
“Bailey, wait. We are not finished,” he pleaded.
But I was already walking away.
That was when I noticed it, a small, carefully tended garden tucked beside the house. My steps faltered.
White roses.
My mother’s favorite.
Rage crashed through me like a tidal wave. I spun around, my vision burning red. He would not meet my eyes, guilt written all over his face.
“How dare you,” I hissed. “Tell me, do you pick those flowers for your new wife every Sunday too? Do you tell her how much you love her?”
We both knew how deeply my mother adored white roses. That was why, on their wedding day, she ordered hundreds of them, filling the space with her favorite flower as if it were a promise. Later, my father built a modest garden behind our old house just for her, a place she tended almost every day with quiet devotion.
It became their ritual. Every Sunday morning, before my mother even woke up, my father would pick a few white roses and placethem gently beside her on the bed. When she opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was her favorite bloom. It always brought a smile to her face, always brightened her day.
That was how he showed his love for her, faithfully and tenderly, until the day their only son, died and everything they were shattered beyond repair.
“Bailey—”
“Those roses were Mom’s memory,” I screamed, tears blurring my sight. “I hate you.”
I did not look back this time. I walked away for good.
Chapter 8
I drove like a maniac, my foot heavy on the gas. By some miracle, the roads were empty until I reached the main street. My mind felt like it was unraveling, sanity slipping through my fingers. All I wanted was to get back to my apartment, wrap my arms around my little boy, and breathe again. He was my safe haven—my reason to keep going when everything else collapsed.
The bakery no longer mattered. I shouldn’t have considered keeping it in the first place. That was a mistake, and I needed to fix it immediately.
I pulled up in front of a five-story building owned by one of the most powerful families in town—the Millers. Generations of wealth and influence were stamped into every polished surface. The building had clearly been renovated, blending sleek modern architecture with old money arrogance. I wouldn’t be surprised if they owned the entire block by now.
With a single-minded mission, I jumped out of the car and stormed inside to face the devil himself. But apparently, meeting the devil was just as difficult as requesting an audience with a king.
“Is he in or not?” I snapped at the front desk assistant. “It’s a simple question and no, I don’t have an appointment.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Carter,” she replied calmly, “but I can’t disclose that information. Mr. Miller doesn’t accept walk-ins. You can leave your name and contact number, and we’ll get back to you in a few days.”
Normally, I would’ve nodded politely and walked away. Not today. She’d picked the wrong day to stand between me and my breaking point.
I slammed my palm down on the desk, hard enough to rattle her computer. “Look, whatever your name is—I don’t have time to wait for some pointless callback when you can simply pick up the phone and tell him I’m here.”
