The window isn't just broken—it's been deliberately destroyed. Someone took something heavy to it, multiple times from the look of the impact points. And beyond the shattered glass, inside the bakery itself, I can see overturned chairs, scattered supplies, flour and sugar spilled across the floor like snow. The pastry display case has been smashed. The menu board I spent hours hand-lettering is in pieces on the ground.
Spray-painted across the back wall, in angry red letters:GO HOME
Home. As if I have one. As if the people who did this have any idea what home means to someone like me.
"Don't go inside," Julian says, appearing beside me. His hand finds my elbow, steadying. "We don't know if whoever did this is still around, and we shouldn't contaminate the scene."
"The scene," I repeat numbly. "Like a crime scene. Because this is a crime."
"Yes." His voice is tight, controlled. The voice of a man who's very angry and very carefully not showing it. "This is absolutely a crime, and we're going to report it."
"But why?" I hear myself asking, even though part of me already knows the answer. "Who would do this? Hazel's bakery has been here for years. She's a pillar of the community. Everyone loves her."
Julian's jaw tightens. "This isn't about Hazel."
No. It's about me.
The realization settles into my stomach like a stone. The Versailles Ball. The newspaper article about the cookie competition. All that visibility, all that public declaration of belonging to a pack, of being claimed, of beinghappy—someone didn't like it. Someone wanted to remind me that I don't get to have nice things. That running away doesn't mean I'm free.
"The ball," I say quietly. "Word must have spread. The city gossips probably couldn't wait to share that the Late Alphas finally have an Omega. And if my family's been looking for me, if my ex-pack is still trying to drag me back?—"
"We don't know it's them," Julian interrupts, but his tone suggests he's already considered the possibility. "I have enemies too. Business rivals, people who'd love to see me humiliated. This could be targeting me through you."
Or it could be exactly what I think it is. A message. A warning. A preview of what's to come if I don't fall in line.
Julian already has his phone out, dialing with quick, precise movements. "Tank. We have a situation." He gives a brief, clinical summary of what we've found, then: "Yes. Call Elias too. I want everyone aware." A pause. "No, she's fine. Shaken, but fine. We weren't inside when it happened—this was done overnight." Another pause. "Understood."
He ends the call and immediately dials again. "Yes, I'd like to report a break-in and vandalism at the Hazel's Hearth & Home Bakery on Main Street. The front window has been smashed, the interior has been damaged, and there's spray paint on the walls." His voice is steady, professional, the voice of a man accustomed to handling crises without emotion getting in the way. "Yes, we'll wait for officers to arrive. Thank you."
He's handling this. He's handling all of it, so I don't have to. So I can stand here and process and try not to fall apart.
I should be doing something. I should be calling Hazel, assessing the damage, making plans. That's what I do—I solve problems, I push forward, I don't let anything stop me. But my feet feel rooted to the sidewalk, my eyes fixed on those angry red letters on the wall.
GO HOME.
I am home, you bastards. This is my home now. These people are my home. And you can smash all the windows you want—you're not taking that from me.
"Rose! Julian!"
I turn to see Ruby hurrying down the sidewalk toward us, her arms full of newspapers and her expression shifting from cheerful to alarmed as she takes in the scene. She's wearing a bright pink coat and those ridiculous heart-shaped earrings from the fair, a stark contrast to the destruction behind me.
"What the hell happened?" She stops a few feet away, staring at the shattered window with wide eyes. "I was just coming to drop off copies of the paper—they ran the front page story about your cookie competition win, and I wanted—" She trails off, finally registering the full extent of the damage. "Oh my god. Rosemarie."
"We got targeted, apparently," I say, and I'm surprised by how steady my voice comes out. Detached, almost. Like I'm describing something that happened to someone else. "Someone decided to express their opinion about... something."
"The police are on their way," Julian adds. "We're not touching anything until they've had a chance to document the scene and look for evidence."
Ruby's face has gone pale beneath her careful makeup. She glances down at the newspapers in her arms, then back up at the bakery, and something like guilt flickers across her features. "Rose... could this be because of..." She holds up one of the papers, showing me the front page.
There we are, in full color above the fold: the four of us at the Valentine's Day Fair, surrounded by our award-winning cookies, medals gleaming. Tank is still shirtless in the photo. Elias is beaming. Julian is almost smiling. And I'm in the center, looking happier than I've ever looked in my entire life.
The headline reads: "LOCAL PACK TAKES HOME GOLD AT COOKIE DECOR WARS."
"If I knew it would cause trouble," Ruby says, her voice small, "I wouldn't have pushed so hard for them to run it on the front page. I just thought—it was such a good story, you know? Small-town romance, chosen family, underdog victory. The editor loved it. But if this is what it brought?—"
I laugh.
It comes out before I can stop it—a genuine, startled laugh that cuts through the tension like a knife. Ruby stares at me like I've lost my mind, which is fair, because laughing in front of a vandalized building is probably not the most rational response.
