A pie on the porch steps. Soup dropped off without a knock. Bread wrapped in paper, still warm. People stopped me in town, asked how I was, told me quietly I’d done the right thing.
Val-du-Lys finally saw me without my last name attached.
I pulled on my jacket and headed into town for my evening shift at the bakery. The air smelled like cut grass and warm pavement. I was halfway down Main Street when I saw him.
Nico leaned against the lamppost like he still belonged everywhere.
“Hey, Harmony,” he said, stepping into my path just enough to make me stop. His voice was softer than I remembered. “I heard about your dad.”
“I’m on my way to work,” I said evenly.
“I know.” He lifted his hands slightly. “Just wanted to say I’m sorry. Truly. Critical condition… that’s rough.”
The wordroughscraped.
“Thank you,” I said, because politeness was easier than honesty.
He studied me for a moment, his gaze flicking to my ring and back. A slow smile tugged at his mouth, not warm, not kind.
“Funny thing, though,” he said, “life’s got a sense of irony, doesn’t it?”
I didn’t answer.
“With Olivier out and your father… unavailable,” he continued lightly, “someone had to step in. Guess that someone’s me. New leadership. Same empire.”
The words slid under my skin like ice.
He tilted his head. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? If things had gone differently. If you’d stayed. We could’ve had it all, Princess.”
A shiver crawled up my spine, sharp and unmistakable.
“There’s no version of my life where that happens,” I retorted.
For a second, something dark flickered in his eyes. Then it was gone, replaced with a shrug.
“Still,” he said. “Strange world.”
I stepped around him without another word and kept walking. The bakery windows glowed ahead, warm and real and waiting.
Inside, the air was thick with yeast and sugar. Dough rested under cloth. Ovens hummed. I tied my apron, pressed my hands into the counter, and let the work pull me back into myself.
An hour later, Eric’s truck passed the front window on its way toward the station, his radio clipped at his waist, his focus steady and sure. He was a fireman. I was a baker and we were in love.
I watched him drive off, warmth settling where the chill had been. This was the life we’d chosen—work we loved, a town that knew the truth, and a future that finally felt like ours.
