“Leo, I want to know if you understand why what you did was unforgivable,” I say. My voice is quiet, but it doesn’t shake. “And I want to know if you can stop trying to be the hero long enough to let me decide what happens to my life.”
He nods once. Slow. “Ok.”
I wait.
He takes another breath. “What I did was unforgivable because I treated your dream like an asset,” he says. “Like something that could be acquired. Controlled. Optimized.” His jaw tightens. “I used your trust as information. I took something sacred and turned it into leverage.”
My stomach twists. The words are accurate. Too accurate.
“And,” he continues, his voice rougher now, “I did it because I wanted to feel like I earned something, and I panicked when you didn’t accept the version of help I know how to give.” He swallows. “So, I did the worst thing possible. I tried to force you.”
My chest aches, a dull bruise. “You did.”
He nods. “Yes.”
I watch him carefully. Waiting for the pivot. Waiting for the but. Waiting for the way men like him always try to soften their guilt by dressing it up as an explanation.
He doesn’t.
“I burned the LOI,” he says. “I terminated it. My lawyers sent Rex Chen a formal notice. There’s no Sunrise & Soul deal. There’s no franchise pipeline. There’s no exclusivity.”
I don’t let my face change. “I saw.”
He nods again. “Good.”
A beat. He looks like he wants to say something, then stops himself.
I tilt my head. “Say it.”
His eyes lift to mine. “I don’t deserve credit for that.”
My breath catches, just a little.
He continues anyway. “That was the minimum. That was me stopping the bleeding I caused.” He exhales. “And it didn’t fix what I did. It doesn’t undo it.”
The crowd surges behind us. Laughter. Music. A dog barking. A child drops a balloon and starts to cry. The world keeps moving.
My life keeps moving. I hate that I’m still standing here, talking to him like this is normal.
“So, what’s the plan?” I ask. “What is it that you want to present?”
He hesitates and looks at my face.
“Can I ask you something first?”
I narrow my eyes. “Sure.”
“I want to ask because it matters for whatever happens next.” He pauses. “Do you want me to stay away completely? From you. From the bakery. From everything. If that’s what you want, say it, and I’ll do it.”
The question makes something inside me go very still. Because it would be so easy. So clean. Say yes. Cut him off. Protect myself. And part of me wants that. Badly.
But another part of me, the part that watched him learn dough, the part that felt his hands stop taking and start asking, the part that hates itself for being moved by him crying on camera, wants to know if he can actually become someone different.
I don’t forgive him.
But I also don’t want to lie.
“I want you away from my bakery right now,” I say carefully.
