They think I’m done.
Fine.
If this is a war, I’m not the one who brought money to it.
I brought teeth.
-
The world doesn’t end. That’s the first, most insulting realization.
I expect something. Sirens. Collapse. A body-wide refusal to move. But at 3:45 a.m., my alarm goes off with the same tinny, hateful chime it always uses. My body, traitor that it is, swings out of bed on autopilot before my brain can catch up to the wreckage of last night.
I stand in the dark of my apartment, barefoot on cold linoleum, my chest tight, my eyes burning. I feel scraped hollow. The anger is still there, heavy and cold in my gut, but it is buried under a bone-deep exhaustion that makes everything feel slow and far away.
He brought me coffee.
The thought hits like a fresh bruise. I press my lips together hard, like I can bite it back. I was stupid. Lonely stupid. Hopeful stupid.
I splash water on my face, pull my hair into a bun so tight it makes my temples throb, and put on my uniform. There is no time to fall apart. There never is.
I still have a business to run.
Or…
I had a business to run.
The second I step outside, I know. A white van sits across the street, satellite dish on top like an accusation. A man with a camera straightens the moment he sees me, lifting his thermos like he is toasting.
“Tess! Tess Bennett! TMZ!” he calls, jogging toward me. “Just one question about the Sunrise & Soul deal! Is Leo Ashford as good a baker as he is a businessman?”
I flinch like he has thrown something.
I yank my hood up and keep walking, my heart slamming into my ribs. The camera flash goes off, too bright, too close.
“Is it true he’s franchising?” he shouts. “Are you a millionaire now? Come on, Tess, just one smile. The Billionaire Baker’s partner!”
Partner.
The word makes bile crawl up my throat.
I fumble with my keys at the bakery’s back door, hands shaking so badly it takes three tries to get the right one. I can still hear him talking, narrating my panic like its content. I finally wrench the door open, slam it shut, and throw the deadbolt.
I lean against the wood, chest heaving. My bag slips off my shoulder and hits the floor.
This is his world. This is the world he dragged to my door.
Inside, the bakery is dark and cold and smells wrong. Stale. Old yeast. Trapped air. The warmth, the safety, the quiet hum, it’s gone. It feels less like my kitchen and more like a crime scene.
I flip on the lights. Gwen is already here, sitting on a flour sack like she never went home at all. Her face is pale; shadows carved deep under her eyes. She’s holding the bakery phone, thumb hovering over the power button.
“They’ve been calling since three,” she says flatly. “TMZ. The Chronicle. A food blogger from New York. Eater. They all know. They’re congratulating us. On the… ‘major deal.’”
“He leaked it,” I say. The words taste like poison. “Rex. He leaked it to force me.”
“It’s not just him,” Gwen says. She nods toward my tablet on the counter. “Check the socials.”
My stomach knots, but I do it anyway. I open the bakery’s Instagram.
