It’s a bloodbath.
The same accounts that were posting heart emojis two days ago are tearing each other apart in the comments.
OMG, she sold out. I KNEW IT
#SunriseAndSoulless
Ashford is a vulture
She played him for money
No, he saved her brand
Cancel Ashford
They’re fighting over me. Over my life. Over something they’ve flattened into a hashtag.
“They think I was in on it,” I whisper. “They think I’m a gold digger.”
“And the other half think he’s Satan,” Gwen mutters. “It’s a full PR spiral. His name’s trending. Ours too.”
The back phone rings. Sharp. Violent. Caller ID: ASHFORD VENTURES.
I rip the cord out of the wall.
“No.”
I turn to the workbench and grab a fifty-pound bag of flour, hauling it up onto the steel with a grunt. The thud is the first thing that’s felt good all morning.
“What are you doing?” Gwen asks.
“I’m baking,” I say, ripping the bag open. Flour explodes into the air, dusting my clothes, my hair, my face. “They don’t get to take this. He doesn’t get to take this.”
I start working, but it’s wrong. My hands are too rough. Too fast. I’m angry, and the dough knows it. I’m punching it, tearing it, trying to break it before it can break me.
You don’t get to make my choices.
You branded my soul.
A hot tear drops off my chin and lands in the dough.
I freeze.
The spot where it falls darkens instantly. A stain. A contamination.
“I can’t,” I whisper. “Gwen… I can’t. He broke it. He broke my hands.”
“No,” Gwen says fiercely, stepping in close. She puts her hands over mine, steady, solid. “No, he didn’t. He’s not magic. He’s just a stupid, rich himbo who made a catastrophic mistake. You are Sunrise & Salt. Not him.”
She presses my hands back into the dough. “Breathe. Slow. He doesn’t get to win. Not here.”
I inhale. Shudder. Nod.
I start again. Slower. Feeling the flour. The water. The weight of it.
The front bell jingles.
We both freeze.
