Her hands went cold.
And then she saw the line that made her feel physically sick.
Co-owner: Jenna.
Becca stared at the screen, pulse roaring in her ears.
No.
This wasn’t coincidence.
This was calculated.
He wasn’t just trying to hurt her. He was trying to take everything—the shop she built from nothing, the name she earned, the years of blood, sweat, and sacrifice poured into those walls.
Izzy had been an okay artist at best. A face. Charisma. Flash. Never substance. Never soul. He rode trends, rode attention—but he was never an artist.
So why?
Why work this hard to destroy her?
The lies.
The cheating.
The rumors.
Now this.
Becca leaned back against the seat, eyes stinging, chest tight.
What did I ever do to deserve this level of disgust?
This kind of betrayal?
Her mind kept circling one last question she couldn’t shake:
What does Izzy actually want from me?
And why did it suddenly feel like the answer was far more dangerous than she realized?
Becca locked her phone and set it face down on the passenger seat.
Tomorrow.
She didn’t have the energy to deal with Izzy tonight—not the email, not the offer, not the questions stacking up in her chest. If she called him now, she knew how it would go. Half-truths. Deflection. Silence wrapped in excuses.
The market parking lot was busy, lights buzzing overhead, people moving with purpose. Normal life. Sheneeded normal.
Inside, she grabbed whatever her kitchen had been missing—produce, something frozen, coffee she didn’t remember running out of. Stress shopping, she thought bitterly. When she finally pushed the cart back outside, the cold air hit her face like a reset.
And then she saw Cassie.
Loading groceries into her trunk. Laughing at her phone. Casual.
Becca slowed.
She had no interest in fake concern or shallow conversation. Not after the club. Not after waking up alone and realizing no one had bothered to check if she was okay. No text. No call. Nothing.
