The bakery had always been her anchor. It was the place where she knew exactly who she was. She had built that business from the ground up. She loved her staff fiercely, and she knew they needed her right now, especially with the cake competition looming. Maria had been handling the daily operations, sending brief, reassuring updates through Leo, making sure Olivia knew the business was staying afloat.
But every time Olivia tried to imagine walking through the glass doors, facing her employees, answering the inevitablequestions, and pretending she was not entirely broken inside, her body simply refused to cooperate. Her chest would tighten until she couldn't breathe.
The shame of it was suffocating. She felt like a coward. She did not want to abandon her life's work, but she simply could not force herself back into the world yet.
In the midst of her isolation, Brooklyn had become an unexpected, vital source of comfort.
At first, Olivia had felt awkward about Brooklyn’s presence. But Brooklyn had been nothing but kind.
A few days ago, Olivia had wandered out back and discovered that Brooklyn had set up a small studio in the guest house. She was a sculptor. The space was warm and chaotic, lined with wooden shelves displaying unfinished clay pieces. Specialized tools were neatly arranged next to bowls of cloudy water. The air smelled of wet earth and dust. Delicate, half-formed figures dried near the large windows, while the finished pieces showcased a raw, breathtaking talent.
Brooklyn had tried to teach Olivia how to shape a simple clay bowl. It had been an absolute disaster. Olivia’s piece had collapsed instantly, leaning sideways until it resembled a melted lump rather than a bowl. Brooklyn had laughed—a bright, easy sound that held no cruelty—and to her own shock, Olivia had laughed too. It was the first time she had laughed in weeks. It was a tiny moment, but it mattered deeply.
Olivia felt guilty for taking up Brooklyn’s time. She felt selfish, as if she were stealing Brooklyn from her own work, her own life, and from Leo. But she could not deny that being with her helped.
With Brooklyn, Olivia did not have to explain every agonizing detail. Brooklyn did not look at her like she was made of shattered glass. She did not press for the full story unlessOlivia offered a piece of it first. And somehow, in that studio, breathing felt just a little bit easier.
But even with Brooklyn’s quiet companionship, Olivia could not fully escape the memories.
They came in jagged, intrusive fragments. She did not choose to remember them. They ambushed her while she was brushing her teeth, staring at the ceiling, or drinking a glass of water.
The open bedroom door.
The twisted sheets.
Amanda’s dark hair on the pillows.
The sound of flesh slapping against flesh.
The wet, hitching moans.
The way James had looked at Amanda first.
The way Amanda had looked so satisfied until Olivia slapped her.
The memories were unwanted and invasive, turning her stomach into knots. Being in the studio helped because Brooklyn filled the room with other things—the smell of wet clay, dry humor, soft music, and the strange, vital comfort of someone who did not demand that Olivia be okay.
A few days ago, Olivia finally spoke to her parents.
They were currently traveling through Europe, a trip they had dreamed about for decades, one Olivia had helped fund as an anniversary gift. They had been calling and leaving worried voicemails. When Olivia finally answered, the conversation had been excruciating.
Her parents had heard it in her voice immediately. They asked if she was sick. If James was okay. If something terrible had happened at the bakery.
Olivia told them things were not good between her and James.
She did not tell them the full truth. She simply could not bear to say the words out loud, while they were standing in the middle of a trip they had waited years to experience. She convinced them not to cut their trip short. She swore she was staying somewhere safe and promised she would explain everything the moment they returned.
Her parents had insisted on booking a flight home. Olivia had begged them not to. She reminded them that this was their dream trip, promising that she was alright for now.
When the call ended, Olivia’s heart had raced so fast she felt dizzy. Telling her parents would make the nightmare real in an entirely different way. It meant saying the words out loud:My marriage is over. My husband betrayed me. He humiliated me. He might have destroyed my bakery.
The fear of that conversation stayed with her, a heavy stone in the pit of her stomach.
That afternoon, Brooklyn left for a meeting with a prospective client.
For the first time in days, Olivia was left completely alone in Leo’s main house without anyone gently guiding her toward a distraction. She did not know what to do with herself. She wandered into the kitchen. The room felt too large. Too quiet. Too full of appliances and ingredients she had no clear reason to use.
She opened the large stainless-steel refrigerator and stared at the shelves.
