Page 99 of Frosted Fakes

Julia was behind the counter, trying to work out whether she could pass off yesterday's croissants as "rustic" when the bell above the door jingled and Candice Green strode in.

"Good morning, everyone!" Candice announced to the mostly empty shop. Mrs. Monmouth was looking at the doubtful croissants. A young couple by the window was obviously trying to leave both without offending Julia and without buying anything. Tom froze halfway through restocking paper bags. "I have something terribly important to share!"

Julia's stomach dropped. What was Candice up to now? "Candice…"

"Did you all know," Candice continued, pulling out her phone with theatrical flourish, "that this woman is a complete and utter fraud?"

The shop went very quiet.

"All of it’s posted online. Screenshots, testimonies, the works." Candice's smile was razor-sharp. "Elliott Sinclair did all the baking here. Every single item. Julia Richardson can't bake to save her life. She's only here because her famous mummy bought her this place. And their relationship? Perfect little Elliott and Julia?" She let out a high, brittle laugh. "Completely fake. All of it. A lie from start to finish."

Julia felt the blood drain from her face. This was it. The moment she'd been dreading since the day she'd blurted out that ridiculous lie about Elliott being her girlfriend. The moment everything fell apart. She braced herself for the gasps, the accusations, the cold shoulders. Braced herself for Oakhaven to finally see what she really was: a fraud, a failure, a people-pleasing disaster who couldn't even make toast without setting something on fire.

Mrs. Monmouth gave a sniff. "As if we didn’t already know," she said.

Candice's triumphant expression flickered. "You… what?"

"I've known for weeks, dear. Anyone with eyes could see Elliott was the baker." Mrs. Patterson picked her teacup back up. "That girl has flour permanently embedded in her fingernails. Julia here could barely even work the till properly for the first month."

"But… the deception…"

"What deception?" The young man by the window shrugged. "Julia always remembered my girlfriend was lactose intolerant. Made sure we knew which pastries to avoid. That's not nothing."

"She helped me pick out a birthday cake for my mum," his girlfriend added. "Spent twenty minutes making sure it was perfect. I don't care who actually made it."

Julia stood frozen behind the counter, her mouth hanging open in a way that was almost certainly unflattering.

"Their relationship is fake," Candice pressed, her voice climbing. "They lied to everyone!"

"None of my business," Mrs. Monmouth said firmly. "Never was."

More customers had filtered in, word traveled fast in Oakhaven, and they were all nodding. Someone Julia vaguely recognized from the post office gave her a sympathetic smile. Jamie appeared in the doorway, took one look at the situation, and immediately positioned himself between Julia and Candice like a very tall, very handsome shield.

"Think you've made your point, Candice," he said mildly.

"But she… they…" Candice looked around the room, her carefully orchestrated exposure crumbling around her. "You're all just going to let them get away with it?"

"Get away with what, exactly?" An elderly man Julia didn't recognize had appeared from nowhere. "Making good pastries and being friendly? Lock them up, clearly."

A ripple of laughter went through the shop.

Candice's face had gone an alarming shade of puce. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again, and then stormed out with a slam that made the windows rattle.

The silence that followed lasted approximately three seconds.

"Well," Jamie said cheerfully. "That was dramatic. Anyone want some tea?"

And just like that, the shop returned to normal. People went back to their conversations. Mrs. Patterson asked if there were any scones left. Someone mentioned the weather.

Julia stood behind the counter, still processing.

They knew. They'd known. And they just… didn't care.

All those months of anxiety, of lying awake at night terrified of this exact moment, of building the consequences up in her head until they'd become this enormous, insurmountable disaster, and the reality was Mrs. Monmouth shrugging and asking about scones.

The truth hadn't destroyed everything.

The truth had been met with kindness, understanding, and a vague request for baked goods.