Chapter 4

ETHAN:

By the time I left the park, my coffee had gone lukewarm, but I kept drinking it anyway. It gave me something to do with my hands as I walked back through the neighborhood, blending into the quiet rhythm of people going about their morning. A couple debated which direction to take their dog, neither of them particularly invested in winning. A teenager nearly wiped out on his skateboard and laughed it off while his friends shouted commentary from the curb.

No one paid me any attention. After the past week, that still felt surreal.

My pace slowed as I crossed the street, my attention drifting back toward the bakery without much effort. North and Rye. It wasn’t flashy, just a clean sign and a steady stream of customers, but it had already carved out space in my head.

I replayed the interaction as I walked, trying to understand why it had stuck with me. She had recognized me. I was certain of that now. There had been a flicker when she turned around, a brief pause that most people would have missed, but I had spent the last week reading reactions like they were warnings. She had seen me, processed it, and then decided it didn’t matter.

Morning.

That was all she’d said before asking what I wanted. No curiosity, no awkward politeness, no shift in tone. Just normal.

It shouldn’t have stood out as much as it did, but it followed me all the way back to the apartment.

The townhouse sat halfway down the street, quiet and forgettable in the best way. Mark had insisted on something like this, somewhere people minded their business and didn’t ask questions. He’d been right. It was exactly what I needed, even if the silence inside felt heavier than I’d expected.

I unlocked the door and stepped in, setting the cinnamon roll on the counter without touching it. The place still felt temporary, like I hadn’t decided whether I was staying or just passing through. My phone came out of my pocket before I’d even taken off my jacket.

Five missed calls. None from Olivia.

I ignored the messages from my mother and Mark and called her again. It rang out. I tried a second time, pacing the length of the kitchen as if movement might change the outcome. It didn’t. By the third call, irritation had settled in, sharp enough to make me press my hand against the counter just to steady myself.

“Come on,” I muttered, more out of habit than expectation.

When she didn’t answer again, I left a voicemail, keeping it short because anything longer would have turned into something I couldn’t take back.

“Liv, please. Just talk to me. I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”

I ended the call and dropped the phone onto the counter, the quiet settling back in immediately.

Then it rang.

Olivia.

I picked it up before the first ring finished. “Liv.”

“You’ve been busy.”

Her voice was calm, almost conversational, like we were catching up instead of standing on opposite sides of something that had already gone too far.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked, skipping anything that resembled small talk.

A soft laugh came through the line. “I should be asking you that.”

“I’ve called you twenty times.”

“I noticed.”

“You know none of this is true.”

There was a brief pause, just long enough to suggest she was choosing her next move. “How’s hiding going?” she asked lightly.

I pushed away from the counter and started pacing again. “I’m not hiding.”

“No?”

“You know exactly why I’m here.”

“I know you’re finally facing consequences.”

I stopped mid-step. “Consequences for what, Olivia? For loving you?”

“You wasted three years of my life.”

The accusation landed flat, like something she’d practiced until it sounded convincing. “No,” I said, sharper than I intended. “I didn’t waste anything.”

“You promised me a future.”

“I promised honesty.”

The words came faster now, pulled from conversations we’d never finished. “I loved you. I did everything I could to make you happy. I flew across countries because you wanted to travel. I skipped training camps to be with you. I missed birthdays with my family because yours mattered to you.”

“You still wouldn’t marry me.”

“I wasn’t ready.”

“You never would’ve been.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

I stopped again, staring at the far wall as if it might offer something useful. “No, you don’t,” I said, quieter this time. “I wasn’t going to ask you to spend the rest of your life with me until I knew I could give you something real. Something that wouldn’t fall apart the second things got hard.”

“A convenient excuse.”

“It wasn’t an excuse.”

“It felt like one.”

I let out a short breath, something between a laugh and disbelief, because suddenly the pattern was impossible to ignore. “What did you ever love about me?” I asked.

She didn’t answer.

“I mean it. What was it?”

Silence stretched long enough to confirm what I already suspected.

“Was it me?” I pressed. “Or was it everything that came with me?”

Nothing.

“The houses. The trips. The events. The interviews. My last name.” I tightened my grip on the phone. “You loved being Ethan Brooks’ girlfriend. I don’t think you ever loved Ethan.”

When she finally spoke, her voice had lost whatever softness it once held. “You should’ve married me.”

I exhaled slowly, the last piece clicking into place. “So that’s what this is?”

“You took everything from me.”

“I ended a relationship.”

“You took my future.”

“No, Olivia. I refused to lie to you.”

There was a brief pause, and then she said something that cut through everything else.

“You know how to make this disappear.”

I went still. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“What does that even mean?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

The line went dead.

I stood there for a moment, phone still in my hand, waiting for something to follow. Nothing did. Whatever version of this conversation I’d been hoping for had ended the second she picked up.

I set the phone down and switched it to silent. There was nothing left to say. No version of this where I convinced her to stop. From here on out, it was lawyers and statements and whatever came next.

The screen lit up again anyway.

A text from Olivia.

I opened it before I could stop myself.

“Thanks for calling. The media will love hearing you tried to contact your victim.”

I stared at the message, then at the call log sitting right above it. Four missed calls. One answered. Exactly what she needed.

Something hot moved through my chest, fast and useless. Not surprise. I should have expected it. I set the phone face down on the counter and stood there a moment, waiting for the anger to go somewhere. It didn’t.

Being here wasn’t running. It was the only place where I wasn’t constantly reacting to something I couldn’t control.

I moved to the window, resting my hands on the sill as I looked out over the quiet street. I couldn’t see North and Rye from here, but I knew it was close. Close enough that I could walk there without thinking about it.

For the first time since I arrived, I had something resembling a plan that didn’t involve damage control or legal strategy.

Tomorrow morning, I was going back to the bakery.