Chapter 8

Ethan:

By the time I got back to the apartment, I already knew I wasn’t staying. I dropped my keys on the counter, shrugged off my jacket, and stood there long enough to realise silence doesn’t actually help when you need it to. It just waits.

Emma’s face kept cutting through everything else. The steady image of her behind the counter at North & Rye, moving through chaos like it was part of the job description. Phones ringing, reviews piling up faster than she could delete them, customers she didn’t have time to look at properly. She hadn’t broken. She hadn’t even slowed down. She’d just kept going because there wasn’t a version of the day where she didn’t.

Twenty minutes later I was back in my car.

North & Rye was already winding down when I pulled onto the street. The warm light spilling through the front windows made the place look softer than it probably felt inside, like it was trying to convince the world it hadn’t been under siege all day. A customer stepped out with a paper bag, saw me, and immediately picked up his pace like I might change his evening just by existing in it. Inside, chairs were already flipped onto tables, the room halfway between service and shutdown.

Christine was at the counter locking the display case. She looked up when I came in, hesitation flickering across her face before she just nodded toward the back like she’d already decided she didn’t have the energy to question anything anymore.

“She’s in the kitchen.”

“Thanks.”

The kitchen door was open. Emma stood with her back to me, wiping down the worktop in slow, repetitive strokes that didn’t look like cleaning so much as something to keep her hands busy. Flour clung to one sleeve of her jumper, and a loose strand of hair had escaped her tie. The whole place smelled like sugar and exhaustion.

I knocked lightly on the frame.

She turned, and for a second there was nothing in her expression except the kind of tired that doesn’t bother disguising itself anymore.

“Oh.”

“I know you’re closing.”

A pause, then, “So why are you here?”

“I wanted to check on you.”

That earned me a look that started sharp and then softened halfway through, like she was deciding whether I was worth the effort of being annoyed at.

“That’s brave.”

She set the cloth down and leaned both hands on the counter, not quite resting, not quite holding herself up either. Her phone lit up beside her again, another notification she didn’t bother opening before the screen went dark.

“I’ve spent the entire afternoon deleting fake reviews,” she said, like she was talking about the weather she didn’t ask for.

“They just keep coming.”

“I’m sorry.”

She nodded once, like she’d already filed that under things that didn’t change anything.

“I know.”

“No,” I said, before I could overthink it. “I don’t think you do.”

She didn’t interrupt. Just waited, which somehow made it worse.

“I came here because this place felt normal,” I said, glancing around the kitchen, the familiar mess of a working bakery that suddenly felt like the only honest space I’d been in all week. “Nobody cared who I was. I could buy a coffee without wondering who was watching me. You were the only person who treated me like I wasn’t a headline, and I got used to that faster than I probably should have.”

A faint, tired smile touched her mouth. “Yeah.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was just full enough that neither of us rushed to fill it.

Emma looked through the serving hatch into the empty café, then spoke like she’d already rehearsed it in her head and still didn’t like how it sounded out loud.

“My parents opened this bakery.”

She didn’t look at me when she said it, which made it easier to listen without interrupting.

“They started with one oven and more hope than money. My dad baked, my mum ran the front. Every spare bit of cash went straight back into this place.”

A small, almost private smile crossed her face.

“They were convinced it would become something special.”

“When they died, everyone assumed I’d sell it.”

She shrugged, like she’d had the same conversation too many times to feel anything new about it.

“I probably would’ve made smarter decisions if I had. But I couldn’t let it go.”

“I repainted everything myself because I couldn’t afford contractors. Half the shelves out front were built by friends who refused to take money for it.”

“The first month I reopened, I thought I’d completely lost it.”

She finally looked at me then, not for reassurance, but to make sure I was still following.

“This is the only thing that’s ever really been mine.”

“I’ve spent years building it into something bigger than what they left me. That’s why I started taking those nutrition classes. I want another location someday. Maybe more.”

Her voice stayed steady, but there was something underneath it now, not emotion exactly, more like pressure.

“I always knew there’d be problems. Costs, competition, equipment breaking down at the worst possible time.”

A short breath left her, almost a laugh but not quite.

“I just didn’t think the thing that might destroy it would be someone buying a cinnamon roll.”

That landed heavier than anything else she’d said.

“So did I,” I said, because there wasn’t anything clever that would improve it.

She folded her arms, not defensive, just bracing herself.

“I know you didn’t ask for any of this. But it’s happening because of you.”

“I know.”

“I’m trying to be fair about it because I know your life is… whatever it is right now.”

There was no insult in it, just honesty.

“But your life keeps going.”

“You’re a billionaire, Ethan. You have lawyers, people, systems. Whatever you need to fix things like this.”

“If I lose this,” she said, and stopped for half a second like the rest of the sentence cost more than she wanted to pay, “I lose everything.”

“I don’t have another business. I don’t have family money. I don’t have a backup plan.”

A small, humourless exhale.

“I barely have storage space in the stockroom.”

“This bakery pays my bills. It pays Christine. It’s what my parents left me.”

“I can’t gamble with it.”

She didn’t ask me to fix it. She didn’t even soften it into a request. It was just a boundary finally drawn clearly enough that there was no pretending I hadn’t seen it.

“I don’t think we can keep seeing each other,” she said. “People already think we know each other.”

“They do.”

“And I can’t afford that kind of attention.”

“I understand.”

She studied me for a second, like she expected resistance, or negotiation, or anything that would make this more complicated than it already was.

“I never wanted this,” I added, quieter now. “And I didn’t want it to ruin whatever friendship we were starting to build.”

“I believe you.”

There wasn’t anything else to say that wouldn’t make it worse, so I didn’t try.

A minute later I was back outside.

The air had cooled while we were inside, the kind of shift you only notice when you stop moving. I sat in the car before starting the engine, watching the bakery through the windscreen. One by one, the lights inside went out until only the sign above the door stayed lit, glowing like it didn’t know the day was over.

I called Mark.

“I was wondering when you’d call,” he said immediately.

“I want a press conference.”

A pause, long enough that I could hear him deciding how much he hated the idea.

“Your lawyers are going to hate that.”

“They can deal with it.”

“They’ll tell you to stay quiet.”

“My silence isn’t just affecting me anymore.”

Another pause, shorter this time.

“It could complicate everything.”

“It probably will.”

“So why do it?”

I looked at the bakery again, the last light holding on like it was refusing to admit defeat.

“Because people are paying for something they had nothing to do with.”

“What are you going to say?”

“The truth.”

“That’s not exactly a media strategy.”

“It’s not meant to be.”

There was a sigh on the other end, the kind that meant he’d already started making calls in his head.

“If you’re sure, I’ll set it up for tomorrow morning.”

“I’m sure.”

The call ended.

For weeks, I’d let other people decide what came next. Lawyers, my father, the company, the machine that always had an answer ready before I even asked.

Tomorrow, that stopped.