Chapter 70 070
EMILY
I saw Ryan’s name flash across my phone screen and my thumb moved before my brain could catch up.
Decline.
The call disappeared.
I stared at the blank screen for a second longer than I should have, my reflection faintly visible in the dark glass. My chest felt tight, like I’d swallowed something sharp and it was lodged right behind my ribs. I flipped the phone face-down on my desk as if that would silence the guilt crawling up my spine.
Eddie was still standing in the doorway of the tiny office, arms crossed, weight shifted onto one hip, waiting for me to rejoin the conversation. One perfectly sculpted eyebrow lifted slowly.
“You good?” she asked.
I forced a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes. “Yeah. Totally.” The word tasted like a lie. “So where did we stop?”
She studied me for half a second longer than necessary, the way she always did when she knew something was off but wasn’t sure if I was ready to admit it yet. Then she cleared her throat and stepped fully into the office, nudging the door closed behind her with her hip.
“I was saying I’ll have Mr. T test out the new salted-caramel twist tomorrow morning. First batch at eight.”
“Perfect,” I said automatically.
I leaned back in my chair and tried to focus on the spreadsheet glowing on my laptop screen. Ingredient costs. Labor hours. Profit margins. Numbers I could control. Numbers that didn’t hurt.
Not the weird, hollow twist settling in my stomach.
“And the feedback on the cinnamon rolls?” I asked, mostly to keep myself grounded.
Eddie’s lips curved into a satisfied smile. “Still raving. Like, people-are-arguing-over-the-last-one raving.” Then she hesitated, rocking slightly on her heels. “But… there’s something else.”
I sighed softly. “That ‘but’ never means anything good.”
She grinned, clearly enjoying herself. “A bunch of the regulars keep asking the same thing.”
I looked up. “Which is?”
“When are you expanding into a real restaurant?” she said, eyes bright. “Full menu. Tables. Wine. The whole deal.”
I laughed, sharp and a little too loud. “A restaurant? Eddie, this bakery almost buried us six weeks ago.”
She snorted. “How could I forget? You were crying the whole week.”
“I did not cry.” I pointed at her. “That was sweat. Very emotional sweat.”
“Uh-huh. Sweat with feelings.” She walked over and perched on the edge of my desk, swinging one leg casually. “But seriously, Em. People love what you do. They don’t just want pastries. They want you. They want to sit here. Stay here. Make memories here.”
Something in my chest shifted at that. I glanced around the office—the chipped desk, the crooked picture frame, the stack of unpaid invoices I kept pretending didn’t exist. This place had been built out of stubbornness and survival. Out of proving I could do it alone.
“I don’t know,” I said quietly. “Dreaming bigger feels… dangerous.”
Eddie softened. “So does staying stuck.”
I met her gaze. She’d been with me since day one—since the bakery was nothing more than a reckless idea and a rented commercial kitchen that smelled like old grease and regret. She’d watched me juggle motherhood, heartbreak, debt, and hope, and still show up every morning with flour on my hands.
“You’re the best,” I said. “You know that, right?”
She rolled her eyes but smiled. “I know. Now go make that new glaze before Mr. T starts complaining about sticky fingers again.”
I stood and hugged her—quick at first, then tighter, like I needed to borrow some of her steadiness. “Thank you,” I murmured. “For holding this place together while I’ve been… distracted.”
“That’s what partners do,” she said, squeezing back. “Now shoo. I’ve got front-of-house.”
The door clicked shut behind her, and the office went quiet.
Too quiet.
I sank back into my chair and rubbed my temples. The hum of the refrigerator out front and the muffled chatter of customers felt distant, like I was underwater. My chest felt heavy, my breath shallow.
It was just leftover anger, I told myself. Just pride. Just the ache of being disappointed again.
My phone buzzed.
I glanced at it, already annoyed, ready to decline Ryan for the second time.
Unknown number.
I frowned.
I almost ignored it. Almost let it buzz itself into silence. But something—some small, insistent tug deep in my gut—made my thumb swipe across the screen.
“Hello?”
“Is this Miss Emily Thompson?” a woman asked.
Her voice was calm. Professional. Too calm.
My heart stuttered. “This is Emily.”
“Good. Your attention is needed at St. Mary’s Hospital. Your husband fainted.”
The line went dead.
I sat there holding the phone to my ear, staring at nothing.
The words didn’t land all at once. They floated. Disconnected. Like pieces of a sentence I didn’t know how to assemble.
Husband.
Fainted.
Hospital.
I pulled the phone away and stared at the screen. No name. Just the number.
My thumb hovered over redial, but my hands were shaking too badly to press anything.
Husband.
He wasn’t my husband anymore. Not legally. Not on paper. But the word still hit me like a punch to the sternum, knocking the air clean out of my lungs.
I stood up so fast the chair rolled backward and slammed into the wall. Papers slid off the desk and scattered across the floor. I didn’t bother picking them up.
I grabbed my bag, my keys, my phone—everything in one frantic sweep—and bolted out of the office.
Eddie looked up from behind the counter, eyes widening as I flew past. “Em? What’s wrong?”
“I have to go,” I said, barely recognizing my own voice. “Hospital. Ryan. Something happened.”
Her face drained of color. “Oh my God. Go. I’ve got Zara pickup if you need—”
“I’ll call you,” I threw over my shoulder.
The bell above the door jangled wildly as I shoved through it.
The parking lot blurred. My keys slipped through my fingers and clattered onto the pavement. I cursed, scooped them up, unlocked the car with shaking hands.
I sat behind the wheel for half a second, chest heaving, then started the engine.
Lord, please forgive me.
I pulled out too fast, tires chirping in protest. Red light. I slammed the brakes. My heart felt like it was trying to claw its way out of my throat.
Green.
I gunned it.
I’d wished him the worst day.
In my head, it had been small, petty things—spilled coffee, missed meetings, maybe a flat tire that left him stranded and inconvenienced.
Not this.
“What if he’s really hurt?” I whispered to the empty car.
What if he was—
No. I wouldn’t let myself finish that thought.
All I could do was sit there and whisper the same thing over and over in my head, like a prayer I wasn’t sure anyone was listening to.
Lord, please forgive me.
I didn’t mean it like this.
Please don’t let him be gone.