"You can't." The words come out sharper than I intend. "This isn't something you can fix by glaring at it or... or dismantling it like a carcass. This is business. Contracts. Money I don't have."
"Then let me carry your boxes."
It's such a simple offer. So practical and straightforward and utterly, devastatingly kind that something inside me cracks.
I nod, not trusting my voice, and together we pack up what's left of my inventory in silence.
The bakery feelsdifferent in the dark.
During the day, with the lights blazing and the ovens running and the front windows full of pastel displays, it's mine. My kingdom. The physical manifestation of every dream I've worked myself half to death trying to build.
But now, with only the dim security lights casting long shadows across the stainless steel counters, it just looks small. Vulnerable. Like something that could be swept away by a man in an expensive suit with a legal document and a complete disregard for anything that doesn't pad his profit margins.
I stand in the kitchen, still holding the folded notice, and finally let myself feel the full weight of what's happening.
I'm going to lose this place.
Three thousand extra dollars a month isn't just difficult. It's impossible. My profit margins are already razor-thin. Between equipment maintenance, ingredient costs, the occasional health inspector bribe in the form of premium wedding cakes, and the simple reality of competing with chain bakeries that can undercut my prices because they're using premade frozen garbage—I barely break even most months.
There's no room in my budget for a rent increase this massive. Corrigan knows it. That's why he's doing this. He doesn't want tenants. He wants us all gone so he can bulldoze the building and put up another soulless luxury condo development.
The worst part is that I understand the business logic. Property values in this neighborhood have tripled in the last five years. From a pure investment standpoint, we're all just obstacles preventing him from maximizing his return.
But this bakery isn't an investment to me. It's everything.
The sob catches me by surprise, tearing out of my chest. Then another. And another. And suddenly I'm standing in my dark kitchen, crying so hard I can barely breathe, mourning something I haven't even lost yet.
I don't hear the back door open. Don't hear his footsteps crossing the tile floor. I only know Lanek is there when his massive arms wrap around me from behind, pulling me back to him.
"I've got you," he rumbles, and the deep vibration of his voice against my spine makes me cry harder.
"I'm sorry," I gasp out between sobs. "I'm sorry, I just... I worked so hard for this. I gave up everything. I haven't had a vacation in three years. I haven't bought new clothes or gone to a movie or done anything except work and bake and try to make this place successful, and it's still not enough. It's never going to be enough."
"Shh." His hand comes up to cradle the back of my head, holding me against him while I fall apart. "You don't have to apologize for feeling this."
"I hate crying," I admit miserably. "I hate being weak and pathetic and?—"
"You're not weak. You're standing in the wreckage of an attack by a predator who uses money instead of claws, and you're still fighting. That's not weakness, little baker. That's strength."
Something about the way he says it, like it's simple fact rather than empty comfort, makes the tears slow. I turn in his arms, pressing my body against him, and just breathe. He smells like woodsmoke and black pepper and the faint metallic tang of the industrial cleaner he uses on his butcher blocks. It's become familiar. Grounding.
Safe.
We stand like that for a long time, his hand moving in slow, soothing circles against my back, neither of us speaking. The silence stretches between us, heavy with things unsaid, but it's not uncomfortable. It's... intimate. The kind of quiet that only exists between people who've stopped performing for each other.
Eventually, my breathing steadies. The tears dry on my cheeks, leaving them sticky and tight. I should pull away. Stepback. Rebuild the professional boundaries I've been desperately trying to maintain since the night of the fire.
Instead, I tilt my head back to look up at him.
The dim security lighting casts his features in sharp relief, all hard angles and brutal beauty. His dark eyes track across my face, cataloging every tear track, every sign of distress.
It doesn't.
"Thank you," I whisper. "For not trying to fix it."
His thumb brushes across my cheekbone, wiping away a smudge of salt. "I want to fix it. I want to walk into Corrigan's office and dismantle him piece by piece until he understands what happens when he threatens what's mine. But that's not what you need right now."
"What do I need?"
