Page 90 of Frosted Fakes

The bell over the door chimed a third time, and Elliott thought she might actually scream.

"Well, well, well." Candice Green's voice sliced through the tension like a knife through fondant. "Isn't this cozy? A proper family gathering."

She was standing in the doorway with her phone in one hand and a folder tucked under her arm, looking like the cat who'd not only got the cream but had also foreclosed on the dairy.

"Not now, Candice," Julia said wearily.

"Oh, I think now is perfect, actually." Candice's smile was sharp enough to cut glass. "I've been doing some research, you see. Gathering evidence." She held up the folder with a theatrical flourish. "Photos. Receipts. Delivery schedules. All proving that your charming little baking arrangement is a complete fraud."

Elliott felt Julia go still beside her.

"Elliott does all the baking," Candice continued, clearly enjoying herself immensely. "Has done from the start. Which means this entire bakery is built on a lie. The famous Gabby Richardson's daughter can't actually bake." She turned to Julia, who was watching the scene with an expression of detached fascination, like she was observing wildlife. "I'm sure your mother’s fans would be very interested to hear about that."

"Candice—" Julia started.

"I could go to the papers. Social media. Make sure everyone knows what a sham this place is." Candice's eyes glittered with vindictive pleasure. "Unless, of course, you decide to close up shop. Save everyone the embarrassment."

Elliott looked at Candice. At her smug smile and her folder full of evidence and her petty, small-minded vendetta. Then she looked at Julia, pale and stricken. At Tom, hovering anxiously behind the counter with a tray of pastries he'd clearly forgotten he was holding.

She was so tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of lying. Tired of building her life around other people's secrets and schemes. Tired of trying to be someone she wasn't. And suddenly the solution to it all seemed so very simple.

"Do it," Elliott said.

Candice blinked. "What?"

"Tell whoever you want. I don't care anymore." Elliott pulled off her apron and set it on the counter with a deliberate calm she didn't feel. "You're right. I did all the baking. Julia can't cook. Our relationship started as a lie. Congratulations. You win."

"Elliott…" Julia reached for her arm.

Elliott stepped back. "This was a mistake. All of it." She couldn't look at Julia. If she looked at Julia, she'd crack, and she couldn't afford to crack right now. Not in front of Candice. Not in front of Tom. Not in front of anyone. "The arrangement. The fake dating. Living here. Pretending this was real. I can't do it anymore."

"What are you saying?" Julia's voice was barely above a whisper.

"I'm saying I'm done." Elliott's voice was steady. Flat. Dead. "I'll get my things and stay with Shay. You can tell your mother whatever you want. Tell the whole town whatever you want. I don't care anymore."

She walked past Julia, past Candice's triumphant smirk, and up the stairs to the flat. It took her less than ten minutes to pack. She didn't have much. She'd never had much. That was the point, wasn't it? Travel light. Don't get attached. Don't let anyone close enough to hurt you.

She'd forgotten that somewhere along the way. Let herself believe that maybe this time would be different. That maybe Julia was different.

More fool her.

Julia was waiting at the bottom of the stairs when Elliott came down with her bag.

"Please don't do this." Julia's voice was barely a whisper. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face blotchy. She looked terrible. She looked like Elliott felt. "I'm sorry. I should have asked. I should have told you. But please, can we just talk about this?"

Elliott paused on the bottom step. For a moment, she let herself look at Julia properly. At her sunshine smile, dimmed now. At the tears tracking down her cheeks. At this ridiculous, clumsy, well-meaning woman who'd somehow made Elliott believe that maybe she didn't have to be alone.

That was the cruelest part, wasn't it? Julia had made her hope. And hope was the most dangerous thing of all.

"There's nothing to talk about," Elliott said. "You don't understand me at all. You think you can fix everything with money and connections and good intentions. But some things can't be fixed, Julia. Some people don't want to be rescued."

She walked to the door. Julia didn't try to stop her. That hurt more than Elliott wanted to admit.

"Elliott." Julia's voice was small.

Yesterday, that one word might have been enough. But not now, not today. Not when Julia's love came with conditions. With fixes. With the unspoken assumption that Elliott wasn't enough on her own. That she needed to be somehow… worked on.

She’d been an idiot to think that Julia understood who she was, what she needed. Julia was a spoiled little rich girl and Elliott… wasn’t. There was no fix for that. No minimizing the differences between them. No escaping the fact that Julia thought she couldn’t do this alone, when alone was all she’d ever been.