Page 11

I hear them and I always leave feeling frozen inside.

"Just finishing up the morning rush. What's going on?"

"Oh, nothing major, sweetheart. I wanted to check in. You know I worry about you running that little shop all by yourself."

Little shop. The words sting but I shrug it off. I lean against the counter and cross my free arm over my middle.

"I appreciate the concern, Vivienne, but I'm doing fine. Business is good."

"I'm sure it is. You always were so determined." A measured pause. "Listen, I'm calling because Richard mentioned there's still some paperwork outstanding on your father's estate. A few documents that need your signature before probate can close out properly. He says it's been dragging on longer than it should."

My jaw tightens. "I've already told Richard and you that I don't want anything from the estate. I signed over everything I could months ago. Whatever is left, the lawyers can handle."

"Of course, darling. I know you've been very clear about your wishes." Her tone shifts. Softer. Almost maternal. The performance is so good it would fool anyone who didn't grow up watching performances exactly like it. "It's just that the lawyers are saying some of the trust structures require your direct signature and others are not allowed to pass to me according to your father’s last wishes. Those we can worry about later. But for the other items—something about your father's will being very specific about certain assets—they can't finalize without you."

Specific. The word hangs between us and the weight of it presses against the base of my skull.

"What assets?"

"Oh, I don't understand all the legal language, sweetheart. You know I'm hopeless with that kind of thing." A little laugh, airy and self-deprecating. "Richard will explain everything. I just wanted to give you a heads-up before his office reaches out. I didn't want you to be caught off guard."

She is not hopeless with legal language. Vivienne Castellano is not hopeless with anything. She married my father knowing exactly what his prenuptial agreement contained, what his will specified, and precisely what she stood to gain or lose depending on how the pieces fell. The wide-eyed confusion is a costume. One she slips into when she wants me soft, compliant and grateful for her concern.

"Fine. Have Richard send the documents to my email and I'll have my attorney review them before I sign as usual."

Silence. A full beat. Then, "You have an attorney?"

Too much surprise. Too quick. The mask slips for half a second and I catch contempt underneath.

"Yes. Richard has been in communication with her. Hasn’t he told you? She’s a family friend who handles my business paperwork and I trust her judgment. She'll look over whatever Richard sends. I thought we took care of everything, but we will look at the remainder of the paperwork."

The pause stretches longer than it should. When Vivienne speaks again, the silk is pulled tighter, smoothed back into place with practiced hands.

"Well, that's very wise of you, Neve. I just don't want you to feel burdened by all of this. Your father would have wanted things settled smoothly. For everyone's sake."

My father would have wanted a lot of things. A daughter who carried his name into the business. A wife who loved him for more than his accounts. Peace in his organization and peace in his home. He got none of it. Invoking his wishes is the cheapest card Vivienne holds and she plays it every time.

"I'll handle it, Vivienne. Was there anything else?"

"No, sweetheart. That's all. Take care of yourself. And eat something other than pastries, will you? You're getting too plump."

The line goes dead before I can respond.

I lower the phone and stare at the dark screen. My fingers are chalked white with flour and my pulse is running fast. The bakery is warm. The cinnamon and vanilla and brown sugar saturate the walls of this place the way they saturate my skin, and none of it is enough to cut through the chill settling low in my belly.

“Plump?” I shove my phone into my back pocket, ire raising my heart rate. “Plump? Fuck you, Vivienne,” I mutter under my breath so as not to startle my customers.

Vivienne has called twice a month since Dad died. Always sweet. Always concerned. Always armed with some small piece of estate business that requires just one more signature, just one more conversation with Richard, just one more step toward untangling the will she can't seem to get around.

I don't want the empire. I have told her plainly. Through lawyers, through phone calls, through silence and through the unmistakable act of choosing a bakery over a throne. Vivienne nods and smiles and says she understands. And then she calls again. And again. And the questions get sharper and the sweetness gets thinner and the pauses between her words fill up with what I swear sounds like gut-deep bitterness toward me.

I push my hip off the counter and head back into the kitchen. The timer buzzes and I pull the last tray from the oven. Golden crusts, caramelized edges, the warm perfume of baked apples filling my lungs and grounding my feet to the floor. My hands are steady. My breathing slows.

This is mine. The flour all over everything, the permanent ache in my lower back from standing since three-thirty, the regulars who know my name and the coffee I pour for them every morning. I built this place with no one's money, no one's name, no one's muscle standing behind me. Every bag of sugar, every tart pan, every stubborn coat of paint on these walls came from my own pockets and my own two hands.

I set the tarts on the rack and start mixing the next batch of dough. Fold, press, turn. The rhythm steadies my hands and quiets the noise.

I tell myself Vivienne heard me. I tell myself the lawyers will sort it out and she'll move on and the inheritance will settle into some legal resolution that satisfies her and leaves me standing right here, in my kitchen, with flour on my face and a business I can be proud of.