Chapter 31

I’m still trying to breathe, Thomas and Gabe and Mia discussing angles and options like I’m not even here. At least Izzy is rubbing my back in soothing circles and cooing in my ear that everything’s going to be okay.

I want to tell her that it’ll never be okay again, but that would be rude. She’s been through way worse things than I ever have, and she came out the other side, strong and fierce. She also got her man by walking through the fires of hell with him.

So, while I’m devastated, I try to believe her, have a little faith that I’m going to recover from this, rebuild my bakery. After that, I’ll probably become a spinster because I’m sure as fuck never letting a man inside my heart again.

Steven steps into the room, addressing Thomas. “Excuse me, they’ve arrived.”

I look at Thomas, shaken anew. “They? Is Lance here? Now?” At his grim nod, I shake my head. “I can’t do this. I’m going to just go to the guest room.”

Izzy’s hand is tight on my shoulder, and she sits me back down. “The hell you are. You’re going to sit right here, glare holes in him, and show him that he didn’t fucking break you. You’re better than this, stronger than him. He knows it hurts, and that’s why you’re going to stand up to the pain, rise from it like a goddamn phoenix, and tell him to go fuck himself and his back-alley betrayal.”

Mia cups my face in her hands, her eyes gleaming. “We’ve got you, Tovarich. Let’s give him hell.”

The contrast in their support helps me in ways I wouldn’t have expected. I look at Steven and nod.

Just in time, because the elevator dings.

Jonathan and Lance walk off the elevator, purpose in their stride and looking like the warriors they both are.

Lance beelines for me, but I flinch back into the couch. “No,” I say, but my voice is weak. I swallow, wanting to be as strong as Mia and Izzy think I am. “No.”

Lance stops, his eyes hurt but searching mine. “Charlotte, I didn’t do what you think I did. The phone isn’t mine.”

My chin stays high, but the tears silently streak down my cheeks. “I get it, really, I do. What better way to get an in with the last mark in Thomas’s circle than to play on my loneliness, give me all the things I thought I’d never get, that I never deserved? I made it easy, didn’t I? Fell right into your trap and believed you, even though I knew better.”

I stuff the hurt down, knowing I’ll have to deal with it later, and letting the softness he’s brought out in me come through for only a moment. “I loved you. When you look back on what you’ve done here, remember what you threw away. It might have been an act to you, but it wasn’t to me. I truly, honestly loved you.”

I get up, having said what I need to say and shown that my backbone, while bent, is not broken by his deception. But he follows me toward the hallway. He grabs my arm, turning me and pressing me up against the wall, caging me in with his arms.

Mia and Izzy cry out, but in my peripheral vision, I see Jonathan hold up a staying hand and shake his head at Gabe, who’s pulled his gun.

“Look at me, Charlotte,” Lance commands.

I can’t help it, I do. That stupid seed of hope that he planted wants to have faith, even as my brain knows the real truth of what he’s done. The disconnect is a painful wrenching of my soul from my body.

His blue eyes are fierce, his jaw clenched. I get a glimpse of what he must look like as a SEAL ready for battle. But this is one he can’t win, one I’ve already lost.

“Love,” he says gruffly. Confusion mars my face, and he continues. “Not past tense, not loved. Love. You love me. And I love you. It wouldn’t hurt so damn much if you didn’t.”

I shake my head, not wanting the words to water that fucking seed, not wanting to feel like I’m home inside the circle of his arms.

“You said what you wanted to say, and now it’s my turn,” he challenges. “I’m not working for Blackwell. That phone wasn’t mine. Yes, I’m here for you, because you are the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever met, inside and out. I see your damage, just like we talked about.” He slowly, torturously moves his hand to brush my hair from my face, pressing the softest of kisses to my temple and tracing a finger down my neck to rest his hand over my heart. “You’re dancing away from me again. This time, it’d be warranted, but I didn’t do this.”

Jonathan starts to speak. “We’ve analyzed the phone—”

“No, she needs to believe me,” Lance growls over his shoulder. “Not a report, not someone else. Me.” He cups my face in his hands, fingers woven into my hair and holding me in place with his eyes. “You know me, know that I love you. Trust that, Charlotte. Trust me. I. Love. You.”

I want to believe so badly, but it feels like another trap. I’m going to fall back into his arms, only for him to drop me later. I always end up on the floor, broken and forgotten.

But as I search his eyes, beseeching me to believe, I reconsider.

What if he’s telling the truth, that the phone isn’t his? Blackwell could’ve done something sneaky to make me think it was Lance all along. That’d definitely be in his wheelhouse. Do I really believe Lance would betray me this way?

I want to say yes. I always believe people will disappoint me, and all signs point to that being the case once again. But in my gut, I know the answer’s no. He wouldn’t. I have to believe that he wouldn’t.

That seed of hope again blooms into a dandelion in my soul. Because I do believe him. For the first time since I was a little girl, I do trust—him, his denial of wrongdoing, and . . . his love.

I sob one time, collapsing onto his chest. “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry, Lance. I thought—”

He shushes me, pulling me into him, holding me until I lift my head and brushing my lips with a feather-soft kiss. “There you are, Red. I love you.”

I answer him, but the ‘I love you too’ is mumbled against his lips as he kisses me again. It feels like a fresh seal on what we are, what we have. What I almost threw away because my cynicism misled me.

I vow to not let that happen again and to have a little faith in myself, the people around me, and the world at large. Yes, there are douchebags, but there are also Prince Charmings. And maybe even a happily ever after or two. Or three, I think as I smile against Lance’s lips.

A throat clearing interrupts us, and Lance pulls back, but his eyes stay on mine. They shine with joy and happiness that I put there, and I know mine shine back just as brightly. The storm may be raging outside our little circle, but at least I know Lance is by my side through it all. Not sheltering me—I don’t need that—but supporting me and letting me support him in return.

He slips an arm around my shoulder, holding me tightly against his body, and we turn back to the room. Mia and Izzy are the ones with tears now, though mine are all dried up. Thomas, Gabe, and Jonathan look a bit touched too but are covering it with an armor of ‘time to work’ stoicism.

“Now can I say what we’ve found out about the phone?” Jonathan asks, grimacing slightly.

Lance waves permissively, and everyone looks at Jonathan, who’s pulling the phone out of his back pocket.

“I haven’t had enough time to have the data fully analyzed, sorry. But Lance could tell. He knows . . .” Jonathan lets the sentence trail off, looking to Lance to see if he wants to be the one to spill.

“Out with it already! Who burned down my bakery?” I shout, pissed. Okay, so whatever Blackwell is doing to Thomas is probably more important in the big scheme of things, but Cake Culture is my dream. And someone destroyed it.

Lance places his hands on my shoulders, forcing me to look at him. “I’m so sorry, Charlotte, but it’s . . . Trixie.”

I laugh, an unladylike bark of disbelief. “No, it’s not. Trixie’s almost as committed to the bakery as I am.”

But if it’s not Lance, who? Sabrina was there, so she’d been a consideration, but she wasn’t the one with the phone. That scuffle involved the police officer, Lance, me, and . . . Trixie.

I don’t want to jump to conclusions, not again, but it has to be.

“It was the pictures, not the text messages.”

Jonathan shows me the phone, and the photo folder has all those shots, and I recognize the one that damns her. Steven, with a peace sign.

“I was there. I remember that one,” I say, my shoulders shrugging in confusion. “But why?”

“There’s no telling what Blackwell’s angle with her is. But we’ll figure it out,” Thomas promises. “We were ready to ask Lance some hard questions, but it sounds like those need to be directed elsewhere.”

A phone rings, and Thomas holds up a finger, moving to answer it while Gabe, Lance, and Jonathan discuss ways to ask Trixie some questions.

Thomas nods and sets the phone down. “Steven, my assistant and a courier are on their way up.” Steven nods and a moment later, the elevator opens.

Steven does a quick frisk of the assistant and the blue-uniformed courier, who seems surprised by the security. “Just need a signature, man. Order says it has to be Thomas Goldstone himself.”

Steven nods his approval of the guests, and Thomas walks over to sign the digital clipboard. The courier reaches into his bag and pulls out a black envelope, handing it over. “Thanks, here ya go.”

“Kerry, go home,” Thomas says afterward. “It’s late.”

“Everyone else is already gone home for the day, hours ago,” she replies with a smile. “That’s why this is the best time to get everything done without interruptions, especially by my boss.” Her smirk tells me they have a teasing, comfortable relationship. “But I’m on my way out now too.”

She pats her oversized purse and waves ’bye to Mia.

“Careful, this feels like retribution by Blackwell,” Gabe says after she leaves. “I might’ve sent him a little present once that required his signature. It was . . . unpleasant, to say the least.”

Thomas nods and opens the envelope carefully, holding it far from his face like there might be poisonous powder in it. He slides the enclosed paper out, unfolding it and reading it, his eyes scanning left and right.

“What’s it say?” Jonathan asks.

Thomas’s face pales all at once, and he looks up. His eyes are bright with fear, his mouth hanging open in disbelief.

Hoarsely, he barks, “Everyone, OUT! Now!”

He makes a dash for the elevator, shoving Mia as he goes, and everyone follows his lead. Lance grabs my hand and drags me toward the elevator while Izzy and Gabe haul ass. Jonathan and Steven take up the rear, visually sweeping the room to make sure we’re clear.

“What’s going on? Tommy?” Mia demands fearfully.

Thomas ignores her, pressing a complicated order of buttons on the elevator panel. “Crouch down and hold onto the rails. We’re going down fast.”

We do as he says, understanding that we need to follow orders more than ask questions right now. Thomas finishes his button pushing by slamming a fist on the fire alarm, and the whole building erupts in a loud siren.

The elevator doesn’t so much as lower as it falls all at once, and my stomach threatens to come up at the sudden drop. Only a second later, it seems, the elevator doors open to a concrete corridor.

“Run . . . Run . . . RUN!” Thomas yells.

I don’t know what’s happening, but I run as if my life depends on it.