Chapter 5 - THE APARTMENT OVER THE BAKERYThree weeks after leaving the hospital, the chaos of corporate takeouts and high-stakes legal maneuvering settled into a quiet, sunlit routine.
We didn't stay in the sprawling suburban house Weston had bought with Callaway family money—a property that now belonged to the Vance Trust and was currently being prepared for public auction. Instead, Odette and I moved into the historic loft apartment above my late uncle Elliot’s old artisanal bakery on the edge of the city.
It smelled of roasted coffee beans, cinnamon, and old paper.
Marlo was growing fast, her tiny fingers curling around mine with a strength that constantly surprised me. The public scandal had exploded across the financial news columns two days after our discharge: “CALLAWAY EMPIRE COLLAPSES OVERNIGHT: MYSTERIOUS HEIR SEIZES CONTROL.” Photographers had camped outside Preston and Adele’s mansion for a week, capturing images of the once-untouchable family packing their luxury vehicles under court supervision.
Camille had vanished from Weston’s life within forty-eight hours of the asset freeze, taking her four-month-old son and disappearing back to her hometown in Ohio the moment she realized Weston’s trust fund had been wiped out.
As for Weston, he had tried calling forty-seven times in the first week alone. Then came the letters—long, rambling apologies, begging for a meeting, claiming he had been manipulated by his parents, swearing he still loved me. I didn't read past the first two lines of the first letter. I simply handed them all to Josephine to be filed under “Harassment and Attempted Coercion.”
On a warm Tuesday afternoon, while Odette was downstairs helping prep dough for the bakery’s grand reopening, a soft knock echoed at the loft door.
I cradled Marlo against my shoulder, walking slowly down the hallway. I expected the courier with the revised trust documents.
Instead, when I pulled the heavy wooden door open, I found Weston standing on the landing.
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He looked unrecognizable. The custom-tailored gray coat was gone, replaced by a cheap, off-the-rack navy jacket that was slightly too large for his shoulders. His hair was unstyled, dark shadows bruised beneath his hollow eyes. He looked like a man who had spent three weeks sleeping in the back seat of a depreciated sedan.
"Sable," he breathed, his voice cracking. He didn't try to step inside. He just stood there on the threshold, looking at me with a desperate, broken humility. "I... I just wanted to see her. Just for a minute."
