Page 117 of A Taste of Vanilla

Barrett is much too polished for obvious cruelty. He does not say my bakery is bad. He does not mention Grant. He does not mention our cancelled engagement or Elise or his son’s desk or the ring rotting at the bottom of a Whitaker mug.

He simply writes that Bitter Bloom once felt fresh, playful, and full of promise, but recent visits suggest the shop might be leaning too hard into gimmick over craft.

Gimmick.

He praises my early work, then uses it against me.

He mentions an inconsistent menu identity. Overly whimsical drink names that make the shop feel too young.

Pastries that occasional mistake charm for discipline.

Discipline.

My eyes burn.

Then, the final paragraph.

The mark of a lasting bakery is not brightness but restraint. In a city increasingly crowded with sugar-forward concepts, one hopes Bitter Bloom remembers that sweetness alone cannot sustain a legacy.

I stare at the word legacy.

Legacy.

A Whitaker word.

To them, a weapon.

The bakery tilts.

Marley grabs my arm. “Halston.”

I hand her the phone back carefully, like any sudden movement may shatter me.

Oliver’s voice is low. “When did he publish it?”

“Twenty minutes ago,” Marley responds.

Twenty minutes. While I was making lattes. While Agatha died. While Warren crouched on my kitchen floor fixing the part of my life that’s actually mechanical.

Barrett Whitaker has taken his first public swing. And because he is Barrett Whitaker, people will listen.

I can’t breathe.

Gimmick. Charm. Discipline. Legacy.

They’re all just words. Grant’s voice dressed in his father’s vocabulary.

You’re too much.

You need refining.

You’re cute.

Promising.

Not enough.

My hands curl into fists, and for one wild second, I want to cry.