Chapter 4 - The Cleansing Fire
By Monday morning, the news had spread through Ashford like wildfire through dry pine.
The local newspaper, the Ashford Gazette, ran a front-page feature with the headline: FESTIVAL FRAUD: LOCAL BAKER’S HUSBAND ARRESTED IN BIZARRE EXTORTION PLOT. Photographs of Wade being led out of the town hall in handcuffs—flanked by his weeping mother, Marjorie, who was desperately trying to shield her face with a canvas tote bag—were already making rounds on regional news sites.
Inside the kitchen of Rose & Rye Bakery, however, the air smelled wonderfully of yeast, melted butter, and roasting pecans.
The front doors were temporarily locked with a small brass sign hanging from the handle: CLOSED FOR PRIVATE INVENTORY. But through the large front windows, I could see a small crowd of regular customers and local merchants peering inside, leaving bouquets of flowers and handwritten cards on the stone doorstep.
I stood at the stainless-steel prep table, wearing my flour-dusted apron, rolling out a fresh batch of dough for our Monday morning scones.
The bell above the front door chimed softly.
Avery Sloan stepped inside, holding a cardboard carrier with two coffees from the local diner. She looked tired, her dark blond hair pulled back into a simple ponytail, but there was an immense, visible weight lifted from her shoulders.
“Morning,” Avery said quietly, setting the coffee cups down on the counter.
“Morning,” I replied, wiping my hands on a clean kitchen towel. “How are you holding up after the weekend circus?”
Avery let out a long, ragged sigh, offering a wry smile. “My corporate partners held an emergency board meeting yesterday morning. Wade’s contract with us has been terminated with prejudice, his name has been permanently scrubbed from our regional expansion files, and our legal team has joined forces with your prosecutors to ensure he faces maximum sentencing for corporate fraud.”
She paused, looking around the cozy, sunlit kitchen with its warm pine floors and copper pots hanging from the ceiling.
“I’m so sorry I fell for his lies, Megan,” Avery added softly, her voice carrying genuine remorse. “He played the part of the devoted, trapped husband so convincingly.”
“Wade is a parasite, Avery,” I said, walking over and accepting one of the coffee cups. “He doesn't love partners; he loves hosts. You were simply the next host he planned to latch onto once he figured out how to strip-mine Rose & Rye.”
We stood in comfortable silence for a moment, sipping our coffee while listening to the distant rumble of morning traffic rolling down Linden Street.
“So,” Avery asked, glancing toward the front windows. “What happens to the bakery now?”
“Now?” I smiled, looking up at the hand-painted wooden sign my mother had finished three decades ago—the one bearing our family crest and the words Rose & Rye: Built on Tradition, Sustained by Truth. “Now, we rebuild. My lawyers filed the emergency divorce papers this morning under an expedited fault-based clause. With Wade’s financial embezzlement records and the domestic battery charges on public record, the asset division will be swift and absolute. He won't get a single square inch of this building, nor a single penny of my accounts.”
May you like
Avery raised her paper cup in a quiet toast. “To new beginnings.”
“To choosing ourselves,” I corrected, touching my cup to hers.
