My Husband Stole My Life's Work

s. My stomach dropped. I knew who it was even before I looked up. Celina Blackwel

al and public humiliation were just a quaint anecdote. "It's been ages!" She air-

g swung from her arm, and her perfectly tailored suit screamed 'expensive.' Every i

brewing inside me. All this flash, all this pretense. It's still j

oice even, betraying nothing. "Welcome to T

otional, more desperate. "Oh, just browsing, Avis. Everything looks so... quaint. I'll tak

ind drifted back. Flashbacks, sharp and un

and a story of hardship. She was so thin, so timid. Derek, with his usual dramatic flair, had

reath warm against my ear. "Her family lost everything. She' s sleeping on a friend

of flavors, the science of baking, the art of presentation. I even gave her my old

ition. I saw myself in her, the young Avis, desperate to pr

for my "groundbreaking dessert concept." It was a deconstructed rose garden, edible petals and dew drops, a symphony o

intensity in her eyes. I had thought it was awe. Now I knew it was pure, un

crisp paper a stark contrast to th

nt. "You know, Avis," she purred, "my company is expanding. We're looking at prime locatio

w. "I'm not sellin

s it? We could offer you a very generous sum. More than this place will ever make in a lifetime." She named a figure, then raised it, as if money could

My hand was steady. "I think you should leave,"

n opportunity. You're living in the past, Avis. Derek

x and a display of glass cloches crashing to the floor. The delicate glass shattere

oing?" I asked, my voice ri

ity. Derek is my husband now, Avis. We built this together. You're just a bitter, forgotten footnote." Her voice was laced with pur

ly. The one we had planne

ou're nothing. Just a sad, lonely woman pretending to be happy with a provincial bakery." She paused, letting her words hang in the air. "A

ard rage. So this was her game. To break me, to stamp

tep back." Lena, who had been frozen in terror,

et out of my shop, Ms. Blackwe

can threaten me?" she shrieked. She stalked around the counter, grabbing a custom-made porcelain mixing bowl-a gift fr

hetic contents mean nothing to me! Nothing!" She then moved to my custom-built, temperature-co

my head, a cruel counterpoint to the shattering glass. T

my voice dangerously quiet. "Let's talk about p

ed your career. And soon, I'll destroy this too." She reached for a delicate, hand-painted ceramic sugar pot, another bespoke pi

unter, a deep, calm voice cut through the chaos.

My head snapped towards the doorway. Standing there, r