The Abandoned Wife's Second Chance (Scarlett and Jasper) novel Chapter 81

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Chapter 81

(Scarlett’s POV)

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Three days of whirlwind preparation later, I’m standing outside the glass storefront of what will be my first chain location, my hands shaking as I fumble with the keys.

“Nervous?” Dorian asks, appearing at my elbow with two cups of coffee.

“Terrified,” I admit, accepting the cup gratefully. The warmth seeps through my palms, steadying me.

–

he’s the best baker I know outside of you.

“That’s normal. Andrew will be here minute

any Twenty years of experience, worked at some of the finest establishments in the city.”

I nod, though my stomach churns. Letting someone else handle my recipes, my techniques, my carefully crafted methods it feels like handing over my child to a stranger.

“What if he doesn’t get it right? What if the bread tastes different? What if—”

“Scarlett.” Dorian’s voice is gentle but firm. “Breathe. You trained him for three days straight. You’ve written down every detail, every measurement, every timing. He knows your vision.”

–

The door chimes as Andrew arrives a tall man in his fifties with flour already dusting his apron and a warm smile that reminds me of my first boss in Nashville.

“Ready to make some magic happen?” he asks, rolling up his sleeves.

Despite my nerves, I find myself smiling back. “Let’s do this.”

By seven AM, the space smells like heaven. Fresh bread, cinnamon rolls, the buttery scent of croissants. Andrew moves through my recipes like he’s been making them for years, and I watch with amazement as he pulls tray after tray from the ovens.

“You’re a natural,” I tell him as we arrange the display cases.

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“Your recipes make it easy. They’re foolproof – which is saying something, coming from me.” He grins. “I’ve never worked with techniques quite like yours. Where did you learn to fold dough that way?”

“Trial and error. Lots of error.” I adjust a tray of honey wheat rolls. “I had to figure out what worked in a tiny apartment kitchen with a temperamental oven.”

At nine sharp, Dorian unlocks the front door. I hold my breath, waiting.

The first customer is a woman in business attire, rushing toward the coffee shop next door.

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But she stops when she catches sight of our display. Then she’s pushing through our door, eyes wide.

“Oh my God, that smell. What is that?”

“Fresh baked sourdough with herbs, Andrew says proudly. “Just came out of the oven.”

She buys three loaves.

By noon, there’s a line stretching halfway across the mall corridor. People clutching my bread like precious cargo, teenagers taking selfies with my signature honey rolls, families gathering around our small seating area.

“I can’t believe this,” I whisper to Dorian during a brief lull.

“I can.” He’s watching the crowd with satisfaction. “Look at their faces, Scarlett. Look how happy your food makes them.”

He’s right. There’s something different about these customers. They’re not just buying bread – they’re experiencing something. A woman closes her eyes as she bites into a cinnamon roll. A man calls his wife over to taste the rosemary focaccia. Children press their faces against the glass, pointing at the colorful display.

“Mama, look!” Lily tugs on my apron. “So many people love your bread!”

I scoop her up, kissing her cheek. “They do, don’t they?”

That’s when I see him.

Jasper stands at the edge of the crowd, watching us through the window. He’s wearing a dark suit that makes his eyes look almost black, and there’s something in his expression I

can’t read.

My heart does that stupid flutter thing it always does when I see him unexpectedly. I set Lily down and smooth my apron, suddenly conscious of my flour–dusted appearance.

He steps inside, and the noise of the crowd seems to fade into background static.

“Congratulations,” he says quietly. “This is incredible.”

“Thank you.” The words come out stiffer than I intended. “What brings you here?”

Instead of answering, he approaches the counter where Andrew is boxing up orders. “I’d like to make a purchase.”

“Of course! What can I get you?” Andrew’s customer service smile is bright and welcoming.

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“Everything.”

Andrew blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“Everything you have left. All of it.”

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My mouth falls open. The few remaining customers turn to stare. Even Lily stops playing with her toy and looks up at her father with curiosity.

“Jasper,” I step forward, heat rushing to my cheeks. “That’s ridiculous. There’s no way you can eat all that bread before it goes stale. You’re being-”

“Dramatic?” His mouth quirks up at the corner. “Where have I heard that before?”

The reference to our fight on the highway makes my chest tight. But I push past it, focusing on the absurdity of what he’s suggesting.

“I’m serious. Bread has a short shelf life. Most of what we have left will be good for maybe two days. You’ll end up throwing half of it away.”

“Will I?”

There’s something in his tone that makes me pause. He’s not looking at me with that desperate, pleading expression I’ve grown used to. He’s calm, almost… peaceful.

“I don’t understand what you’re trying to prove here,” I say, lowering my voice. “If this is some kind of gesture to impress me, it’s not working. It’s wasteful and-”

“It’s not for me.’

The simple statement stops me cold. “What?”

“The bread. It’s not for me.” He pulls out his wallet, counting bills with steady hands. “It’s for the children at St. Catherine’s Home.”

The name hits me like a physical blow. St. Catherine’s. The orphanage we used to visit together every month during our first year of marriage. The place where I’d spent Saturday mornings reading to kids who had no one else, where Jasper would fix broken playground equipment and help with homework.

“You still…” I can’t finish the sentence.

“Go there? Every weekend.” He hands Andrew enough cash to cover everything twice over. “Sister Margaret still asks about you.”

My throat feels like it’s closing. “Jasper…”

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