The Abandoned Wife's Second Chance (Scarlett and Jasper) novel Chapter 84

< Chapter 84

Chapter 84

(Scarlett’s POV)

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I talk for what feels like hours, painting the vision of my bakery for Andrew.

Two weeks later, I’m standing in my original bakery, Sunrise Bakes, at five in the morning, kneading dough for the day’s first batch of sourdough. The familiar rhythm soothes my nerves, but something feels off.

My phone buzzes with another notification. I ignore it, trying to focus on the feel of the dough beneath my hands. Smooth, elastic, perfect. To rediscover the lost connection between my hands and the bread, the inner peace that comes with doing what I love best.

But the phone keeps buzzing, interrupting my concentration.

I wipe my flour–covered hands on my apron and finally check my messages. Fifteen missed calls from Chloe. My stomach drops.

I call her back immediately.

“Thank God,” she breathes when she picks up. “Scarlett, have you checked the reviews for the

mall location?”

“What reviews? It’s been doing great. Andrew said yesterday it was another sellout day.”

Silence stretches between us, and I feel ice forming in my veins.

“Chloe, what’s wrong?”

“Check your laptop. Now.”

I open my laptop with shaking fingers, navigating to the review sites while Chloe stays on the line. What I see makes my knees buckle.

“Sunrise Bread isn’t what it used to be. Bought their famous honey wheat rolls yesterday and they tasted like cardboard.”

–

“So disappointed. The texture was completely wrong – dense and flavorless. Nothing like the original location.”

“Overpriced industrial bread with fancy packaging. Save your money.”

One star. Two stars. Review after review, all saying the same thing.

“This can’t be right,” I whisper into the phone. “Andrew follows my recipes exactly. I trained

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him myself.”

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“Scarlett…” Chloe’s voice is gentle but worried. “When’s the last time you actually tasted the bread from the mall location?”

I try to remember. Last week? Two weeks ago? I’ve been so focused on keeping my original bakery running smoothly, on perfecting new recipes, that I haven’t dropped in a while.

“I need to get over there,” I say, already untying my apron.

“I’ve got Lily. Go.”

The drive to the mall feels endless. My hands grip the steering wheel so tight my knuckles are white. These reviews can’t be accurate. Andrew is experienced, professional. He wouldn’t change my recipes without telling me.

I try to convince myself, but my mind keeps flashing back to the dissatisfied expression on his face the last time we talked.

The mall isn’t even open yet, but I have keys to the service entrance. I slip inside, the empty corridors echoing my footsteps. When I reach the bakery, I can hear Andrew moving around

in the kitchen.

I pause at the door, watching him through the small window. He’s pulling trays from the oven – my signature bunny bread. But he’s not the only one. There are more staff, unfamiliar ones, pulling out the same style of bread from other ovens with him. The shapes are all wrong, too standard, too uniform. Like they came from a mold.

My heart sinks.

I push through the door, and Andrew looks up with a guilty start.

“Scarlett! You’re early. I wasn’t expecting-”

“Show me the bread,” I say quietly.

“What?”

“The bread you just pulled from the oven. Show it to me.”

He hesitates, then hands me one of the rolls. The moment I touch it, I know. It’s dense, heavy.

The color is off too pale, lacking the golden brown I spend hours perfecting.

I take a bite, and my heart breaks completely.

It tastes nothing like the pastries I’ve been proud of selling.

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“Andrew.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “What is this?”

“It’s your bunny bread recipe-”

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“No.” I set the roll down carefully, like it might explode. “This is not my recipe. This tastes like

it came from a factory.”

His face goes red. “Look, I made some modifications. Small ones. To improve efficiency-”

“What kind of modifications?”

“The rising time was excessive. I cut it from four hours to ninety minutes. And the shaping was taking too long, so I invested in some molds to speed up production. Basic business

decisions.”

Each word hits me like a physical blow. “You cut the rising time by more than half?”

“Yes, and honestly, most customers can’t tell the difference-”

“I can tell the difference!” The words explode out of me. “Everyone who’s ever eaten my real bread can tell the difference! That’s why we’re getting destroyed in reviews!”

“Scarlett, you’re focusing on the small problems. The profit margins-”

“Forget about the profit margins.” I hold up my hand, my whole body shaking. “Just stop talking about profit margins. Show me everything you’ve changed.”

For the next hour, Andrew walks me through his “improvements.” Shorter rising times across the board. Chemical additives to speed up fermentation. Pre–made molds for everything that used to be hand–shaped. Cheaper ingredients to reduce expenses – regular flour instead of the organic blend I specified.

“You’ve turned my bakery into a factory,” I whisper when he’s done.

“I’ve turned it into a profitable business,” he snaps. “Do you know how much money we’ve been losing on your precious hand–shaping and four–hour rise times? This is reality, Scarlett. This is how real businesses operate.”

“This isn’t my business anymore.” I look around the kitchen that was supposed to be an extension of my dream. “This is just another corporate bakery selling fake goods to fill their pockets.”

“The customers are buying it. Sales are actually up from last week.”

“Because they don’t know what they’re buying. They’re coming because of the good reviews from the original bakery store!” I grab one of the industrial mixer attachments he’s been

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using. “Do you know why I knead by hand for certain breads? Because I can feel when the gluten is perfectly developed. Because I can adjust for humidity, for temperature, for the specific batch of flour. This machine doesn’t care about any of that.”

Andrew crosses his arms. “Hand–kneading isn’t scalable.”

“Then maybe some things aren’t meant to be scaled!” The words tear from my throat. “Some things are supposed to stay small and personal and made with love!”

“Yeah, well… Love doesn’t pay the bills.”

I stare at him, shocked. This man I trusted with my recipes, my reputation, my dream, doesn’t care about any of them aside from making more money. “Get out.”

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