The bakery looked smaller in daylight.
Cindy stood across the street from it one week after the wedding, clutching a cashier’s check and trying not to cry.
The green awning sagged. The windows were filmed with dust. A faded sign above the door still read
Baker’s Hollow
, though half the paint had peeled away. The brickwork needed repair. The inside smelled of old flour, damp wood, and the memory of warm bread.
To anyone else, it was a run-down property.
To Cindy, it was proof that a child’s hunger had not eaten everything.
Philip came with her because his driver had brought them both and because, according to him, “fake husbands should occasionally look useful.” He wore sunglasses, dark jeans, and a navy sweater that probably cost more than the bakery’s oven.
The owner, Mr. Rask, was a narrow man with oily hair and a voice like a door hinge.
“You have the down payment?” he asked Cindy.
“Yes.”
She held out the check.
Before he could take it, a woman’s laugh cut through the room.
“Cindy Becker? What the hell are you doing here?”
Chantel Vale stepped through the doorway wearing white boots, a tight red coat, and the smile of someone who had been waiting years for the chance to step on someone’s throat. She had worked at the orphanage kitchen for six months when Cindy was ten and had somehow turned serving children into an opportunity for cruelty.
Beside her stood her husband, a property investor Cindy recognized from neighborhood flyers.
Chantel looked Cindy up and down.
“Buying a bakery with hotel scandal money?”
Cindy’s face burned.
Philip removed his sunglasses.
Chantel’s eyes widened.
Then narrowed.
“Oh,” she said. “You brought your celebrity husband. How cute.”
Mr. Rask reached for Cindy’s check.
Chantel’s husband stepped forward.
“We’ll pay full today.”
Mr. Rask froze.
Cindy’s stomach dropped.
“We had an agreement.”
“A verbal one,” Mr. Rask said, avoiding her eyes.
“I brought the down payment.”
“Money is money.”
Chantel smiled.
“Sorry, sweetheart. Trash with dreams is still trash.”
Cindy took one step toward her.
Philip’s hand caught her wrist.
Not hard.
A warning.
She looked at him, furious.
He was staring at Chantel like he was memorizing her for later.
Chantel leaned close.
“Little dirty girl. Still begging for bread?”
The room went red around the edges.
Cindy heard the orphanage cafeteria again. Laughter. Empty plates. A boy’s voice saying,
Leave her alone.
She pulled her wrist free.
“You don’t get to talk to me like that anymore.”
Chantel laughed.
“Who’s going to stop me? Your fake husband?”
The word fake snapped through the room.
Philip’s eyes sharpened.
Chantel realized she had said too much.
“I know your secret,” she said, smiling again. “That marriage is a stunt. Maybe the press would like to hear.”
Cindy’s breath stopped.
Philip walked to Mr. Rask.
“How much for the building?”
Chantel’s husband snorted.
“You can’t just—”
Philip named a number.
The room went silent.
Mr. Rask blinked.
Philip named a higher one.
Mr. Rask’s hand shook as he accepted.
Cindy stared at Philip.
“You bought it.”
“For yourself?”
He looked at the cracked walls.
“I don’t know. Felt like keeping it.”
The words wounded her before she understood why.
Of course.
Rich people collected things.
Racehorses.
Scandals.
Buildings.
Women.
“You think this is funny?” she asked.
“No.”
“You think because I’m broke, you can wave money and own my dream?”
Philip’s expression hardened.
“And because I’m rich, everything I do must be to toy with you?”
The air between them changed.
Cindy hated that he looked hurt.
She hated more that she cared.
“Whatever it takes,” she said, “I’ll buy it from you.”
He studied her.
“Whatever it takes?”
His mouth curved.
Dangerous.
“Then work for it.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“At the bakery?”
“With me.”
That was how Cindy became Philip Hobbs’s fake wife, reputation manager, unofficial nutrition consultant, and personal disaster shield all at once.
His world was nothing like hers.
Equestrian banquets glittered with money so old it had manners. Women in silk discussed bloodlines as if horses and people were bred under the same rules. Men with weathered tans and family crests shook Philip’s hand while scanning Cindy’s dress, her shoes, her accent, her existence.
She did not belong.
Everyone made sure she knew it.
Adele Swift made sure most of all.
Adele was the daughter of David Swift, president of the U.S. Equestrian Foundation. She had pale hair, perfect skin, and the delicate cruelty of someone raised to believe wanting something was the same as deserving it.
The first time Adele entered Philip’s apartment, Cindy was in the kitchen testing a honey-cardamom tart recipe.
Adele walked in without knocking.
“Philip is showering,” Cindy said.
Adele looked her over.
“There is nothing on that body I haven’t seen.”
Cindy smiled.
“Congratulations on your memory.”
Adele’s gaze sharpened.
“And you are?”
“Cindy Hobbs.”
Adele laughed.
The laugh died when Philip came out in a towel and said, “Adele, meet my wife.”
Adele stared.
“She’s the woman from the news?”
“She’s my wife,” Philip repeated.
“Please. This is a stunt.”
Cindy lifted the marriage certificate from the counter where Philip had carelessly left it after a sponsor meeting.
“Legal stunt,” she said.
Adele’s face turned pink.
Philip coughed into his fist.
Cindy looked at him.
“How many honeys are you planning to marry, Mr. Hobbs?”
“Just one,” he said. “You, of course.”
The words should have meant nothing.