I laugh, but it comes out hollow. “Guess he’s working on himself.”
“Good,” Drew says, rising to her feet. “He can work on himself far away from you.”
Silence lingers between us. I glance at her, my sister, my anchor, and feel the weight of everything she’s carried with me. She’s been here since day one, helping me build this business.
Finally, I exhale. “Thanks for telling me.”
She gives me a small smile. “Just don’t let him bulldoze his way in. You’re the one building something real here. You’re the one helping these women.”
“I won’t.” I pause at the door. “I’m going to keep building my business. No matter what.”
She nods. “And I’ll be here. Every step of the way.”
We part ways. I step into the cool, crisp air, my thoughts drifting to Gideon, to everything he’s done, good and bad. He may not have pressured me, and I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive him, but one thing is clear: I can’t let this define me.
I walk home through the quiet, letting the wind tangle my thoughts. I wish making peace with someone were as simple as a letter or a speech. But it isn’t. It’s time. It’s presence.
A week slips by. I let it and focus on the small things: clearing invoices, folding laundry, tending to clients, strengthening my ties with my sister and my brother. I let myself feel the quiet joy of progress, even as the questions linger.
One night, just as I’m about to close my laptop, a new email notification appears. The subject line reads: “Interview Request for The Pigeon Express.” A small local paper, about twenty minutes south of here.
I click it open. It’s from a journalist named Matthew, who wants to feature my new business. His email is polite, professional, and brimming with praise. He’s heard about my work and believes my story is exactly the kind of inspiration his readers need.
My heart pounds as I linger on the final line: “Your story is one of strength and resilience. I’d love to tell it.” Interesting.
Chapter 18
Lara
The hum of the engine settles into a low, comforting drone. I watch the city blur past the passenger window, a kaleidoscope of storefronts and street signs. I’m on my way to meet Matthew, the journalist from The Pigeon Express. My palms are damp, my stomach a tight, anxious knot. I keep replaying his email in my head, the one with the line that made my heart pound: “Your story is one of strength and resilience. I’d love to tell it.”
I can do this. I have to. This isn’t just about my business; it’s about proving to myself that I am more than the girl he left at the altar. It’s about building a life so full and meaningful that the shame of that day fades into a small, distant echo.
My mind drifts to Gideon. I haven’t seen him in weeks, yet his presence lingers in the clients he keeps sending my way. It feels like a cruel kind of support, a quiet reminder of his guilt that only fuels my anger. It’s a debt I don’t want repaid, a debt I long to forget.
I know the story of the wedding will come up. I’ve prepared for it. I’ll tell it without emotion, without self-pity. It’s a fact of my life, a data point. I won’t let him turn my pain into a spectacle. I will be strong. I will be resilient. I will be exactly what his email said I am. I won’t lie about what happened, but I don’t intend to give him every detail. I’ll focus on my business, on my triumph, not on his mistake.
I pull into the café parking lot, my heart racing in my chest. The building is cozy and inviting, the scent of coffee and freshly baked goods drifting into the air. The perfect setting for a conversation about heartbreak and triumph.
Inside, I spot Matthew waiting for me. He’s all rumpled charm, with a smile that reaches his dark, kind eyes. He’s scribbling in a notebook, a pen tucked behind his ear.
“Lara, thanks for meeting me,” he says, extending a hand across the table. His grip is firm and warm. “I’m Matthew. I’ve been following the progress of your business, and I’m really impressed.”
I nod, offering a tight, professional smile. “Thank you. It’s been a journey, to say the least.”
We spend the next few minutes on small talk. He asks about the café, about how long I’ve been in the neighborhood. I answer steadily, my guard still up. I talk about the numbers, the spreadsheets, the satisfaction of helping women find their financial footing.
“And your story,” he says, his gaze gentle but direct. “The email mentioned you’d had a setback, a big one.”
I take a slow sip of my latte, the foam leaving a faint white trace on my lip. My stomach clenches, but I don’t flinch. I can do this. I’ve practiced.
“I was left at the altar,” I say, the words dry and simple. No drama. No self-pity. “It was a public humiliation. A shock. But it also gave me a choice: I could either let it define me or use it as a catalyst to build something of my own.” I meet his eyes, my gaze unwavering. “I chose the latter.”
Matthew nods slowly, but the respect I saw in his eyes a moment ago vanishes, replaced by something cold and calculating. He snaps his notebook shut, the sound a sharp, final slap against the quiet air.
“An inspiring story,” he says, his voice stripped of warmth, edged now with suspicion. “Almost too inspiring.”
I freeze. Something is wrong, and my body knows it. The hairs on my arms rise. A cold knot coils in my stomach. The air in the room, so comforting just a minute ago, suddenly feels thin and hostile. “What do you mean?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
