Chapter 3
After the meeting, Vivian caught up with Eric in the hallway. "Are you sure you never pissed off anyone at ClaireCrust Bakery?"
"No, I swear," Eric said.
Vivian stared at him for a couple of seconds. "That's weird. By the way, wasn't your ex-wife's bakery called ClaireCrust Bakery, too?"
Eric froze. "Yeah, her shop was called ClaireCrust Bakery. But it was a tiny place in an alley, over one hundred square feet. It's nothing like that big chain."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course. She only made two thousand dollars a month. How could she possibly..." Eric stopped mid-sentence.
Suddenly, something clicked in his mind. He thought, 'ClaireCrust Bakery. C. S. Claire Sutton. No way.'
He pulled out his phone and searched for "ClaireCrust Bakery founder". The results were all the same. The founder's identity was a secret. She never showed in public.
All anyone knew was that she was a woman with the initials C. S. She started from scratch with a tiny 161-square-foot bakery in an alley, and in five years, turned it into a national chain with 1,200 stores.
The words 161 square feet, a street-side bakery, and five years made Eric's hands start to tremble.
He clicked the official ClaireCrust Bakery website.
On the "Brand Story" page, he saw a photo: the storefront of a run-down little bakery, the sign above the door with "ClaireCrust Bakery" scrawled across it.
That sign and that alley meant it was the very spot where he'd picked up Claire countless times.
His phone slipped from his hand and crashed onto the tile; the screen splintered with a loud crack.
Vivian said something beside him, but Eric didn't hear a thing.
Only one thought was echoing in his mind, over and over: 'Didn't Claire only make two thousand dollars a month?'
He tore through Claire's things like a madman, but Vivian had already cleaned the place out.
He rushed to the entryway and yanked open the drawer he'd never bothered with before. Inside was one thing: a white envelope with his name scrawled on it.
He ripped it open and pulled out the letter. There were only a few lines. He read them slowly, word by word.
It read: [The two hundred and seventy thousand dollars you owed after your business crashed in 2019? I covered it.
[The one hundred and thirty thousand dollars for your mom's hospital stay in 2021? I paid for that, too.
[That 'company bonus' you got every year? I sent the money to your boss so he could give it to you as a bonus.
[I'm the founder of ClaireCrust Bakery, the one with 1,200 franchise stores nationwide. Last year's brand valuation report was online. Best wishes, Claire.]
The letter slipped from his fingers and drifted to the floor. He stood in the entryway, feeling like someone had ripped out his spine.
The "bakery woman" he'd looked down on for three years was worth two hundred and seventy million dollars.
The number he'd blocked and deleted belonged to someone forever out of his league.
And that person, behind his back, had paid off his debts, cared for his mother, and used her own money to quietly paid for his year-old bonuses for three years.
He suddenly doubled over, hands on his knees, his stomach churning.
"Eric? What's wrong?" Vivian came out of the bedroom.
He didn't answer.
He snatched up his phone, desperate to call, then remembered he'd blocked Claire's number.
He unblocked her and dialed, but it said the number was disconnected.
He tried again. It was the same automated response.
He opened WhatsApp and searched for Claire's number. There was nothing. She'd changed her number. She had vanished.
Eric leaned against the wall and slowly slumped to the floor.
Vivian walked over and spotted the letter on the floor.
She picked it up and glanced at it, her face shifting from confusion to shock. "Is this real?"
Eric didn't say a word.
"That can't be right. She's always got an apron on, sneakers, all covered in flour. There's no way she'd..."
"Enough," Eric said, his voice hoarse.
He closed his eyes. Three years of marriage, and he'd always thought he was the provider. But he was the one being supported all along. And he was the one who drove her away.
*****
Claire was at the airport, dragging a 20-inch suitcase behind her. She wore a white T-shirt and jeans, her hair thrown up in a casual ponytail. Julia had dropped her off.
"Are you really not going to reconsider?" Julia leaned against the car door. "Your career here is starting to take off..."
"The team can handle things. I'm going to spend some time at the Riverside branch," Claire replied.
"You're avoiding Eric."
"Me? Avoid him?" Claire turned to look at her. "I don't want to be in the same city, breathing the same air as him."
Julia sighed. "He'll find out sooner or later."
"So what if he does?" Claire pulled up her suitcase handle. "The divorce is finalized, and the assets are settled. What's his is his, what's mine is mine. Legally, we have nothing to do with each other anymore."
"Don't you hate him?"
Claire thought for a moment. "No."
"Why?"
"Hating someone takes too much energy. I'd rather use it to come up with a couple of new recipes," Claire said with a slight smile, then pulled her suitcase into the terminal.
Julia called out from behind, "Claire, you deserve better."
Claire waved her hand, never turning around.
Before boarding, she posted on her social media. It was only a photo with no words: on the airport runway, the sunlight was glinting off the wing, almost blinding.
Eric was no longer in her contacts. He'd never see this post. But she didn't care.
As the plane took off, she checked her watch. It was 2:15 PM.
Three years of marriage were finally over. Her new life began at 30,000 feet.