Page 16 of Forbidden Love

The fear of becomingthat womanagain coiled sharply and nauseatingly in her stomach. She swallowed hard, willing the memories back into the darkness where they belonged. But they came anyway—uninvited, relentless.

Betrayal had a way of carving itself into a person, reshaping them from the inside out. The man who had once whispered sweet lies in her ear had gutted her instead, stripping away every bit of softness until all that remained were jagged edges and raw wounds.

But she had adapted, had no choice.

She turned her pain into armor, her words into weapons. If she struck first, no one could strike her. No one could catch her off guard if she spread the gossip and controlled the story. It had been a survival tactic—cruel, yes, but necessary...or so she had thought.

Only now, she wasn’t sure who she was without it. She had spent so long playing the villain that she wasn’t sure she remembered how to be anything else.

Surprised by how quickly her thoughts turned dark, Deb sucked in a slow, steady breath. She had to shut it down—all of it.The memories, the what-ifs, the way Brock made her feel like maybe she wasn’t as ruined as she thought.

She couldn’t go down that road again. But she didn’t know if she could bethat bitchagain either. That version of herself had nearly destroyed her.Hell, maybe it had.Night after night alone, staring at the ceiling, choking on regret. The crushingweight of self-loathing every time she caught her own reflection.That womanhad hurt people, but no one more than herself. And all because of a man. Because she had let him.

Now, she didn’t know how to fix what was left of her. She wasbroken, and no matter how many times she tried to put herself back together, the cracks still showed.

Climbing the steps, Deb stopped outside the glass doors, her gaze catching on her own reflection. The early morning light cast soft shadows across her face, but it didn’t hide the exhaustion in her eyes. Or the doubt.

She looked at the woman staring back at her—the one holding a plate of cookies like some kind of peace offering as if she was trying to make amends for years of cruelty with a handful of chocolate chips and sugar.

Pathetic.

Her grip tightened on the plate.What the hell am I even doing?

This wasn’t her. She wasn’t the type to bake cookies and play nice. At least she hadn’t been for years. And yet, here she was. Torn between who she used to be and who she wanted to be again—if she evendeservedto be different.

Swallowing hard, she forced her feet forward and pulled the door open, stepping inside before she could talk herself out of it.

“Hey!” Emily’s voice was warm, edged with surprise as she glanced down at the plate in Deb’s hands. Her eyes lit up with hopeful excitement. “Please tell me those are cookies.”

Deb nodded, the motion stiff, her throat too tight to speak past the lump forming there. She set the plate on the counter,focusing on the swirl of chocolate in the golden-brown cookies instead of looking at her sister. She couldn’t.

She might see something she wasn’t ready to see in her sister’s gaze.

Instead, she forced her voice steady. “They’re still warm,” she murmured, clearing her throat as she busied herself adjusting the plate as if that simple action would ground her.

Emily reached for one, biting into it with a hum of approval. “God, these are good,” she said around a mouthful, then softened, her tone losing its teasing edge.

Deb swallowed hard, forcing a small smile. “Figured you’d need something sweet to get through the morning rush.”

“Since you started baking again, business has boomed.” Emily chuckled, grabbing another cookie. “I think they come in for the sweets, but if they end up buying stuff, I’m not complaining.”

Emily’s words hit hard because that was her thoughts exactly. She was trying to buy herself back into the town's good graces with...baking goods. Once again, the wordpatheticfloated through her mind.

Emily tilted her head, studying her, and Deb felt exposed, raw. She hated it.

“Anything to bring in business.” Deb turned away from her sister before she could ask questions Deb wasn’t ready to give. Taking off her jacket, she headed toward the back. “Did the truck come in yet?”

“No,” Emily called out. “It should be here anytime.”

Deb glanced down at herself, running her hands over the front of her hoodie as if to check for stray smudges of cookie dough. The soft fabric was worn, the faded gray material fitting her in a way that didn’t demand attention, just comfort. Paired with her jeans and scuffed work boots, she hardly resembled the woman she used to be.

Gone were the expensive blouses, the designer skirts, the shoes that cost more than most people’s rent. She had packed them all away, boxed them up, and sent them to charities across the county. It had been a quiet kind of purging, a shedding of the past she no longer wanted to carry.

And to her surprise, she liked it and didn’t miss her designer clothes at all.

This version of herself—the one who wore clothes made for work, not status—felt lighter. Real. Like she finally belonged to the life she was trying to rebuild instead of clinging to one that had never truly fit.

Walking back to the front of the store, she helped Emily lift a heavy box from one of the shelves.

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