Chapter 5 - THE BAKERY ON 4TH STREET
By noon, news of Adrian Wolfe’s sudden, inexplicable presence in Bellweather had leaked to the national press.
The Wall Street Journal ran a front-page headline: WOLFE INDUSTRIAL GROUP CEO ABANDONS MERCER ACQUISITION; RELOCATES TO RUST-BELT PENNSYLVANIA TOWN.
Bloomberg reported that Wolfe Industrial Group’s stock had dipped 4.2% in morning trading due to investor uncertainty regarding Adrian’s absence from the corporate headquarters.
Adrian didn't care.
He sat on a small wooden stool inside Miller’s Bakery on 4th Street—a tiny, flour-dusted shop with squeaky floorboards where Lara Collins had worked as a pastry chef for the past six years.
The bakery owner, a kindly, silver-haired woman named Mrs. Martha Miller, wiped down the glass display case with a towel, looking nervously at the billionaire sitting in her corner booth surrounded by three armed private security guards stationed discreetly outside the door.
"She worked right back there," Mrs. Miller said softly, pointing a flour-covered thumb toward the swinging wooden kitchen doors. "Lara came in at four every morning. She made the best cinnamon rolls in the county. Never complained once. Not even when she was doing chemotherapy."
Adrian took a sip of black coffee from a chipped ceramic mug. "Did she talk about her family?"
"All the time," Mrs. Miller smiled warmly, her eyes crinkling. "Those three little girls were her entire universe, Mr. Wolfe. She worked sixty hours a week between my kitchen and the laundry down the street so she could afford their reading books, their ballet slippers, and their special eye exams."
Mrs. Miller paused, her smile fading as she looked at Adrian sternly.
"She told me about you once," Mrs. Miller added, setting her towel down. "About four years ago. It was a rainy night, much like yesterday. We were closing up shop, and she was so exhausted she could barely stand. I asked her why she didn't try to find the girls' father for child support."
Adrian’s grip tightened around his coffee mug. "What did she say?"
"She said, 'Martha, Adrian Wolfe lives in a world where everything has a price tag. If I accept his money, he will think he owns my daughters' souls. I would rather work until my fingers bleed than let my children grow up believing love is something you buy in a board room.'"
The wooden floorboards creaked.
The bell above the bakery door chimed loudly as the door opened, letting in a gust of cold winter air.
Stepping into the shop, holding their grandmother’s hands, were Emily, Sophie, and Naomi.
The three girls were on their lunch break from Bellweather Elementary School, carrying their small plastic lunchboxes.
When Sophie saw Adrian sitting in the corner booth, she froze, clutching her grandmother’s coat sleeve.
Naomi adjusted her glasses, staring at him with intense, analytical curiosity.
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And Emily took a step forward, looking at the billionaire sitting on a cheap wooden stool.
"You're still here," Emily said.
