The new bell above the door chimed a melody of success, a bright, silver peal that cut through the warm hum of the crowd. Laughter and conversation filled every new corner of “The Next Chapter,” weaving through the custom-built shelves and settling between the pages of books waiting to be discovered. The scent of old paper and fresh ink mingled with the faintest, most stubborn ghost of sawdust and lemon oil—Liam’s scent.
From my place near the new checkout counter—a gorgeous, sweeping piece of reclaimed oak he’d spent a week sanding to a silken finish—I watched the town of Seabrook fill my store. Mrs. Gable was holding court in the new poetry section, her dramatic reading of a sonnet causing a ripple of appreciative chuckles. Mayor Thompson was shaking hands by the local author display, his booming voice proclaiming the store a triumph for the whole community. Every face was a familiar story, a friendly chapter in the anthology of this town I’d fought so hard to call home again.
It was a victory. The exposed brick wall glowed under the warm track lighting. The cozy reading nook, complete with worn leather armchairs I’d found at an estate sale, was already occupied. The cash register was ringing. By every conceivable metric, this was the dream realized.
But my heart felt like a hollowed-out book, its most important pages ripped away.
My eyes scanned the crowd for the tenth time, a desperate, foolish search for a man I knew wouldn’t be there. I was looking for broad shoulders that could block out the world, for a flannel shirt that was soft from a thousand washings, for eyes the color of a stormy sea that could see straight through to my soul. I was looking for Liam.
His absence was a physical presence, a cold draft in the otherwise warm room. Every perfectly mitered corner, every flawlessly level shelf, every square inch of this resurrected dream was a testament to his hands, his heart. He had poured himself into these walls, and now he was gone. He’d seen Bennett on one knee, and he’d walked away. He hadn’t even stayed long enough to hear my answer.
The memory of that moment—Bennett’s triumphant smile, the crisp plane ticket held between his fingers, the sudden, crushing silence where Liam’s presence should have been—was a fresh wound.
“There’s my brilliant fiancée.”
Bennett’s voice, smooth as polished marble, slid into my ear. His arm wrapped around my waist, a proprietary gesture that pulled me flush against the tailored perfection of his suit. He smelled of expensive cologne and city air, a stark contrast to the earthy scent of wood and work that I craved.
“It’s incredible, Chloe. Truly,” he said, his gaze sweeping the room. But he wasn’t looking at the details. He was assessing the crowd, the turnout, the success. To him, this was a project, a checklist item now satisfyingly ticked. “You actually did it. You saved the dusty old bookstore.”
The words were meant as a compliment, but they landed like a backhanded slap. Dusty old bookstore. Actually did it. As if he’d ever doubted, or rather, as if my success was a quaint little surprise.
I forced a smile that felt brittle enough to shatter. “We did it. The whole town helped.” And Liam, I thought, my heart clenching. Liam did it.
“Of course,” he said, his tone indulgent, the way one might speak to a child proud of a macaroni necklace. He pressed a kiss to my temple, his lips cool against my skin. “They’re all so very… enthusiastic. It’s a wonderful turnout for your final night.”
My blood went cold. “Final night?”
“Well, your final night in charge,” he clarified, his hand tightening on my waist as he guided me toward the center of the room. He was steering me, presenting me. The triumphant partner. “You’ve accomplished what you set out to do. The place is saved, it’s beautiful, and you’ve given the town their little hub back. Now, we can finally go home. Our real life is waiting.”
Our real life. The phrase echoed in the cavernous space Liam’s absence had carved inside me. For months, Bennett’s world—the sleek high-rise apartment, the charity galas, the life of curated perfection—had been the future I was supposed to want. It was the life I had left Seabrook for in the first place.
But standing here, surrounded by the tangible proof of my own strength, his words felt alien. Wrong. The life he was describing felt like a beautifully illustrated novel I had no interest in reading.
“I have a buyer already interested,” he continued, his voice a low, confidential murmur. “A small chain specializing in ‘quaint retail experiences.’ They’d keep the name, of course. Your legacy would be intact. And you’d turn a very tidy profit.”
I stared at him, my throat suddenly tight. He saw this place—this living, breathing extension of my very soul—as an asset to be liquidated. A project to be flipped. He hadn’t been supporting my dream; he’d been waiting for me to finish playing so we could get back to the real game.
My gaze drifted past his shoulder, landing on the checkout counter. I saw Liam leaning against it, covered in a fine layer of sawdust, a pencil tucked behind his ear. I remembered the afternoon he’d brought me a coffee, his thumb brushing against mine as he handed it over, a jolt of electricity so potent it had nearly made me drop the cup. I remembered the low timbre of his laugh when I’d accidentally smeared paint on my nose, and the gentle way he’d wiped it off, his touch lingering for a heartbeat too long.
Those weren’t moments from a project. They were moments from a life. A life I had been building right here, without even realizing it.
“Chloe? Did you hear me?” Bennett’s voice pulled me back. “We could be on a flight by the end of the week. Back to where you belong.”
I finally looked at him, really looked at him. At the handsome, familiar face that suddenly felt like a stranger’s. He was smiling, confident in his plan, in his ownership of my future. He saw the woman he’d proposed to a year ago, the one who wore designer dresses and understood which fork to use. He didn’t see the woman standing before him now—the one with paint under her fingernails and a fire in her belly, the one who had learned to wield a power sander and fight for a piece of herself she hadn’t known was missing.
Saving this store was never just about the building. I saw it with a blinding, gut-punching clarity. It was never about my grandmother’s legacy or a nostalgic whim.
It was about saving myself.
It was about proving that I was more than an accessory to his life. It was about building something real and lasting with my own two hands. It was about finding a home not in a penthouse overlooking a city of millions, but in a small town, within four walls that smelled of paper and wood and history. A home I had found in the quiet, steady presence of a man who understood that a cracked spine on a beloved book was a sign of a story well-loved, not a flaw to be corrected.
Bennett saw a finished product. Liam had seen the process. He’d seen the struggle, the frustration, and the triumph. He hadn’t tried to fix it for me; he’d handed me the tools and worked alongside me.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I said, my voice quiet but clear.
Bennett’s smile broadened. “It is. And you should be incredibly proud. Now, let’s go mingle. I want everyone to know how supportive I’ve been through this… diversion.”
Diversion. The word was a lit match on the kindling of my anger. I gently extricated myself from his grasp. The movement was small, but it felt seismic. For the first time, his touch felt like a cage, and I had just found the key.
“You’re right,” I said, turning to face him fully. The noise of the party seemed to fade into a distant buzz. “I am proud.”
I looked around the room, my room, my life. I saw the faces of my friends, my community. I felt the solid floorboards beneath my feet. I breathed in the scent of my victory. It was a victory that felt incomplete, achingly so, but it was mine. And the future Bennett was offering—a future as a footnote in his story—wasn’t a prize. It was a surrender.
“Chloe, you look… strange,” Bennett said, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features. “Are you tired? We can leave soon.”
“No,” I said, and the single word was the truest thing I’d said all night. I met his gaze, and for the first time, I wasn’t trying to be the woman he wanted me to be. “I’m not tired. I’m just waking up.”
He didn’t understand. I could see it in the way his brow furrowed, in the way his perfect smile faltered. He thought I was talking about the party, the exhaustion of the renovation.
He had no idea I was talking about us. About everything.
And in that moment, the path forward became terrifyingly, exhilaratingly clear. The next chapter wasn’t waiting for me on a plane ticket back to a life that no longer fit. It was right here. I just had to be brave enough to turn the page, and pray it wasn’t too late to find the man who had helped me write it.