Leaning down, she spoke softly. “Nathan, today’s Philip’s birthday. Mom and Dad are inside. Do you want to come in and take a look?”
I stubbed out the cigarette.
When I spoke, my voice came out rough and dry. “No need. With one less of me around, won’t things be more peaceful for all of you?”
“Don’t say that.” She shook her head gently. “You’re still a Golding, Nathan.”
Before she could finish, the villa’s front doors were thrown open.
A man strode out, irritation etched into every step.
“Celeste! Who are you talking to?”
His gaze flicked toward me, sharp and dismissive.
“Haven’t I told you already? Don’t associate with those shady people outside.”
I didn’t wait to hear another word. I slammed the accelerator and pulled away.
Cold wind rushed through the car, seeping into my bones and leaving me shivering.
Eventually, the car came to a stop in front of a small steamed-bun shop.
The curtain lifted, and Luis Walker, my apprentice, stepped out with a wide grin.
“You’re back, Boss.”
My second shift began.
Kneading dough. Rolling wrappers. Chopping fillings and pre-heating ovens.
When it was finally over, I would collapse for three or four hours at most before dragging myself back behind the wheel.
Somewhere along the way, I had forgotten how to sleep truly.
By three in the morning, the heat inside the bake shop finally thinned out.
Luis squatted at the entrance, scrolling through his phone.
Suddenly, he clicked his tongue.
“Whoa, Boss, look at this! The Goldings threw a birthday party for their adopted son. They even chartered a whole yacht. This level of extravagance… damn. And his wife is ridiculously beautiful.”
The camera swept across the deck.
Philip had an arm wrapped around Celeste’s waist, leaning close to whisper something into her ear.
She smiled.
The same smile she had worn on our wedding day, all those years ago.
Nearby, my father, Archibald Golding, chairman of Golding Corp., stood with a benevolent expression, patting Philip on the shoulder like a proud parent.
“I heard the Golding family’s second son died of illness eight years ago,” Luis muttered casually. "If not, how's an adopted son supposed to get the money? Guess it’s all fate…”
He sighed, envy plain on his face.
“Forget buying a house. How many years would we have to sell buns just to afford one of their car tires?”
I looked at him and slowly shook my head.
That kind of life, I knew it too well.