Page 245 of Lost Then Found
I want him to feel it—the shift. The moment he stops being the one pulling the strings.
“If you don’t walk away from the Bluebell, I’ll make people see what I see. I’ll pull every thread. I’ll put your name in the mouths of every investor, every client, every paper in Montana. You won’t be able to build a damn chicken coop without someone asking who you had to pay off for the permit.”
His mouth presses into a line, the smirk gone now, replaced by something heavier—something more like dread. He leans back against the booth, his jaw shifting like he’s trying to figure out his next move.
Then he exhales through his nose and says, “What do you want?”
I don’t answer right away. I let the question hang there between us.
He asked like it was a negotiation, like this is still salvageable for him.
“Leave the Bluebell the hell alone,” I say, voice steady. “No bakery across the street. No ghost companies sniffing around the permits. No back-pocket inspectors.”
He watches me, silent.
“You want to keep your empire, fine. Keep it. But you don’t get to build it on top of mine.”
Tate’s face twitches—just barely—but it’s there. That flash of rage behind his eyes. It makes men like him dangerous when they think they’ve lost something they were never owed to begin with.
He leans back, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek. “You think this makes you untouchable?”
“No,” I say, calm and level. “But I think it exposesyou. And that’s worse.”
His hand slides down his jaw, slow and tight, like he’s trying to scrape off the conversation with his palm. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “All this because I madeyou an offer?”
I laugh under my breath. “No, all this because you thought I wouldn’t notice how many strings you were pulling to make me say yes.”
He stands suddenly, eyes blazing, voice low. “Fine. You want me to walk away? You got it. But don’t think this makes us even.”
“I don’t want to be even,” I say. “I want to be free of you and your bullshit.”
He stares at me a second longer. Then, with a short, bitter nod, he turns and walks out. Shoulders rigid, stride clipped, like he’s chewing on the wordnofor the first time in a long time.
I don’t move right away. I just sit there, my hands pressed flat to the table, pulse thudding in my throat.
For once, it’s not from fear.
It’s from fire. From taking back what’s mine.
Josie rounds the corner with a tray in her hands, balancing a full plate. She pauses when she spots me, her eyes widening like she’s trying to make sense of something that’s not adding up.
“I thought I saw Wendell sittin’ over here.”
“You did,” I say, smoothing my palms over the tabletop like I’m brushing off the last of his presence.
Her eyebrows pull together. “So…he just left? Without eating?”
“Guess he wasn’t as hungry as he thought.”
She eyes the plate, then me. “He already paid for it.”
I reach for it without thinking, the smell hitting me before the heat even does—fluffy pancakes, golden at the edges, a biscuit split open and smothered in creamy gravy, eggs cooked just the way I like them, soft but not runny. It smells like comfort. And honestly like something I fucking deserve.
“I’ll eat it,” I say, taking the plate.
Josie lets out a soft laugh and hands it over before walking off.
I settle back into the booth, the warmth of the plate steadying something that had been shaking loose for a long time.
