Chapter 5 Cracks in the Crust

It started with the sound of shutters.

Not one or two, but dozens-layered like static as Riley stepped outside the shop for her morning delivery. She carried a box of tomatoes on her hip, wore a hoodie beneath her apron, and hadn't even looked at her phone. But the moment she reached the curb, the flash barrage began.

She froze.

"Riley! Is it love or lunch?"

"Are you meeting Ariana today?"

"Did she invest in your dough recipe?"

"Who's the girl behind the crust?"

They didn't wait for answers. Their lenses fed on her confusion, her flushed cheeks, the way her hands tensed around the cardboard.

She darted back inside, heart hammering.

Locked the door.

Pulled the blinds.

Called Ariana.

It went to voicemail.

Across the city, Ariana was on stage.

A leadership summit, keynote speaker, all eyes on her. She wore crisp navy and a subtle sheen of calm. Her speech flowed-sharp, evocative, full of the kind of poetry only ambition could weave.

But her phone, sitting muted in her bag, lit up five times.

Messages from Riley.

She didn't see them until three hours later.

She didn't respond until five.

"I'm sorry. I was speaking."

Riley replied: "I understand. I just didn't expect to be news again."

No follow-up came.

She didn't hear Ariana's voice that night.

That weekend, the headlines escalated.

A podcast dissected their relationship: "Power Play or Pizza Passion?"

A tabloid ran a mock-up of Riley in a bridal gown, captioned "Can Dough Lead to Diamonds?"

A leaked memo from West Holdings surfaced: internal conversations about damage control, public image, and "managing sentimental entanglements."

Riley read it twice.

Then she read it again.

The words blurred.

Sunday evening, Ariana arrived unannounced-rain-soaked, breathless, clutching a bouquet of thyme.

"I thought you liked unusual herbs," she said quietly.

Riley stared at the bouquet. "You came with a garnish."

"And an apology."

Riley moved aside.

They sat on crates again, kitchen dim and warm.

"I didn't know about the memo," Ariana said. "It was internal. Not approved. I confronted them."

"But they wrote it."

"They wrote a lot of things."

"They used the word 'entanglement.' Like I'm clutter."

"You're not."

"I feel like I am."

Ariana leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Tell me how to fix this."

Riley hesitated.

"I don't know," she whispered. "But I know when I see cracks in something I've built."

Their eyes met. Neither looked away.

But neither smiled.

That night, Riley didn't sleep.

She kneaded dough with extra pressure, baked five experimental pies, and wrote a new menu board: "This Week's Slice: Bold with Regret."

Ariana sent one text before sunrise:

"I'm still here."

Riley didn't reply.

Monday was chaos.

A food writer published an op-ed: "Riley Quinn's Flame Is Fading."

Two customers requested selfies "before the breakup."

Jaxon messaged: "Told you the glitter burns."

Riley deleted his name from her contacts.

But the words stuck.

She closed the shop early and rode the subway without destination, winding through stations and strangers.

She ended up in Queens-outside the diner her grandmother once ran.

It was boarded up now. Graffiti danced across the brick.

She touched the wall, closed her eyes, and remembered flour-streaked mornings, stories told through sauces, love written in mozzarella.

And the quiet: no cameras, no comments.

Just food and feeling.

Ariana found her hours later.

Tracked her phone. Asked the driver to stop.

She stepped out in heels that sank into the sidewalk cracks.

Riley sat cross-legged on the curb, staring at the boarded windows.

"This is where it started for me," she said softly.

"I wanted to be someone who served warmth."

"You are," Ariana said.

"I wanted quiet."

"I'm trying to give that to you."

"You brought cameras."

"I brought honesty. The world added cameras."

Silence.

Ariana sat beside her.

Their shoulders brushed.

"I've never fought for a person before," Ariana said. "I fight for companies. Causes. Numbers."

"Maybe I'm not meant to be fought for."

"You are."

"You're losing clients."

"I don't care."

"You'll care tomorrow."

"I'll care differently tomorrow."

Riley turned.

Her eyes shimmered.

"But will you still care about me?"

Ariana didn't answer right away.

Then she leaned in and said, "Yes. Even if you slam the door. Even if you burn every crust."

"I burned one today."

"I'd still eat it."

They stayed in Queens until sundown.

No cameras found them there.

Just memory and momentum.

When they returned to Brooklyn, Ariana didn't go home.

She rolled dough beside Riley, flipped mushrooms into sizzling oil, wiped pesto from Riley's cheek with a stolen napkin.

Their laughter returned.

Lightly.

But it returned.

At midnight, Riley opened her social media.

She posted a photo-herself in her flour-covered apron, standing alone in the kitchen.

Caption: "I'm not a brand. I'm a baker. If you want heat, order extra pepper flakes."

The comments flooded.

Mostly support.

Some noise.

She didn't check again.

She went to bed with Ariana's hoodie wrapped around her pillow.

And dreamed of dough rising.