Chapter 9 Her Past Isn't a Guest

The rain didn't ask permission.

It lashed Brooklyn in heavy bursts, drenching sidewalks, blinking out stoplights, and sending pedestrians scattering beneath awnings. Inside Brick & Basil, the storm played percussion on the windows while Riley prepped pie bases for the afternoon rush, sleeves rolled up, hair twisted into a messy knot that kept defying gravity.

Ariana was supposed to arrive by 3 p.m., but Riley hadn't checked the time in twenty minutes. She was too deep in a new crust experiment-rye with a hint of lime zest, born from a dream she scribbled half-asleep at 2 a.m.

The bell over the door jingled.

Not Ariana.

Riley straightened, blinked.

It was Jaxon.

Leather jacket. Damp hair. A smirk that hadn't evolved since the breakup two years ago.

He leaned against the counter like he belonged there.

"I figured I'd drop by," he said.

Riley's shoulders tensed. "Didn't realize you started calling first."

"Where's the fun in that?"

"I don't have time."

"I'm not asking for time," he said, eyeing the oven. "I'm asking if you've forgotten who you were before the camera crews showed up."

Riley swallowed hard. "You don't get to ask that."

"I think I do. I built half this shop with you."

"You repainted a wall and borrowed my basil."

"And gave you ideas," he said.

Riley scoffed. "And took credit."

There was a long silence.

"You're different," Jaxon said, voice quieter. "Shinier. But the crust? Still yours."

Riley didn't respond.

He dropped something on the counter-a flash drive.

"It's a reel," he said. "Old footage. Of you. Your early pies. Your first pop-up menu. I'm pitching a docu-series. I want you in the first episode."

Riley stared at it. The storm outside roared louder.

"Without asking?"

"It's exposure."

"I don't need exposure. I need space."

Jaxon leaned closer. "You think she-your investment princess-is going to ride this wave forever? This is temporary."

"She's not temporary."

He grinned without humor. "You sure?"

Riley reached for the flash drive, slid it back across the counter. "I don't want your past. I built my present."

Jaxon's smirk slipped. "Careful, Ri."

"I'm not afraid anymore."

Ariana arrived ten minutes later with a soaked coat and a pastry box that had fought the rain valiantly but lost.

Riley didn't mention Jaxon.

Not right away.

They baked, reviewed logistics for their upcoming community demo, and shared cinnamon bites over coffee that had cooled too long.

But Riley's energy wavered. Her mind looped.

Ariana noticed.

"You're quiet," she said softly.

Riley wiped her hands on her apron. "Jaxon dropped by."

Ariana's expression froze for a fraction of a second, then thawed.

"What did he want?"

"He's pitching a show. Wants to use footage of me. From before."

"Without permission?"

Riley nodded.

Ariana sighed and set her mug down. "You okay?"

"I'm angry."

"Because he didn't ask?"

"Because he thinks I owe him something."

Ariana reached across the prep counter, touched Riley's wrist.

"You don't."

"I know."

They stood in silence, the rain still tapping its rhythm into the windows.

Then Ariana said, "Do you want me to handle it?"

Riley smiled, tired. "No. I want to burn his reel."

They both laughed.

The tension eased-but didn't vanish.

Two days later, Riley was cleaning the walk-in fridge when she overheard a conversation through the back alley door.

Jaxon.

Talking to Theo-the jazz trio's saxophone player.

"...she's got it all now," Jaxon said. "I just want a piece back."

Theo replied, "Seems like she's moved on."

Jaxon snorted. "You don't just erase history. You bury it. I'm just digging."

Riley froze behind the shelf of artichokes.

He wasn't just showing up.

He was circling.

That evening, Riley told Ariana everything.

And Ariana did what she always did-strategized.

"He's circling your story," Ariana said. "We need to protect your brand. Your name."

"I don't want my name in his mouth," Riley muttered.

"Then we cut the cords."

They drafted a public statement-professional, direct, firm.

"I celebrate my past, but I won't have it repurposed without consent. My story is mine, and it's unfolding in real time-on my terms."

Ariana published it.

Riley watched it post.

And finally exhaled.

But Jaxon wasn't done.

A week later, a blog ran his teaser for the docu-series: "Where Brooklyn Crust Came From." It included grainy clips of Riley at age 23, laughing over an experimental fig pie, flipping flour into the air like confetti. The voiceover said: "Before cameras fell in love, so did she-with the flavor that started everything."

Riley felt sick.

He'd taken something joyful and twisted it into context.

She walked out of the shop.

Took the subway to Queens.

Ended up back outside her grandmother's shuttered diner.

This time, she knocked on the frame.

No answer.

Just silence.

And memories.

Ariana found her there.

She didn't say much-just sat down beside her, coat flared over her legs.

"He's using you like seasoning," Ariana said softly.

"He's using a younger me," Riley whispered.

"He's grabbing your shadow because you shine too bright now."

Riley wiped her eyes. "I don't want to be a storyline."

"You're not. You're a revolution."

Riley looked at Ariana. "I'm scared it's working."

"I'm scared it's hurting you."

They stood together, gazes fixed on the diner's broken sign overhead.

Ariana pressed her forehead to Riley's temple.

"Come home," she said.

And they did.

Back in the shop, Riley erased the old mood board and wrote one new line:

"This slice honors the girl I used to be-and the woman I've become."

Beneath it, she pinned a polaroid of her 23-year-old self with fig-streaked fingers and chaotic bangs.

Next to it, a new one: her and Ariana, arms wrapped, laughing.

She made a new pie.

Fig. Ricotta. Mint. Lemon zest.

She called it Closure.

It sold out by noon.