The Abandoned Groom Married his Ex's Enemy!

Rosalie had spent so many years assuming she had so little to offer that even choosing what she wanted had become unexpectedly difficult.

Alejandro discovered this one morning when he found her on the veranda with three sheets of paper spread across the table, a pen in one hand, and an expression that suggested she was trying to solve a corporate merger rather than decide whether she wanted to bake bread for paying customers.

He placed his coffee beside her.

”How bad is it?”

Rosalie looked up.

”I have too many ideas.”

”That’s considerably better than having none.”

”It doesn’t feel better.”

Alejandro pulled out the chair across from her.

Since returning home, Rosalie had slowly begun changing.

Not dramatically.

Some mornings she still kept to herself, and some rooms in the house she still hesitated to enter because too much history lived inside them.

But she was eating better.

Sleeping better.

She no longer looked perpetually exhausted.

More importantly, she had begun talking about things that might happen tomorrow instead of only things that had happened years ago.

Alejandro considered that progress.

The bakery idea had started casually after their visit to Matteo’s. Rosalie had admired the mix of pastries and simple meals, then wondered aloud whether she could do something similar.

Alejandro had immediately offered to invest.

That had apparently made the idea more frightening, not less.

”What if I fail?” she asked.

”Then we learn something expensive.”

Rosalie stared.

”That’s your encouragement?”

”It’s realistic encouragement.”

”You always did know how to ruin a comforting moment.”

Alejandro smiled.

”I’m serious. I’m investing because I think you can do it, not because I expect perfection.”

She looked down at the papers.

”I don’t even know what it is yet.”

”Then that’s what we decide first.”

He pulled one sheet closer.

”What do you actually want to do every day?”

Rosalie frowned.

”Bake.”

”Good. That eliminates several things already.”

”How?”

”If you say you want to bake, I’m not going to suggest we open a steakhouse.”

She almost smiled.

Alejandro continued.

”Do you want people eating there?”

”I think so.”

”Think or know?”

Rosalie considered it.

”I don’t want a huge dining room.”

”Why?”

”Because then I’d spend more time worrying about tables, staff, and full meals than baking.”

”Good.”

Alejandro wrote something down.

”So not a diner.”

”Not purely.”

”Pure bakery? No dine-in?”

She shook her head.

”I like the idea of people sitting down with coffee or breakfast.”

”Then small cafe.”

”Maybe.”

”Breakfast?”

”Yes.”

”Lunch?”

”Limited.”

”Dinner?”

”No.”

That answer came quickly enough to make Alejandro smile.

”There. Progress.”

Rosalie looked mildly offended.

”You’re enjoying this.”

”Very much.”

She reached for another sheet.

”What about rooms?”

”Rooms?”

”The bed-and-breakfast idea.”

Alejandro leaned back.

Alexander and Giovanni had originally proposed it.

Instead of forcing Rosalie and Alejandro to commute daily into the city and compete with established restaurants, they could use part of the ancestral property itself.

The house was already too large for two people.

The farm offered space.

The horses were there.

The gardens.

The river farther out.

Most importantly, Rosalie wouldn’t have to build an entirely separate life somewhere else just to prove she could.

”What do you think?” she asked.

Alejandro shook his head.

”No.”

Rosalie blinked.

”No?”

”You’re not making me decide for you.”

”I asked your opinion.”

”You’ve spent too much of your life letting other people’s opinions become instructions.”

That quieted her.

Alejandro softened his tone.

”I’ll give you numbers. Risks. Costs. What I think is practical. But you tell me what you actually want first.”

Rosalie stared at him.

Years ago, Augustus would’ve answered the question before she finished asking.

He would’ve explained what was appropriate.

What was beneath the Vance family.

What Rosalie lacked.

What Alejandro deserved.

Even after Augustus died, Rosalie had apparently carried enough of his voice inside her to continue doing the work for him.

She looked toward the fields beyond the veranda.

”I think I want to stay here.”

Alejandro didn’t react too quickly.

”Here?”

”The farm.”

He waited.

Rosalie continued.

”If we open in the city, I’ll have to travel every day or move there. I don’t want that.”

”What about another property?”

”Too much.”

”Construction?”

”Exactly. Then I’ll spend a year waiting for a building before I even find out whether I enjoy the business.”

Alejandro nodded.

”So the ancestral home.”

”Part of it.”

”Not all?”

”No. I don’t want strangers walking through our bedroom.”

Alejandro raised an eyebrow.

Our bedroom.

Rosalie realized what she’d said approximately half a second later.

Her face changed.

”I mean the private part of the house.”

”Of course.”

”Don’t.”

”I said nothing.”

”You were about to.”

”I value my life.”

Rosalie gave him a look, then returned to the paper.

”Maybe three guest rooms first.”

”Three?”

”Enough to test it.”

”Good.”

”And breakfast included.”

”What kind?”

She began listing almost immediately.

Fresh bread.

Eggs.

Bacon.

Fruit.

Coffee.

Perhaps a rotating pastry.

Simple things she could manage without turning every morning into a restaurant operation.

Alejandro wrote while she talked.

Lunch could be optional.

Sandwiches.

Soup.

One or two short-order dishes.

Dessert.

No sprawling menu.

No dinner service initially.

”And drinks?” Alejandro asked.

”Coffee.”

”Obviously.”

”Tea.”

”Fruit drinks.”

Rosalie paused.

”Maybe hot chocolate.”

Alejandro looked over.

”For children?”

”For me.”

He laughed.

The menu discussion became easier after that.

Bread and pastries would remain the heart of the business.

That mattered to Rosalie.

Cakes could be preordered.

Desserts could rotate depending on available ingredients.

No thirty-item menu nobody could execute properly.

No pretending they needed to serve everything simply because they owned enough land to do it.

By the time breakfast ended, the three sheets had become an actual outline.

Rosalie stared at them.

”I think I can do this.”

Alejandro put down his pen.

”I know.”

She looked at him.

”You always say that.”

”Because you keep forgetting.”

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Rosalie traced one finger over the rough plan.

”When Ysabella and Matteo started, they sold everything.”

Alejandro nodded.

”Giovanni told us.”

”That was insane.”

”Probably.”

”And it worked.”

”Eventually.”

Rosalie smiled faintly.

”I’m not saying I want to sell everything.”

”Excellent. I would’ve objected.”

”But I keep thinking... they didn’t wait until they felt completely ready.”

”No one ever does.”

She looked around the veranda.

The house.

The farm.

The life she’d once run away from because every room seemed to remind her of the person she believed she had failed to become.

Maybe she’d been looking at it the wrong way.

Augustus had spent years making her feel as though she had arrived in the Vance family with nothing.

No degree.

No business training.

No polished upbringing.

Nothing useful enough to deserve Alejandro.

Rosalie had eventually believed him.

That had been her mistake.

She knew how to grow food.

She understood livestock.

She baked.

She cooked.

She knew what it meant to stretch ingredients when money was tight.

She knew how to make a house feel warm when she wasn’t too busy convincing herself she didn’t belong inside it.

Those were skills too.

Not lesser ones.

Different ones.

”I underestimated myself,” she said.

Alejandro looked at her.

”Yes.”

Rosalie frowned.

”You could’ve hesitated.”

”You asked for honesty.”

”I didn’t.”

”You implied it.”

She laughed despite herself.

Then her expression softened.

”And you?”

”What about me?”

”You retired because of me.”

”I retired because I wanted to.”

”You wanted to find me.”

”Yes.”

”Now I’m here.”

Alejandro waited.

Rosalie looked at the plans again.

”So what happens to you?”

Something inside him shifted.

For years, everything after retirement had revolved around Rosalie’s absence.

Investigators.

Waiting.

The ancestral home.

Keeping routines alive because he didn’t know what else to do with them.

Now she sat across from him, discussing bread.

Perhaps he needed a project too.

”I become your unpaid accountant.”

Rosalie stared.

”Unpaid?”

”I’m investing. If I pay myself, I’m simply moving money between pockets.”

”Fine.”

She picked up the pen.

”Investor. Accountant. Occasional dishwasher.”

Alejandro frowned.

”Why dishwasher?”

”Because you said you’d support where needed.”

”I withdraw the offer.”

”Too late.”

She wrote it down anyway.

And for the first time in years, Alejandro genuinely looked forward to having too much to do.