The Girl Who Was His Replacement for Nine Years Finally Left Him Chapter 07

The Girl Who Was His Replacement for Nine Years Finally Left Him Chapter 07

The seaside town of Morena sat along the Mediterranean coast. It was small, quiet, and unhurried, with a warm, easygoing atmosphere that seemed to settle over everything.

Most of the people on the streets were smiling locals, chatting in English touched by the town’s

distinctive accent. It sounded familiar, yet somehow foreign.

Before I left, I had someone arrange a small stone cottage for me, tucked deep in the old town along a quiet cobblestone lane. It came with a little courtyard, and the rent was cheap enough that, if I was careful, my savings would last me more than six months.

A jacaranda tree grew in the courtyard, its branches thick with leaves. They said that in summer, the entire tree would burst into a breathtaking canopy of purple blossoms, scattering petals all over

the yard.

The day I moved in, I worked from morning until night.

I scrubbed the dust from the old furniture until it gleamed, replaced the yellowed sheets, and filled

the windowsills with wildflowers I had picked along the roadside.

The kitchen stove was old and grimy. I scrubbed it over and over until the original white of the tiles

finally showed through.

By the time darkness fell, the tiny cottage finally looked like a home.

It was the first real space that had belonged entirely to me in nine years.

No Matteo watching me with that cold, unreadable stare.

No strict rules imposed by the Valenti family.

No Chloe needling me with her cruel little provocations.

Once I closed the door, there was no one left in the world but me.

That night, I made myself a steaming bowl of seafood chowder and cut a few slices of sourdough

bread. Then I sat on the stone bench in the courtyard and ate slowly.

The evening breeze carried the damp scent of the sea, along with the faint fragrance of jacaranda

blossoms.

Far away, I could hear the waves breaking against the shore, one after another, like a soft lullaby.

I wrapped both hands around the warm bowl.

Then, without warning, tears slipped down my cheeks.

They fell into the soup, spreading tiny ripples across the surface.

So this was what peace felt like.

I didn’t have to live in fear.

I didn’t have to bow and scrape for anyone.

I didn’t have to spend my life as an extension of someone else.

“God, this is nice.”

I sniffled and wiped away my tears, but I couldn’t stop the smile tugging at the corners of my

mouth.

Even if this life lasted only a single day, it was still better than spending nine years as a powerless

puppet in the Moretti family, with no voice, no freedom, and no dignity of my own.

For the next two weeks, I focused on getting to know the town.

Every morning, I walked along the waterfront boardwalk, watching the fishermen head out to sea

and the elderly locals gather in the square to feed pigeons and soak up the sun.

At noon, I went to the market on the corner for groceries, learning to bargain with the vendors

using simple English and hand gestures.

In the afternoons, I stayed home and experimented with desserts.

Back in Ironport, Matteo used to drive halfway across the city late at night just to buy me crème

caramel..

It had been one of the few sweet things in my otherwise miserable marriage.

After he stopped buying it for me, I never had it again.

Now, I wanted to make it myself.

I bought fresh milk, vanilla beans, and heavy cream, experimenting with the perfect sweetness and caramel topping.

If the first batch failed, I made a second.

If the second wasn’t right, I made a third.

Too sweet? I cut back on the sugar.

Not silky enough? I adjusted the oven temperature.

My neighbor, Mrs. Maria Bruno, was a lifelong local. She noticed me spending my days experimenting with baking and often came over to offer advice.

She taught me how to pick the freshest vanilla beans, how to whip cream until it was perfectly smooth, and how to bake the custard so the bottom came out silky and delicate.

Mrs. Bruno had never married and had no children. She lived alone and took a special liking to me..

She often brought me homemade vanilla cookies and freshly picked olives.

I felt bad always accepting her kindness, so I started bringing her my homemade crème caramel

Mrs. Bruno couldn’t stop praising it.

She told me I had a real talent for baking and that it would be a shame if I didn’t open my own

bakery.

She hadn’t meant anything by it.

But I took her words seriously.

I counted my savings, then went around the corner to ask about storefront rents.

As luck would have it, a little shop of barely more than a hundred square feet was up for lease nearby. The rent was reasonable, and the location was excellent. It was right beside the town square, where both tourists and locals passed through all day.

I bit the bullet and signed the lease.

I gave the place a simple makeover, painted the walls a warm cream color, set out two small wooden tables, and hung a tasteful wooden sign over the entrance.

Renee’s Bakery & Cafe

There were no flower baskets on opening day.

No ribbon–cutting ceremony.

Just Mrs. Bruno and a few of the neighborhood ladies who came by to show their support.

I stood behind my tiny counter, my palms slick with nervous sweat.

When I carried out my first crème caramel, my stomach twisted with nerves.

It wasn’t until the customer smiled and said, “This is the best pudding I’ve ever had,” that I finally let out the breath I’d been holding.

“Thank you.

I smiled, my eyes crinkling at the corners. My heart felt as though I’d tucked a piece of candy inside

it.
This was the first time I’d earned someone’s approval with my own two hands.

It wasn’t like the extravagant jewelry Matteo had given me.

This belonged to me.

To Renee Blair.

And for the first time, I had something no one could take away from me.

My own strength.