The Bakery and the Burial – Season 2, Part 1

I buried Beck beneath poetry and hardwood, but her voice still echoed in the spaces between my ribs. New York became a cage of whispers—her laugh on the stairs, the sound of the bookstore bell, the scent of her shampoo on strangers passing me in the street. So I ran. West. To Los Angeles. The land of smoothies, sunsets, and souls that smiled too wide. I chose a name—Will Bettelheim. Not mine, but fitting. The real Will? He’s alive, just very…quiet now. Locked away. Safe.

I came here to disappear. To not feel. To not love. I rented a dusty storage unit, took a job at a trendy health store called Anavrin—a ridiculous paradise for the rich. The city smelled like lavender and lies. Everyone here was either someone or pretending to be someone, and I knew all too well how dangerous pretense could be. But I kept my head down. Folded aprons. Stocked kale chips. I was a ghost. Until the day I saw her.

She walked in like she owned gravity. She wasn’t flashy or loud. She was just…right. Love Quinn. That was really her name. And no, I didn’t follow her at first. Not really. I just noticed. Her laughter was the sound the world owed me after all I had lost. She ran the bakery counter. She gave me a peach tart. She smiled like she had seen the worst of life and still believed in sugar. “You look like someone who needs a second chance,” she said. I almost laughed. She had no idea how many chances I had already taken and destroyed.

I told myself she was off-limits. I wasn’t Joe anymore. But she kept coming back. Asking questions. Showing interest. Leaving little notes in the pastry box. Love was warmth in a world I had decided to freeze myself out of. But I couldn’t stop. Not even when I learned about her past—her husband James, dead too young. Her twin brother Forty, a chaos tornado with a Hollywood trust fund. I watched her because I needed to understand her. Not to harm. I watched because I wanted to deserve her.

She wasn’t like Beck. Beck needed saving. Love… Love was dangerous. She was the storm. She didn’t seek approval; she bent the world to her will. I was trying to be better. I didn’t hack her phone. I didn’t steal her things. I just listened. Observed. Okay—once, maybe twice, I followed her home. Just to make sure she was safe. She lived above a flower shop. Her windowsill had mint, basil, and rosemary. She wore a red raincoat on rainy days and always double-locked the door.

And then came Candace.

Alive.

Breathing.

Smiling.

The woman I thought I had buried. The ghost that refused to stay buried. She had a new name now—Amy Adam. She pretended to be one of them, but her eyes still burned. She wanted revenge. Not justice—revenge. She threatened to expose me, to Love, to the world. That I was a liar. A killer. That I didn’t deserve peace.

I watched her. She infiltrated Forty’s world, playing producer to his screenplay disaster. Every move she made, she twisted deeper into my life. I couldn’t touch her, couldn’t run. I was trapped between the lies I told and the life I wanted.

I tried to confess to Love. Not everything. Just enough to seem broken but repairable. I told her about my scars, about pain, about how I always ruin what I love. She didn’t flinch. She kissed me. Told me I was safe with her. That my darkness didn’t scare her. That maybe she had her own.

And then came Delilah.

My neighbor. A journalist. Too curious. She started asking questions about my past, my identity, my story. One night, she followed me. She found the real Will. Locked in the cage. I panicked. I told myself I wouldn’t hurt her. Just contain her. Just until I could explain, make it right.

But then Forty happened. He dragged me into a writing binge. A weekend of LSD, tequila, and script readings. I lost track of time, of space, of reality. When I finally came down, I found blood. Delilah’s body. Her throat. The cage. I didn’t remember. Did I do it? Did I lose control? Or had someone else?

Candace returned again. She cornered me. She had Delilah’s photos. She dragged me back to the cage. Forced Love to see. Forced her to face the truth. That I wasn’t who I said I was. That I had hurt people. That I had lied.

Love didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She looked at Candace. And then… she slit her throat. The shock hit me like a gunshot. Blood pooled on the floor, and Love stood over her, calm. Steady. Her eyes locked on mine. “I know everything,” she said. The teeth. The box. Benji, Peach, Beck. “And I still love you.”

I was speechless. She kept talking. She had killed too. She killed Delilah. She killed to protect me. Us. Because she understood. She wasn’t scared of what I had done. She mirrored it.

“I’m pregnant,” she whispered.

And the air disappeared from the room.

In one moment, I had everything I thought I wanted. Love. Family. Understanding. But it didn’t feel right. It felt wrong. Twisted. Familiar. Dangerous.

She hadn’t been drawn to my darkness.

She was my darkness.