A Day of Ruin: A Friends to Enemies to

Lovers Reverse Harem Romance (The

Chronicles of Maxwell Book 1) Steph
Macca
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 A Day of Ruin

The Chronicles of Maxwell - Book I

Steph Macca
 Copyright © 2022 Steph Macca
All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s
imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.

No part of this
book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form
or any means, without prior permission in writing from the author, nor be
otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published and
without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the
subsequent purchases.

Proofread and Edited by Laura Smith at Red Cloud Business Services Ltd
 Contents

Stalk the Author!

Before You Enter...
Dedication
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4

5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14

15. Chapter 15

16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17

18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21

22. Chapter 22
23. Chapter 23
24. Chapter 24
25. Chapter 25
Author's Note
Shout out to Roxy
Book Two in the Chronicles of Maxwell
Just in case you forgot...
 Stalk the Author!

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 Before You Enter...

If you’ve picked up this book on the premise of smutty goodness, then welcome!

But as with all things good, here comes the warnings.

This book is dark. There are some serious triggers that need to be disclosed.
Most readers often say “I have no triggers“ and that’s cool, but please just make sure that you’re in
a good headspace before diving in.
There’s a lot of mental health topics entwined in this series, as well as your usual dark triggers.

Triggers:
Self-harm/cutting, suicide, eating disorders, references to cancer, murder, violence, stalking,
sexual assault, PTSD, anxiety, panic attacks, bullying, assault.
To make up for the darkness, there’s praise kinks.
And nice mushy stuff.
Because, balance and shit.
For all the ladies who have had their trusty vibrators die at the most fucking inconsiderate
moment...
 Chapter 1

Harlow

“S omeone asked me the other day if I’d ever had my muffburger fucked by a can of Redbull.”
Hazel eyes peered at me over spectacles, and I resisted the urge to laugh at my therapist’s
concerned face. Just when I thought he had probably heard and seen it all, turned out my life was just
that fucked up and I could still surprise him.
“And… uh, what was your reaction to that?” Thomas asked, his blue pen tapping on his notepad.
My eyes tried to peek at the writing, in particular searching for something along the lines of
“certifiably in-fucking-sane“.
I rested my chin in my propped-up hand, my elbow digging into my jean clad leg. “I obviously told
him he was drunk, and he needed to go home to his wife and pet rocks.”
Thomas nodded slowly, his pen making scribbles as he processed my words, no doubt wondering
if he was charging me enough to listen to this mess.
“If I’m being honest, Harlow… your ability to hide distress with humor is getting worse. I think we
should talk about the real reason why you are here.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep my face straight. “Maybe I’m just a sarcastic, funny person,
Doc.”
With a sigh, Thomas put his notepad down and crossed his arms.
“Harlow, despite the stigma around it, mental trauma…. PTSD… is a very real thing. You need to
internally acknowledge that instead of trying to run from it. You can only do it for so long before
everything just shuts down.”
 I crossed my arms defensively in return. “Doc, I’m fine. Shit happened, and I moved on. This is just
a small bump in the road until things return to normal.”
“Normal…” he echoed, pulling his spectacles off, “What does normal look like for you? What’s
your ideal world?”
My green eyes found the floor as I pondered his question. I had many wishes for a normal life, but
none that I wanted to voice to him. It felt silly, like when you were a child blowing saliva onto your
birthday cake and making wishes to fairies or some shit. You want to believe it, but deep down you
know it won’t ever happen.
My thoughts trailed off as my eyes traced the generic patterns on the hideous beige carpet. Stains…
I could see stains if I looked long enough. I blinked and looked away, my eyes drifting over the rest of
the room. The two chairs facing each other were a horrible purple velvety texture, and except for the
old dusty bookcase behind Dr. Thomas, there was nothing else in the room.
I had been in this room many times over the past 6 months and each time I found a new
imperfection. Last week it was the crack in the ceiling. A month ago, it was the faint disguise of fresh
paint over new plaster on the wall from someone’s assault. Today it was the stained carpet. I always
found a physical reason to hate being here, yet each week I still came. I hated talking to Dr. Thomas,
almost as much as I hated thinking of that night. But I guess the truth was … I came because at least
someone was willing to talk to me.
My eyes widened in horror as I realized something. I was paying someone to talk to me. It was
escort level bullshit.
“There’s no such thing as normal, Doc. Normal is a bullshit hallmark word used to make people
feel like they are failing.”
Hesitation.
“Harlow… you aren’t failing. What happened to you is enough to make anyone question their
reality.”
I looked at him through light green eyes. “Do you believe me?” I asked, my voice cracking with
desperation.
Thomas’ eyebrows touched as he frowned at me. “I don’t think there’s a right answer that you want
to hear. But please, rest assured, I am here for you.”
As long as you pay me.
My fingers made indents in the purple fabric as I pushed up from the chair. “Same time next week
then?”
 He sighed as he placed his notepad down on the murky brown table.
“Yes, same time. But Harlow,” he paused, “the longer you take to come to terms with the truth, the
longer it will take for you to recover.”
I snorted as I stopped in the doorway, my black nails gripping the frame as I turned my head back to
look at him.
“The truth? Fuck. This whole goddamn town believes a lie and they seem to get on just fine.”
The door clicked behind me and as I stomped down the corridor towards the exit, my face dropped
as it twisted with the emotional damage I fought so hard to ignore.
The truth never set anyone free. The truth only sets every fucking thing on fire.

The City of Maxwell looked beautiful in the dark. The lights illuminated the tall buildings and
sparkled with the promise of life. There was something about the chaos that settled me.
When I was younger, my favorite time of day used to be the early morning sunrises, but now it was
the dark. The lights gave just enough false sense of security to make it all look magnetic, but the fact
was the darkness hid the flaws. Everything was blanketed in the darkness, the rough edges hidden
under wraps. Monsters could hide out of sight, blending into the masses as they set their sights on new
targets.
James Maxwell founded the city some 150-odd years ago. Of course back then, it was only dirt and
dreams – a shithole in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere. Old Jimmy built it up, and through the
generations investors came for a piece of the pie, meeting with the founding father’s family as the city
keys were passed down through legacy. Now it was a miniature pocket of skyscrapers, apartments
and businesses. On the outer circle of the city, suburban houses lined the streets, the shrubbery
greener than St. Paddy’s day on steroids.
As I stepped out of Dr. Thomas’ building, I took in a deep breath, the smell of fuel, ozone
emissions, and cigarettes sending a calming chill down my body. I could feel stares on me and my
eyes found the off-white sidewalk as I started making my way downtown.
The crowds were still thick, the last of the city workers leaving for the day. The street bars were
packed, the sounds of shouts and happy chatter echoing on the sidewalk as everyone prepared for the
weekend.
 I squeezed past a handful of people who had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to chat, sucking
my stomach in as I tried to avoid physically touching them. I sighed out loud without realizing, my
hand rubbing my little pocket belly. Like most these days, I was not stick thin. I was an average,
everyday, 26 year old woman. I had a decent hourglass figure which I loved sometimes, and hated
others. Big boobs, a somewhat smaller waist, but an ass and thighs that told the world I liked food
and I had no idea how to squat properly. I called my thighs Bonnie and Clyde, because they always
stuck together.
I had inherited my mother’s freckles and caramel brown hair. My blonde highlights were due for a
touch up and I made a mental note to try to remember to book an appointment to see Janice, my
hairdresser. I could try to do my own bleach, but after a disastrous, way-too-confident experience in
my teens when I lost all my hair after bleach fried my little locks which caused them to snap off, I was
not keen on turning up to work next week looking like Uncle Fester.
“Watch out, you bitch!” someone snarled, ripping me out of my thoughts before a shoulder rammed
into my back. I spluttered, the air whooshing out of my lungs as I stumbled forward.
Christ on a stick.
My hands slammed onto metal as I caught myself on the nearest building. I turned sharply, my eyes
narrowing at an obvious drunk, sloppy man in his 30s. His navy blue tie hung loosely around his neck
and his three piece suit was dishevelled, covered in beer stains.
“Oh, fuck off,” I hissed, the pain in my back radiating through my shoulder blades. Without waiting
for a response, I spun around and walked off, my apartment building finally creeping into sight.
The crowd parted as I powerwalked towards the double-doored skyrise, the building on the corner
of the intersection of 8th and Franklin. It wasn’t the biggest building – only 34 floors – but it was
modern, and up until 6 months ago, my favorite place in the city.
Now it was my own personal hellhole.
Jeff, our doorman gave a me stern courtesy nod, his lips tight as he forced himself to remain
professional. He opened the door, his dark red uniform sticking out like a sore thumb to the
surrounding dark suits of the empire world. As I stepped through, my sneakers slapped the marble
tiles of the foyer. The grey, misty tiles had a shine to them, making me feel out of place. I wasn’t
unpolished, but the town made me feel dirty.
I could hear the whispers from lingering neighbors, their stares burning into my body as I quickly
opened my mail box on the wall. The left wall held all the mail holes, while the right took you to a
front desk and casual seating area. We even had a little bar that was open most nights, the counter
spaced out along the side of the foyer. All the dozen bar stools were occupied, the occupants laughing
and drinking. A few of them had caught on to the whispers and turned to watch me too. I hated that –
the drunk ones were the ones who always had the most to say. Maybe it was liquid courage, or maybe
it was because they were drinking as they had nothing to lose. Either way, they loved to taunt me.
Ripping the envelopes from my box, I quickly locked it, my hands fumbling with the silver key. I
glanced up briefly and scanned over the foyer and bar attendees before swiftly striding towards the
elevators. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a man get up from his bar stool, his friend cackling as
he started walking towards me. I quickly pressed the ‘up’ button, watching the elevator numbers
slowly come down.
“Come on, come on...” I begged, my body getting jittery with nerves and adrenaline as my fight-or-
flight mechanism started to kick in. The ding sent a flood of relief through me and I rushed through the
opening doors, my fingers hitting the ‘close door’ button frantically as footsteps sounded behind me.
I watched as the doors slowly closed, and I let out a breath in relief. But just before the light of the
foyer fully vanished, a hand slipped in, triggering the safety sensor and the doors jolted before
opening back up. My eyes looked up in panic as the drunk businessman slipped into the tight space
with me. The smell of whiskey hit me hard and I resisted the urge to gag. The man, a redhaired lanky
fuck pressed the button to close the doors and my hand fiddled with my keys that I still had out from
the mail box. I subconsciously positioned the keys so they stuck out in between my knuckles, making
me a modern day Wolverine.
Isn’t it sick the measures that we have to go through as women? What we naturally do to protect
ourselves in this messed up world?
The elevator jumped as it started cruising up, and I quickly reached over and pressed 18, having
forgotten to do so in my haste to escape. I looked away, avoiding the man’s stare as his glassy eyes
watched me.
I watched the numbers climb on the computerized screen, my heart starting to race as the tension
peaked.
“Aren’t you Harlow Falls?” the man murmured in amusement, the tone in his voice suggesting he
already knew who I was.
I bit my lip as I ignored him, panic edging me as he stepped closer.
“I asked you a question, bitch.”
Leaning over, I pressed 18 a few more times as I desperately willed for the elevator to hurry the
fuck up. A business jacket sleeve cut through my vision as he swung his arm out, his hand resting on
the wall in front of me as he boxed me in. “It’s rude to ignore. I should teach you a lesson. After all,
you deserve it after what you did to poor Maxie.”
My feet shuffled back, as I bravely met his glassy blue eyes. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.
But I didn’t do anything. Get away from me.”
Annoyance, and a flare of anger, crossed his face and I sucked in a breath as my back hit the wall. I
was trapped.
“You fucking liar. We know what you did. You deserve to suffer.”
His hand grabbed my décolletage and I yelped, fear ripping through me. I lifted my hand, ready to
take a swing with my keys when the elevator door dinged open.
Whisky man jumped back and my eyes found green ones. The tall owner stood in the doorway, a
gym bag thrown over his shoulder, dressed in black basketball shorts and a white shirt. His dark
brown hair was styled up – likely from having been at work – the sides short but the long top gelled
back.
I let out a shaky breath as I double checked the screen to make sure I wasn’t imagining that we
were on the 18th floor. The doors started to close but the brunette kicked his foot out, stopping it.
Relief filled me despite the coldness in his glare.
“Dex...” I murmured, my eyes locking with my roommate.
 Chapter 2

Harlow

“W hat the fuck is going on here?” Dex asked in a warning tone.

The man laughed and stood back with his hands up defensively.
“Nothing, bro. Just having some fun. Weren’t we, Harlow?”
The sound of my name jolted me into action. I moved past him, exiting the elevator as I shot
daggers at him. The soft carpet below masked the sound of my footsteps and as I reached my
apartment door at the end of the hallway, a hand smacked it. I gasped, turning around to face an angry
Dex.
“Please don’t bring your shit around here.”
My eyes burned with unwanted tears but I forced them back as I glared at Dex. “I didn’t ask for any
of this. I didn’t ask for everyone to hate me. I didn’t ask to have drunken assholes stalk me and try to
assault me. And I certainly didn’t ask for you to hate me.”
I couldn’t help admiring that Dex’s green eyes had little flickers of blue and grey in the iris. He had
me wedged between his torso and the door but I didn’t feel the fear I felt in the elevator. You see,
despite his obvious hate for me now, it wasn’t like this before.
Dex and I met nearly a year ago at a local bar. I was there celebrating my new job at the accounting
firm and he was there with friends for a birthday. We played pool and I soon discovered that his
roommate had just moved out and he was having trouble replacing him. It was a match made in
heaven, because I was looking to move out of my parents’ house to be closer to work. Dex’s
apartment was only a few blocks from the office and it was fully furnished, so I didn’t need much to
get settled. After I kicked his ass at pool, we shook hands and arranged to meet his landlord the next
day to put me formally on the lease.
Pro – Being on the lease stopped Dex from kicking me out 6 months ago.
Con – Being on the lease stopped me from leaving without financial and legal consequence.
I sighed, rubbing the bridge of my nose. I hated this. Everyday was a struggle, but it was the loss of
my friends that always hit me the hardest.
“Dex... I wish you would just listen to me.”
Right on cue, Dex shut down. His face hardened and he stepped back as if I had electrocuted him.
“Don’t let it happen again,” he muttered, turning around and stomping off down the corridor with
his bag in tow.
I watched the back of him until he vanished out of sight, and I flicked away a loose tear that had
fallen down my cheek. I was reaching breaking point. Actually, I was pretty sure I had hit breaking
point 6 months ago and I was just now living on borrowed time. There didn’t seem to be any way up
from here. Just a dark pit of despair that swallowed me whole.

6 months earlier
“Mom!” I shouted, the door slamming shut behind me as I walked into the house. “Your favorite
child is here!”
“In here,” came the muffled response from the study.
I could hear banging like she was frantically closing the desk drawers. By the time I reached the
brown study door and pushed it open, she was sitting calmly at her desk with her hands folded on
top. I could just make out a silver key under her fingertips. She noticed my stare and collected the
key in her hand, pushing it into her jacket pocket.
“I’m glad you were able to come to dinner. Some of your father’s old associates wanted to come
by to tell us how the business was going.”
I threw myself down on the leather couch against the wall, my mother avoiding direct eye
contact as she made herself busy on the computer.
“So, we still own the business right? The attorneys didn’t tell me much after dad died. Just that
the board would continue to run things on our behalf.”
 My mom, Clara, nodded before finally looking at me directly. “It’s complicated, darl. The CEO
gets appointed by the board. Your dad owned the majority of the shares, so legally I now own those
shares so I can have input and decisions about it. But it’s not really my area of expertise. So the
board is dealing with it for now.”
“For now,” I agreed, echoing her words, “and then what? What will happen to the shares? Are
you going to keep them? You have to, right? If you sold them, then the company wouldn’t be ours
anymore.”
Mom’s eyes darted nervously to the computer screen before she smiled at me. But I could see the
forcefulness behind it.
“Darl, don’t worry about such complicated things. You have your job to focus on. Didn’t you say
you and your colleagues were vying for some promotion?”
I nodded, not calling out her deflection. “Yeah... One or two of us associates will get promoted
some time in the next year based on performance. Bryson and I are hoping it’s us.”
Mom chuckled, her eyes lighting up as she looked at me with a knowing glance. “That Bryson
sure is something...”
Blushing, I looked away as I smiled. “Yeah, he sure is.”
“Maybe you could ask him to the city dinner next week. I’d love to meet him.”

I flicked on the apartment lights as I headed inside. The main living room still had the lingering smell
of Dex’s cologne. The city lights were starting to flicker on outside of our ceiling to floor glass
windows, the streets bustling below. The apartment had only two bedrooms, but it was a cosy size.
The bedrooms were at opposite ends of the apartment, the living area in the centre, and on either side
of that, the bathroom and kitchen. The kitchen was closest to my room, while the bathroom was next to
Dex’s.
The kitchen had beautiful marble benches and a counter stove. Dex was a sous chef. Before our
falling out, we spent so many hours in here just cooking and chatting. Well, he cooked and I watched
in admiration. He had so much talent he deserved Michelin stars. You could tell he loved it,
especially in the way he made his food. We used to eat together most days, but now he won’t cook for
me. All I get is the insufferable smell of his delicious creations wafting through my bedroom door.
 I hated to say it but my cooking skills were not great, and while I had always been a bit on the plus
side, after losing my personal chef, I had resorted to eating a lot of take out to survive. I dreaded
being in the kitchen with Dex, afraid of the way he might look at me. His silence hurt the most, so I
spent my time in the apartment locked in my room eating garbage while he roamed the apartment
freely and happily. As a result, my weight had crept up. I tried not to let it bother me but the truth was,
it hurt and I was a mess.
Dropping my bag and mail down, I threw myself onto the bed and began scrolling through my
UberEats to decide on dinner. I decided on sushi and placed the order, dropping the phone down on
the comforter when I was finished. I had a bit of time before the food would be delivered so I headed
to the bathroom to shower while Dex wasn’t home.
The water felt amazing on my skin. The hot droplets made my skin red but the heat loosened up my
muscles. Gosh, I really needed a massage. But once again, trying to find someone locally to help me
was a challenge.
I stood under the water for way too long, the promise of food finally getting me out as I panicked
about having to get my sushi from the front door naked.
I dried myself off with my fluffy pink towel and slipped on a pair of leggings and a baggy shirt. I
had just made it back to my room when a knock on the door grabbed my attention. My footsteps
sounded softly on the padded carpet as I opened the door. An older teen with headphones on gave me
a bored look as he handed me the bag of sushi without a word.
“Thanks,” I muttered, taking the bag and closing the door as he stalked off down the hallway, the
music from his headphones playing so loudly that I could hear it.
The kitchen bench looked inviting but the thought that Dex could arrive back any minute tugged at
me so I continued on to my bedroom. I was thankful that my bedroom had a nice decent sized window.
I often perched myself on the sill, watching the city below. With my phone in hand, I pulled up my
Spotify and put on a random playlist. Leaning the phone against the window, I started pulling my sushi
out, breaking apart my chopsticks as I slowly ate while listening to my tunes.
Same day, same shit.
The weekend flew by in the same manner as always. I woke up, snuck downstairs to the coffee cart
that lived outside our building, read books until lunch, ordered UberEats, read some more, ordered
more UberEats, showered then went to bed. Rinse and fucking repeat.
Monday was always a shock to the system. Not only because I had to go to work, but because I had
to interact with people. And in case you hadn’t cottoned on by now – I wasn’t anyone’s cup of tea at
the moment.
No, I was more like a warm glass of piss. But not even Bear Grylls would want to give me the time
of day.
I stood at my bedroom window watching the rain batter the glass panes with a sigh. I was going to
have to walk in it. The firm was only 3 blocks away and by the time I ordered an Uber or flagged a
taxi, and got through traffic, I would already be there.
My pencil skirt sat snugly around my thighs and I tugged at my pantyhose, trying to get them to sit
comfortably. I’m not sure why in this day and age they still hadn’t invented a decent damn pair of non-
ripping, sit-in-the-crotch-properly pair of pantyhose but it was better than having my bare legs
exposed to the cold. I threw on my jacket over my blouse and grabbed my bag, quietly heading out of
my bedroom. I made it as far as the living room before I came face to face with a shirtless Dex, who
was sitting in his corner armchair, sipping on black coffee with a newspaper in his hand. Seriously,
he was the only person our age I knew that read the news in paper form instead of Googling.
Dex looked up at me and I swallowed as his eyes quickly looked me up and down. A flicker of
something crossed his face but he quickly turned his attention back to his newspaper, sipping on his
coffee as if I wasn’t in the room.
Sighing, I walked past to the front door, grabbing my umbrella from the large vase where we kept
them for rainy days. As I closed the door behind me, I threw one sneaky look back inside. My heart
palpitated as I met Dex’s gaze before the door clicked shut.
It wasn’t fair. But try as I may, I could not get him to speak to me. I had tried countless times the
past 6 months and just as I would move an inch, he’d step back a mile.
I squeaked as I stepped outside into the rain, desperately fumbling with the umbrella as I pushed it
open. Thankfully, because of the rain, there wasn’t a line at the coffee cart, and I quickly grabbed my
hazelnut latte before heading south. I could feel my feet slipping around in my ankle boots from the
wet, and I resisted the urge to cringe. It was almost the equivalent of touching a piece of soggy food at
the bottom of the sink when you were doing the dishes.
 The rain provided some relief in that most people were driving to their jobs, so the footpath was
relatively clear. I travelled the 3 blocks quite quickly, grateful to be out of the rain, when I stepped
into the foyer of our building, the Grandese. My work – Tronic’s Financial and Accountancy – was on
the 31st floor. We actually expanded over two floors, but I was on the entrance level. The floor above
was for the tax freaks and senior leaders. I could imagine the intense conversations, drinking
sessions, and banter that went on up there.
I crowded into the elevator, people throwing me looks but I wasn’t sure if it was just because of
who I was, or because I was wet and they were trying to avoid touching me. Slowly, as we rose,
more space opened up until I heard the ding and the familiar reception of floor 31 came into view.
“Excuse me,” I murmured, squeezing past a balding, little man. My boots clicked on the marble as I
walked into the foyer, the elevator doors closing behind me. The bright green writing on the black
backdrop behind the reception desk stood out, almost as much as the bitchy brunette manning the desk.
Lisa was a few years younger than me, thin, pretty... had a chip on her shoulder because her daddy
worked at a law firm a few floors above us. Her stark blue eyes looked me up and down, but her gaze
was much more aggressive than Dex’s was.
“Morning, Harlow. Interesting attire,” she sneered, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
I rolled my eyes, making no effort to hide it from her. “Lisa,” I greeted, striding past her to head
down the corridor.
The office was structurally a fucking mess – almost as much as me. The back offices which lined
the windows belonged to managers and important accountant folk, whilst the side rooms were the
conference rooms. In the center of the floor were lots of cubicles – the pig pen as we called it –
where us associates sat. We were the ones who did the brunt of the work, the dirty tasks. The boring,
mundane shit that no one else wanted to do so it was passed down through the hierarchy until it
landed on us – the bottom of the barrel. There were about 20 of us associates. We ranged from temps
and worked our way up by years of experience. I had just become a second year – meaning I was
slightly higher than the new oinkers, but not as high as the fifth years. Most of the fifth years were
studying and about to become fully fledged accountants. Not me though, I was just good at crunching
numbers and wanted to work in financials. I could happily reconcile and balance all day, but filing tax
returns and dealing with business structures? No, thanks.
Reaching my desk in the middle of the pen, I eyed the pile of paperwork in my ‘in-tray’. It was
going to be a long day. For some reason, the pile seemed bigger than usual. I put my bag down and
flicked my fingers through the paperwork, trying to ascertain why I had been shit on, on this beautiful,
wet morning. My eyebrows creased when I realized my pile consisted of two lots of bundled
documents. The top bundle had my name on it in a sticky note, so I pulled it aside to survey the
second.
I almost had to laugh at the sticky note. The second pile had accidentally been given to me, which
was a relief in itself. But it was the owner who had my stomach in knots.
I picked up the bundle, giving myself a pep talk as I readied myself to find the tall, tanned God
himself. As I turned from my desk, bundle in hand, I bumped into someone. Dark, soft curls you could
run your hands through, light feathered stubble and Clark Kent glasses, I found myself face to face
with the guy I had been madly in love with for the past year.
Bryson.
 Chapter 3

Harlow

“I have you,” I stuttered out, immediately going red and slapping my forehead. “I mean, I think I
have your paperwork.”
I motioned to the bundle in my hands as Bryson’s eyes shifted to the pile.
“You do. I was just looking for it.”
Holding it up like an Oscar, I let out an awkward grin that looked more constipated than pleasant.
“Here it is!”
Bryson raised an eyebrow, a little taken back by my strange behavior. I’m sure he was pondering if
I was having a nervous breakdown. He would be correct, but also he had this crazy effect on me.
Like Dex, Bryson and I used to be close. We were both second year associates and had stuck
together through our first year up until the incident, leaning on each other. He made the late nights fun
and more than a few times I’m sure we had nearly kissed in our sleep deprived states. Thai takeout
and financials were the highlights of my social life and we had even gone on a date.
Once.
It just so happened to coincide with the day my life was ruined.
The past 6 months then became torture. The late nights still existed, in fact with global pandemics
and the threat of financial collapse, they were more often than usual. Particularly with the promotion
cycle edging closer and closer. But most nights, I was forced to spend them alone in the tiny
conference room while the other associates hung out in the main one.
I used to rate us equally – neck and neck for the promotions. That was our goal... hit the same
targets so we had to be promoted together. But eventually this just became a job, a way to pay the
bills and survive. Whereas it was obvious that Bryson was still thriving. Senior partners were always
talking to him and giving him pats on the back. He was by far our most accomplished associate to
date.
I’m sure they wanted to fire me, but legally they didn’t have grounds. As long as I turned up every
day, did my job and what was asked of me, then I couldn’t be touched. A few fellow associates tried
to make it unpleasant, but despite their best efforts, they didn’t have anything more unpleasant to say
than anyone else.
In fact, no one hated me, more than me.
Shaking my head, I realized Bryson was staring at me, waiting for me to hand over his bundle. I
quickly thrust it into his awaiting hands, embarrassment flooding through me.
“Sorry. It must have been put there by accident,” I murmured, looking away.
Bryson’s face twisted slightly. “Actually I thought I heard one of the third years say they put it here.
I could be wrong. But I wanted to check. You shouldn’t have to do anyone else’s work.”
Hope filled me. We weren’t okay – not by a long shot, but out of everyone, Bryson treated me the
most human.
God I would do anything just to have things go back to normal. Normal... whatever that is.
“Thanks, Bryson,” I responded, turning away to take my seat. I wanted desperately to keep talking
to him, especially since he was actually conversing with me. But the longer I did, the more I felt the
tears threaten to burst. And that was the last thing I needed. I didn’t want anyone to have any ammo
they could use against me.
I heard Bryson shift behind me, almost as if he had words on the tip of his tongue too, before his
footsteps moved away down to his cubicle.
Tears pooled in my eyes and I quickly swiped them aside, logging into my computer as I pulled my
bundle into my lap. At least this should occupy me for the day.

The sound of laughter jolted me out of my trance. I was so engrossed in my work that I had failed to
notice it was finishing time.
I looked up and watched as the associates started to head off together, a group of them laughing and
talking about grabbing drinks. No one glanced over at me and as their voices faded down towards the
elevators, the silence sat heavy in my stomach.
My fingers flicked through the paperwork. I was nearly done – maybe only an hour or so to go. If I
kept going then it wouldn’t need to be added to tomorrow’s list.
I glanced around me and noticed all the other associates were gone. I didn’t mind though – at least
with the silence I didn’t have to worry about the stares or whispers. They tended to get worse as the
day passed, especially when the seniors were out or had clocked off early. The associates felt
protected when they didn’t have lingering eyes watching over them.
40 minutes later, I was nearly done. I was on my last spreadsheet when I heard my phone ding.
Reaching down to my bag, I pulled out my black mobile, unlocking the screen to see I had an unread
text message.
My eyebrows creased as I swiped open the messages. No one messaged me. No one except...
Unknown: Little Harlow Falls. All alone again. I like your pantyhose. They would look
spectacular around your beautiful throat.
My heart froze as I read over the words half a dozen times. Oh fuck. He was back.
For the past 8 or so months, I had a stalker. At first it was innocent little things that I had wrote off
as pranks. Notes in my mailbox, random text messages, polaroids of my mom out shopping. But they
quickly escalated to bigger threats. More frequent messages threatening me, phone calls of heavy
breathing, things missing out of my room and bag.
I had gone to the police but they had laughed it off, saying it was obviously just a joke and that I
should be flattered. I filed a report but nothing ever came of it.
Just before everything went to shit, I had received a call from a male. His voice had been distorted
but he told me he was going to destroy me so that when I had nothing left, he could pick up the pieces
and I’d go willingly. I knew I should have reported it again, but I put it off after being shunned last
time.
The city dinner had caught my attention. I had been so excited. Bryson had agreed to be my date and
I had gone shopping with mom and picked out the most stunning black dress. The night had gone
perfectly.
Until it hadn’t.
That’s the night everything changed, when everything was ruined. I lost everything, and I knew
without a doubt that this stalker was the reason for it.
I was framed and despite trying to tell everyone otherwise, no one believed me. The police refused
to help, telling me they had no record of my prior reports.
 I was branded and shamed. Just like he wanted.
Afterwards, he continued to call and text me, his words and threats getting darker. But then about 2
months ago, he went quiet. I had hoped that maybe it was a sign he had disappeared for good and I
could work on repairing my life.
But apparently not.
He was here. Somewhere. Watching me.

6 months earlier
I stared in awe at the giant chandelier hanging from the roof. It sparkled so brightly that I
wondered just how many crystals and diamonds decorated it.
A hand grabbed mine and I looked down to find Bryson linking hands with me under the table, a
smile on his face. He was dressed in a black suit, his glasses popping out so sexily that I kind of
had the urge to kiss him right here and now.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, his eyes on mine as if we were the only two in the
room.
“Just how amazing it is. And how much fun I’m having,” I admitted, my cheeks tinging pink. He
smiled in response, his dimples highlighting his face.
“I’m having fun too,” he said, his fingers stroking my hand. “Would you like to dance?”
I swivelled my head towards the dance floor where couples were dancing happily. Usually, I felt
self-conscious about this type of thing, but the thought of missing out overrode any fear I had.
“Yeah...”
Bryson stood up, his hand still in mine as he gently helped me out of my chair. My black gown
flowed down, gravity making it twirl around my legs as I stood. The waist was pulled in by black
gems, which sat below the sweet heart neckline. My arms were free to move, little transparent
black straps holding the dress securely to my shoulders.
We moved to the dancefloor and I held a breath as his hands found my waist. Automatically, my
arms linked around his neck and we met eyes, a smile breaking out on each of our faces.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted my mom talking to the mayor, Wagner Smithson. Next to
him stood Charles Maxwell – James’ great, great... maybe another great, grandson. Mom threw me
a smile, her face beaming with pride as she watched Bryson and I dance. I grinned back at her,
turning back to face the man himself.
His gaze was still on me. His brown eyes had such a beautiful twinkle that I could have just
stared at them all day and night.
Movement caught my attention and I watched as mom, Wagner and Charles walked out of the
ballroom. They were really good friends of ours. After dad had died, they had really opened their
arms and homes to us. Dad’s business was a pivotal part of the town’s operations, and he grew up
with Wagner and Charles’ dad. Charles was about my age – maybe a few years older. He was nice
enough, a bit of a jerk but that chip came from his town royalty. His dad had died a few years
before so he was the head of his family now, and still trying to learn his way, I guess. He was about
to step up and take over important business which was apparently vital to the city’s success.
We continued to sway, until the heat started to bother us. I motioned to the garden outside of the
side doors.
“Do you wanna go for a walk?” I asked Bryson.
He nodded, reaching for my hand again as we quickly detoured to the table to grab our phones
and drinks. We had just arrived next to a beautiful rose garden when Bryson’s phone dinged.
“Ah damn. I just have to duck inside really quick. My friend needs his car key back. I was
minding them for him.”
I leaned back against a metal railing which protected the garden. “Yeah no worries. I’ll hang
here. It’s so nice out.”
Bryson nodded, turning to leave before hesitating. I watched as his face paused, him deep in
thought before he swooped down and placed a kiss on my cheek. I blushed again, but I’m pretty
sure he did too as he quickly strolled off inside.
I took a sip from my drink, grinning stupidly when my phone buzzed in my other hand. I flipped
it open without a second thought, an unread message appearing on my screen.
Unknown: I warned you, Harlow. Now you have to pay the price.
My mouth opened in shock, panic shredding me. I looked around fearfully at the seemingly
empty garden when all of a sudden, a loud blood-curdling scream filled the air.
I gasped loudly, my glass dropping from my hand and smashing into the ground around my feet.
There was something eerily familiar about the scream.
A shadow appeared in my peripheral vision and I spotted the figure of a man dressed in black
watching me. He was close enough that I could see it was a male, but too far away for me to see
anything distinguishable. But I did see one thing. He shook his head at me before turning and
disappearing through the gardens just as people ran outside to investigate.

I slammed my chair back as I stood up urgently. Grabbing my bag and phone, I abandoned my
paperwork, my feet carrying me quickly to the elevators.
The floor was dark, only lit up by random desks and office lights. There was no one else in sight,
which meant he could be anywhere.
I was thankful to reach the foyer, the lights bright and overly welcoming. I hastily pressed the
‘down’ arrow repeatedly, begging for the elevator to hurry up.
Looking back behind me, I couldn’t see anything. No movement, no sounds. I was hopeful that
maybe it was just a scare tactic. When the elevator dinged to signal its arrival, I rushed into the empty
box, slapping my hand over the ‘close door’ and ground floor buttons. I let out a shaky breath in relief
as the doors started to slowly shut. But just before my view was cut off from the office, a dark figure
appeared just out of the light, standing in the walkway of the entrance to the associate desks.
The door slammed shut a short few seconds later, but the image was burnt into my mind. His
silhouette standing there, staring at me. I could feel the smirk on his face. He loved my fear, I could
tell. But what scared me the most was not that he liked my fear. No.
It was my jacket that I had left at my desk in his left hand, and a bundle of rope in the other.
 Chapter 4

Harlow

y footsteps pounded on the ground as frantically as my heart, which was threatening to exit
M my ribcage.
The moment the elevator doors opened on the ground floor, I sprinted out, dodging the stragglers in
the foyer. When I was safely on the street, I pushed through the heat of the crowd, reaching for my
phone in my bag. I dialled emergency services, looking behind me, expecting the dark shadow to
appear at any given second. To my relief, and fear, he was nowhere to be seen. But that didn’t matter
– I knew him well enough now to know he was smart and fearless. With nothing to lose, he had
everything to gain and even though he wasn’t here, I could almost feel him still.
“Emergency Services. What is your emergency?” A high-pitched calming voice asked down the
phone.
“I’m being stalked,” I spluttered out, “I think they were trying to kidnap me. They were in my work
building.”
“Okay Miss. Please stay calm. I’ll arrange to send a patrol car out. What’s your name?” I could
hear her nails clicking on the keyboard.
“Harlow Falls.”
Silence.
The keyboard stopped and I could faintly hear her breathing. My walking slowed slightly, my heart
and sanity clinging to the phone like a lifeline.
“I... I’ll organise to send someone out, Miss Falls. Thank you for calling.”
“Wait! I haven’t even given you the address. Please!”
 I could hear the dispatcher hesitating, torn between wanting to morally help, and wanting to hang
up, the stories about me clearly in her mind.
“I’m sorry...” I heard her mutter with a cracked broken voice, making her decision as the phone
clicked off.
Squeezing my eyes shut in hurt and frustration, I paused for a brief second before pushing on to my
apartment building. I still couldn’t believe that in this day and age, someone could be so hated that
even emergency services could be denied or delayed based on rumors. It certainly didn’t help that
when everything fell to shit, I had tried to tell the police and investigators that I had a stalker. How he
had stalked me the night at the City Dinner. But according to witness reports and their camera footage,
no such person existed. I tried to show them the message and call log on my phone, but by the time
they agreed to look, everything had completely vanished. It was as if something or someone was
deleting everything.
No one believed me. Yet this stalker was getting close again. The thought of what he would do to
me once he caught me made my stomach heave.
My eyes burned with unshed tears as I power-walked back home, not even acknowledging Jeff as
he stood next to the entrance to the double doors. The usual murmurs from the downstairs crowd
dripped off me like water, the voices sounding a million miles away as tunnel vision set in. My heart
was racing, and my skin felt clammy – a thin layer of perspiration coating it as I jammed my finger
into the elevator button to take me upstairs.
The elevators metal walls faded from my eyesight, the image replaced with broken glass, the
contents of the wine glass surrounding my feet. The world was swimming, and a distorted voice was
on repeat in my mind.
“I’m going to make you mine. You’re going to look so beautiful broken. Like a porcelain doll
with a cracked face.”
The fog was creeping in. Thick, grey fog that not only covered my eyes, but choked me within an
inch of my life. I could just make out small cracks in the haze, enough to see the elevator doors open
on my floor, and my legs automatically carried me out towards the apartment door.
Coldness. My skin was cold, but flushed red from fear. Every single nerve ending in my body was
spiking with adrenaline, alight with the flight or fight response. I couldn’t think, I couldn’t breathe...
all I could hear was his voice taunting me over and over.
How could I live like this? Maybe I deserved it. The whole town seemed to think I had done
something wrong, even though I didn’t remember it. Did I? No, I definitely didn’t.
 Or did I?
Maybe I was the one wrong all this time. Maybe it is my fault.
Maybe I am the cataclysm of Maxwell.
I felt my feet trip and I stumbled forward. My shaking body crashed into my apartment door, my
legs giving out as I ended up in a saggy heap at the foot of it.
Why was there no air? I couldn’t breathe. Someone had stolen all the air from the hallway.
Panic rushed through me as I tried to desperately take gulps – my body and lungs screaming for
relief. Or mercy.
There was a wounded animal nearby, I could hear it crying out, its yelps increasing in volume and
intensity. Someone needed help. Where was the help?
I couldn’t... I couldn’t.... I can’t....
“Harlow! ... Fuck, Harlow you need to breathe. Can you hear me?”
The familiar voice was muffled, like I was underwater. I was drowning, and truth be told, I
welcomed it. Maybe this was the sign that I was better off gone. I had nothing anyways – mom and
dad were gone. I was barely surviving financially, I had no friends or support.
I was the most hated person in the city.
I had hit rock bottom with broken legs and an avalanche caving me in.
“Help me get her inside. She’s shaking.”
I vaguely felt warm hands grab the back of my knees, fingers digging into my calves as another set
wrapped themselves under my arms, my back hitting someone’s chest.
I must be dreaming for sure because I was alone. I had to be.
I always was.
My back hit something soft, my body sinking into the gentle fabric beneath me. I let out a violent
gasp as cold water touched my forehead, a wet rag draping over my face, the ends nearly covering my
eyes. Blinking, the haze slowly cleared, the distorted voices promising sweet destruction, fading.
I blinked rapidly, desperate to clear the fog that was engulfing me. My heart was beating so fast
against my ribcage that I was sure my companions could hear it. Wait... companions?
The thought and concept of having people willingly near me was so foreign now that for a moment,
I wondered if I had blacked out completely. But my curious eyes landed on familiar green ones and
suddenly it felt like I had time travelled back to a different era.
Dex stared at me, confusion and worry clear on his face as he took in my dishevelled state. My
heart ached but not from the pounding, but the painful glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, I could
get my life back. The hope that the last 6 months of torture were not as endless as it seemed.
My mouth felt dry and I opened it to say something but nothing came out. I was absolutely terrified
– both from the horror I had endured at the office, and the fear that if I spoke it would ruin the moment
and Dex would laugh at my fucked up state. I couldn’t handle it. It would be too much to bear to have
something else shatter right now.
Movement dragged my attention over to the tall blonde standing in the corner. I think his name was
Oliver. I recognized him from past visits to the apartment. From memory, he was one of Dex’s work
friends.
Oliver’s light blue eyes tracked over me cautiously, his expression guarded. I looked back at Dex,
his lips curled up with words stuck on his tongue. The tension was unpalatable, and fuck it made my
anxiety heighten and crack.
My mind started playing scenarios in my head – the two of them laughing, telling me I deserved it
and that I should have let shadow-man capture me. That I was worthless... a disgrace... that everything
was my fault.
Tears pricked at the corner of my eyes and I quickly shot up from the couch. My fingers dug into the
soft, grey material before brushing away a stray tear that had slipped down my cheek.
I noticed my bag by the front door, some of the contents spread out onto the carpet. My vision was
still a bit hazy as I hastily made my way to it, scooping up my lipstick, a tampon, and phone and
shoving it back into the bag. My hand was gripped around the strap like a vice as I stumbled past the
two guys towards my room.
“Harlow, wait...” I heard Dex say, my heart tightening with hurt as I so desperately fought the urge
to stop and listen to him. I had missed his voice, missed the way he said my name.
All I had wanted for the past 6 months was for someone to care, someone to acknowledge me. And
now my mental anguish and trauma pushed that desire for comfort aside. All I wanted now was to
forget and to hide. Because all I felt was the darkness pulling me in and against my rational thinking, I
welcomed it.
I slammed my bedroom door shut behind me, my body falling against it heavily as I slowly sank to
the floor. On the other side of the door, I could hear mumbled voices but I couldn’t make out words.
Footsteps sounded, growing louder as they reached my door. The soft rap of knuckles on the wood
made me jump but I didn’t leave my position. I pulled my legs up to my chest, tucking my head
between my knees as I curled myself into the foetal position.
“Harlow...” Dex murmured through the door, “Are you okay?”
 I met his question with silence and he didn’t ask anything further. But he stayed outside the door for
a minute before finally walking away. The TV turned on in the living room, the two of them going
back to their lives as mine continued to crumble.

I called in sick the next morning. The thought of being anywhere near the office made my insides
freeze.
The panic attack fog from my PTSD had cleared but exhaustion still hung in my bones. Part of me
wondered if I should contact Thomas for an emergency session but honestly I just felt tired. The
constant drag of hatred and taunts were wearing me down and no matter how much I shot the shit with
Thomas, it wasn’t enough.
I had considered leaving the city so many times – a fresh start somewhere, maybe in the country. I
could definitely rock a pair of overalls and hell, might even meet a cowboy to wed me. But money
was tight. Which is why when Lauren King called me for another meeting I ended up with a fresh
wave of tears. Through my glossy eyes I agreed to go to her office, the alternative worse.
But how much more worse could it get, right?
 Chapter 5

Harlow

auren King’s office was marble white and grey. That’s it. Just a shit ton of marble. The floors
L were so shiny that I could make out my pathetic, sad reflection. Her office minions were all
dressed like they were created in the same robot factory – pin stripped skirts, blouses, three piece
suits. They all looked so composed and together, so perfect. So when I walked in with my scruffy
jeans, old blue converse and an extra baggy hoodie to hide my insecurities, they glared at me with
pity and disgust.
The receptionist looked up at me as I approached. Her cold stare, tight bun and fake sneer
reminded me of Lisa. She tapped her long blood red nails on her desk as she looked at me expectedly.
“Miss Harlow Falls, correct?” she drew out, her tongue clicking at the end of her rhetorical
question.
I resisted the urge to snap at her, my jaw aching from the clench I currently held.
“Yes...” I muttered.
Her perfectly manicured eyebrow raised in superiority as she pressed a button on her phone. She
smiled at me, but there was nothing warm or inviting about it.
”Ms. King, Harlow Falls to see you. Ah huh, yes I’ll do so.”
She placed the phone on the receiver and looked at me condescendingly. “Take a seat, Ms. King
will be with you momentarily,” she pointed out to a collection of stainless steel singular chairs which
looked like they belonged in a surgical theater instead of an office.
My shoes made little squeaking noises on the floor as I trudged over to the chairs. I resisted the
urge to jump at the cold texture, despite the fact I was wearing jeans. But then again there was nothing
warm about this place.
I tried to look for little flaws, like Dr. Thomas’ office, but found none. This made me extremely
uncomfortable.
Directly in front of me in bold red and black letters hung a neon sign that said ‘King & Hall
Bankrupt Trustees’. My eyes shifted over the last two words, wondering how the fuck I got into this
state of disrepair.
My thoughts were interrupted when the classic clicking of stilettos echoed on the marble floors. I
looked up to find Lauren King watching me with a guarded expression. Her dark blonde hair was
pulled back into a tight high bun, her long legs encased in her pencil skirt and even beneath the tight
clothes, I knew she had a stunning figure.
I bet she didn’t even have an ounce of cellulite. As opposed to Bonnie and Clyde who comfortably
jiggled every chance they got.
Subconsciously I pulled my hoodie tighter across my body as I stood to meet Lauren.
“Harlow,” she all but purred, her light eyes looking amused at my obvious discomfort, “please
come on through.”
I followed her down the familiar hallway, the photographic paintings on the walls looking way too
photoshopped. Beaches, buildings, traffic – the pictures, even with all their chaos, still felt like they
were mocking me, making me feel inferior as I turned into the white office that I was sadly not a
stranger to.
Lauren sat in her cushy leather chair, her hands together on the desk as she waited for me to get
comfortable. Fat chance that would happen, but proceed, witch.
“I’ll get right to the point, darling. We haven’t received your latest payment and unfortunately my
clients are getting edgy. I’m sorry to do this but if you aren’t able to secure the funds within the week,
we have obtained a court order to sell your company shares. But the good news is the cost of doing so
should clear your debt.”
Horror etched across my face as I did my best to hide my reaction. It was pointless though, I was
never good at hiding my emotions. All my friends wanted to play poker with me because it was an
easy bet that I’d lose.
“You can’t sell them. They were my dad’s. It’s all I have left of him. It’s his legacy.”
Lauren tilted her head in what I assumed was meant to be a sympathetic gesture. “I know, darling.
But the board cannot wait any longer. They need security and a strong shareholder, particularly since
the shares are a majority vote. You just aren’t in a suitable position to hold them.”
 I shook my head with exasperation. “I just don’t get it. How can I legally be held responsible for
this debt? It’s not even mine!”
“Like I’ve said before, Harlow. You’re a guarantor on the loans. I know it’s a shock because of
how much debt your mother accumulated but-”
“Bullshit!” I snapped, my frustration overwhelming me, “I didn’t sign anything. I’ve told you this
before.”
Her ruby red lips smacked shut as she typed something on her computer. When she was finished,
she turned back to me with a small shrug.
“I’m sorry, Harlow. My hands are tied. You have one week.”

I couldn’t believe this was happening.

You would think that I would remember signing a bunch of paperwork to say I would satisfy my
mother’s loans if she defaulted. Oh wait – that’s because I didn’t.
After that night, I thought I had hit rock bottom. But everything kept getting worse. I never could
imagine that after losing my father and mother so close together, I would end up with my mother’s
secret gambling debts. When did she even have the time?
Clara Falls wasn’t the most composed woman but she was a good one. Everyone used to say to my
dad, “Larry, you’ve got a good one here. Luckiest man to have two girls like Clara and Harlow.”
Mom dedicated her time to charity work – putting on fundraisers and luncheons to support animal
shelters and raise awareness for cancer. And while she didn’t have her shit together, she tried to
pretend she did for me.
It pained me to think that my dad’s death broke her that much that she gambled everything away. It
broke me that she couldn’t tell me or confide in me. We used to tell each other everything.
But the problem was, all that aside... I somehow ended up with hundreds of thousands worth of
debt. And there was nothing I could do about it.
The bankruptcy trustees had documents with my signature, accepting appointment as guarantor. And
I couldn’t prove that I didn’t sign them. Under the eyes of the law, I was somehow legally responsible
for this money.
 I am a 26 year old accounting admin clerk who has to live with someone to make rent. Mom
inherited dad’s wealth but apparently she had sold and gambled everything away, except the company
shares. So they passed to me when she died. It’s the only asset I have to my name and now I’m going
to lose it.
Dad worked so hard at the investment company. He and the Maxwells worked together, building it
up until dad became the majority shareholder and developed a strong board to lead with him. And
now they loathed me – a young, female with a reputation that not even Lucifer could rival.
The board had 7 older, Caucasian men with no sense of humour but a tendency to make sexual
jokes like they were running a comedy festival. I didn’t want to work with them but I didn’t want to
give up the last piece of my dad more.
After I left Lauren King’s office, I found myself at the one place I visited outside of home, work
and Dr. Thomas’ office.
The cemetery.
Mom and dad were laid to rest together at the Maxwell Cemetery just outside of the city. The
suburban part of town was nearby, with plenty of greenery and parks for the families.
It was a large cemetery but mom and dad were in a private section, reserved for more well known
members of the community. They had a simple headstone and plot, but to be fair, I was lucky to have
even managed that. I found out after dad’s death that they had already arranged the plots so all I had to
cover was the headstone. It was before my family money was frozen and before Lauren King came
into my life. But at least it was something. A simple black marble headstone with gold colored
writing, their full names and dates scribed across. My name was also on it with the words ′loving
parents to Harlow’.
My knees hit the soft grassy earth as I kneeled at the foot of their graves. I leaned back to sit on my
feet, my eyes carefully hovering over their names.
“How could you guys do this to me?” I muttered, silent tears escaping my eyes and spilling down
my cheeks. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
I sniffled loudly, my hand quickly wiping my runny nose. I was too preoccupied with my thoughts
that I didn’t hear the footsteps come up behind me.
“You know,” started a soft voice, “if I were a ghost, the last place I would hang out is a cemetery.
Seems rather boring.”
My body jumped in shock and I quickly sprang to my feet, turning around to face the newcomer. My
eyes raked over the red and black haired girl. She looked about my age with long stripy hair, blue
eyes and a petite figure.
“Who are you?” I asked, more accusingly than I intended. I whined, wiping my nose again. “Sorry.
Bad day.”
The girl smiled, her eyes warm which immediately had me on guard. No one ever looked at me
genuinely or with purpose.
“I’m Lily. I live not far from here.”
I turned away from Lily to face my parents’ graves again. “Well, Lily. You don’t want to know me.
So I’ll save you the trouble of having to awkwardly ditch me later.”
Lily chuckled from behind me, her laugh almost like a sing-song tune. “I know who you are,
Harlow Falls. Everyone does. The difference is, I don’t care.”
I slowly looked over my shoulder at her, my eyes searching for any insincerity in her voice but
finding none.
“You don’t care what everyone thinks about me?” I asked in a rushed whisper.
“Following social trends was never my thing,” she murmured with a smile, her slender fingers
twisting her hair in circles.
“Not even what they said I did?”
She laughed, waving her hand at me impatiently. “Personally I don’t believe it. I’ve heard you talk
about it in the news before. I believe you.”
Her words echoed in my ears and I had the nerve to blurt out, “why?”
Lily took a few steps forward until she was next to me and she sank down to her knees onto her
heels. I followed suit, looking back at my parents.
“Why not?” she questioned back, her eyes also on the headstone. “I can just tell that you were
telling the truth. Everyone is just too blinded by their anger and own problems to see past that.”
“You believe me,” I whispered, still not believing my own words.
She let out a soft half-laugh. “I believe you, Harlow.”
 Chapter 6

Harlow

I really didn’t want to go back to work but I needed the money. I lived in constant fear that work
would fire me as soon as they had an excuse they could classify as lawful. Lucky for me ‘hatred’
wasn’t a legitimate excuse, but taking too many days off was.
Lisa sneered at me as I walked past her desk, and my hand twitched as I fought back the urge to flip
her off. I knew people like her – she would go running to Mr Reynolds, my boss, the first chance she
got. The middle aged man didn’t like me as it was, so I flew under the radar as best as possible.
My chair creaked as I sat down, my index finger trembling as I started up the computer. I looked
around wearily, the room bustling with my fellow colleagues. My jacket was nowhere in sight and I
tried my hardest not to ponder that thought.
I glanced around at the various offices and doorways, trying to figure out how he got in. It didn’t
make sense but I brushed that thought aside with a deep breath and reached for my paperwork.
There were two piles again and I flicked my fingers along the edge to separate them. My name was
on both and I realized that one was from yesterday. No one had bothered to help out and take my work
when I was off sick. Not surprising. But the thought panicked me as I needed to get it all done today
and I was desperate to make sure I wasn’t left alone again.
I immediately got to work, entering data and figures, trying to work fast.
It was going to be a long day. Who needed coffee when you were fueled by fear?
 6 months earlier
Stepping over the broken glass I rushed past the swarm of people, heading in the direction of the
scream.
The garden was a bit of a maze, hundreds of flowers of different types, shapes, colors and sizes
surrounded you wherever you went. The pathway echoed under my heels as I rushed forward.
I didn’t know what was forcing me to investigate but a tugging feeling was sitting in my
stomach, making me feel uneasy.
As I turned a corner, I nearly ran into Charles Maxwell. His shirt was untucked partially and he
swayed, his glass of bourbon dangerously close to spilling. I moved around him and as I reached
further along the path, my body tensed up with suspicion. Immediately I felt on edge, like I knew
whatever I was about to find would be bad. It was like the air had been sucked out of the garden,
and despite the noise of the other guests slowly making their way up behind me as well, I could
have heard a pin drop.
Slowly, I moved around the edge of a rose bush, my feet only making the slightest sound. This
was bad. I could tell. I could feel it in my bones.
My black dress hung loosely around me as I peered around a corner. Dark heels drew my
attention as I spotted a body on the ground.
Rushing forward, I yelled out to the not-too-far away party guests that we needed an ambulance.
As I approached the person laying on the ground, my body turned to ice.
Empty green eyes stared past me, not blinking or moving. Her hair was sprawled out around her
in a messy heap, a puddle of blood soaking into the strands.
Panicked screams from guests sounded out behind me as the crowd reached us. Several people
grabbed me pulling me back as a few familiar faces rushed to the victim on the ground. I could
make out voices but it felt like I was having an out of body experience, the numbness spreading
through me.
“There’s no pulse.”
“Too much blood.”
“She’s dead. There’s nothing we can do.”
I stared hard at her face, my eyes noticing a lingering tear on her cheek. Her mascara was
stained down her face from the wetness but the contrast of empty, dead eyes would haunt me
forever.
It was my mom.
“Harlow? Harlow, did you hear me?”
I gasped, the voice breaking me out of my thoughts as I turned my chair around with a fright.
Bryson looked at me, alarm on his face at my reaction.
“Jesus, Harlow. You’re shaking. I tried talking to you a few times but you looked like you were out
of it. Are you okay?”
My heart stammered as I forced a smile. “Yeah I’m fine. What’s up?”
He didn’t look convinced but continued anyways. “Mr. Reynolds wants to see us all in the main
conference room.”
I looked around, noting the empty pig pen. I hadn’t even heard everyone leave which scared the shit
out of me.
“Thanks, Bryson,” I muttered, locking my computer and standing up. I avoided looking him directly
in the eyes as I could feel his gaze burning into the side of my face. Out of the corner of my peripheral
I noticed him straightening up his glasses as he followed me towards the conference room.
The room was your typical run-of-the-mill conference room – a large oval table, big bay windows
and a huge projector screen on the wall. Mr Reynolds watched us enter, his stare showing his
disappointment as I quickly took a seat at the table. He was middle-aged with straw colored hair and
an average build but his composure and personality demanded attention and excellence.
Everyone looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to begin.
“Thank you team for coming on such short notice. I won’t drag this out as we are unprecedently
busy and we all have things to do.”
He cleared his throat as he straightened his tie. I noticed him eye Bryson briefly before turning
back to the centre of the table.
“In light of recent financial events, we are pleased that we are in a position to announce the
associate promotions. The two associates will become team leaders. The firm has decided to
restructure the associates, making two distinct teams with management of one area of finance. One
team will handle reconciliations and contracts while the other will deal with data and financial
development. The promoted associates will each be in charge of a team.”
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 TO PURIFY YEAST FOR BREAD OR CAKES.

The yeast procured from a public brewery is often so extremely

bitter that it can only be rendered fit for use by frequent washings,
and after these even it should be cautiously employed. Mix it, when
first brought in, with a large quantity of cold water, and set it by until
the following morning in a cool place; then drain off the water, and
stir the yeast up well with as much more of fresh: it must again stand
several hours before the water can be poured clear from it. By
changing this daily in winter, and both night and morning in very hot
weather, the yeast may be preserved fit for use much longer than it
would otherwise be; and should it ferment rather less freely after a
time, a small portion of brown sugar and a little warm milk or other
liquid, stirred to it a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes before it is
required for bread-making, will restore its strength.
The German yeast, of which we have spoken in detail in another
part of this chapter, makes exceedingly light bread and buns, and is
never bitter; it is therefore a valuable substitute for our own beer-
yeast, but cannot be procured in all parts of the country, for the
reasons which we have stated.
 THE OVEN.

A brick oven, heated with wood, is far superior to any other for
baking bread, as well as for most other purposes. The iron ovens,
now commonly attached to kitchen-ranges—the construction of
which has within these few years been wonderfully improved—
though exceedingly convenient, from the facility which they afford for
baking at all hours of the day, do not in general answer well for
bread, unless it be made into very small loaves or rolls, as the
surface becomes hardened and browned long before the heat has
sufficiently penetrated to the centre of the dough. The same
objection often exists to iron-ovens of larger size, which require care
and management, to ensure the successful use of them. A brick
oven should be well heated with faggot wood, or with a faggot, and
two or three solid logs; and after it is cleared, the door should be
closely shut for quite half an hour before the baking commences: the
heat will then be well sustained for a succession of bread, pies,
cakes, and small pastry. The servant who habitually attends at an
oven will soon become acquainted with the precise quantity of fuel
which it requires, and all other peculiarities which may be connected
with it.
 A FEW RULES TO BE OBSERVED IN MAKING BREAD.

Never use too large a proportion of yeast, as the bread will not
only become dry very speedily when this is done, but it will be far
less sweet and pleasant in flavour than that which is more slowly
fermented, and the colour will not be so good: there will also be a
great chance of its being bitter when brewer’s yeast is used for it.
Remember that milk or water of scalding heat poured to any kind of
yeast will render the bread heavy. One pint of either added quite
boiling to a pint and a half of cold, will bring it to about the degree of
warmth required. In frosty weather the proportion of the heated liquid
may be increased a little.
When only porter-yeast—which is dark-coloured and bitter—can
be procured, use a much smaller proportion than usual, and allow
much longer time for it to rise. Never let it be sent to the oven until it
is evidently light. Bitter bread is unpalatable, but not really
unwholesome; but heavy bread is particularly so.
Let the leaven be kneaded up quickly with the remainder of the
flour when once it is well risen, as it should on no account be allowed
to sink again before this is done, when it has reached the proper
point; and in making the dough, be particularly careful not to render it
too lithe by adding more liquid than is requisite. It should be quite
firm, and entirely free from lumps and crumbs throughout the mass,
and on the surface also, which ought to be perfectly smooth.
In winter, place the bread while it is rising sufficiently close to the
fire to prevent its becoming cold, but never so near as to render it
hot. A warm thick cloth should be thrown over the pan in which it is
made immediately after the leaven is mixed, and kept on it until the
bread is ready for the oven.
 HOUSEHOLD BREAD.

Put half a bushel (more or less, according to the consumption of

the family) of flour into the kneading tub or trough, and hollow it well
in the middle; dilute a pint of yeast as it is brought from the brewery
or half the quantity if it has been washed and rendered solid, with
four quarts or more of lukewarm milk or water, or a mixture of the
two; stir into it, from the surrounding part, with a wooden spoon, as
much flour as will make a thick batter; throw a handful or two over it,
and leave this, which is called the leaven, to rise before proceeding
further. In about an hour it will have swollen considerably, and have
burst through the coating of flour on the top; then pour in as much
more warm liquid as will convert the whole, with good kneading, and
this should not be spared, into a firm dough, of which the surface
should be entirely free from lumps or crumbs. Throw a cloth over,
and let it remain until it has risen very much a second time, which will
be in an hour, or something more, if the batch be large. Then work it
lightly up, and mould it into loaves of from two to three pounds
weight; send them directly to a well heated oven, and bake them
from an hour and a half to an hour and three-quarters.
Flour, 1/2 bushel; salt (when it is liked), 4 to 6 oz.; yeast, 1 pint
unwashed, or 1/2 pint if purified; milk, or water, 2 quarts: 1 to 1-1/2
hour. Additional liquid as needed.
Obs.—Brown bread can be made exactly as above, either with
half meal and half flour mixed, or with meal only. This will absorb
more moisture than fine flour, and will retain it rather longer. Brown
bread should always be thoroughly baked.
Remark.—We have seen it very erroneously asserted in one or
two works, that bread made with milk speedily becomes sour. This is
never the case when it is properly baked and kept, and when the
milk used for it is perfectly sweet. The experience of many years,
enables us to speak positively on this point.
 BORDYKE BREAD.

(Author’s Receipt.)
Mix with a gallon of flour a large teaspoonful of fine salt, make a
hollow in the centre, and pour in two tablespoonsful of solid, well
purified yeast, gradually diluted with about two pints and a half of
milk, and work it into a thick batter with the surrounding flour, strew a
thick layer over and leave it to rise from an hour to an hour and a
half; then knead it up with as much more warm skimmed milk, or half
new milk and half water, as will render it quite firm and smooth
without being very stiff; let it rise another hour, and divide it into three
loaves; put them into square tins slightly buttered, or into round
baking pans, and bake them about an hour and a quarter in a well-
heated oven. The dough can be formed into household loaves if
preferred, and sent to the oven in the usual way. When a finer and
more spongy kind of bread is required for immediate eating,
substitute new milk for skimmed, dissolve in it about an ounce of
butter, leave it more liquid when the sponge is set, and let the whole
be lightly kneaded into a lithe dough: the bread thus made will be
excellent when new, and for a day or so after it is baked, but it will
become dry sooner than the other.
Flour, 1 gallon; salt, 1 teaspoonful; skimmed milk, 2-1/2 pints, to
rise from 1 to 1-1/2 hour. Additional milk, 1 to 2 pints: to rise 1 hour. 3
loaves, baked 1-1/4 hour.
Obs. 1.—A few spoonsful of cream will wonderfully improve either
of the above receipts, and sweet buttermilk, substituted for the other,
will give to the bread the shortness of a cake: we would particularly
recommend it for trial when it can be procured.
Obs. 2.—Shallow round earthen pans answer much better, we
think, than tins for baking bread; they should be slightly rubbed with
butter before the dough is put into them.
 GERMAN YEAST.

(And Bread made with German Yeast.)

This has very generally superseded the use of English beer-yeast
in London, and other places conveniently situated for receiving
quickly and regularly the supplies of it which are imported from
abroad; but as it speedily becomes putrid in sultry weather, and does
not in any season remain good long after its arrival here, it is
unsuited for transmission to remote parts of the country. Bread made
with it while it is perfectly sweet, is extremely light and good, and it
answers remarkably well for light cakes and biscuits. An ounce is the
proportion which we have always had used for a quartern (half a
gallon or three pounds and a half) of flour, and this, with the addition
of some salt and nearly a quart of milk, or milk and water, has
produced excellent bread when it has been made with care. The
yeast should be very gradually and perfectly moistened and blended
with the warm liquid; for unless this be done, and the whole rendered
smooth as cream, the dough will not be of the uniform texture which
it ought, but will be full of large hollow spaces, which are never seen
in well-made bread. The mass should be mixed up firmly and well
kneaded at once, then left to rise for about an hour; again kneaded
thoroughly, and again left to rise from three-quarters of an hour to an
hour; then divided, and lightly worked up into loaves, put into round
slightly buttered earthen pans, and sent immediately to the oven.
[187]
187. We give the proportions used and the exact manner of making this bread,
which we have had followed for more than twelve months, with entire
success.

A leaven may be first laid with the yeast, and part of the liquid
when it is preferred, as directed for bread made with beer-yeast, but
the result will be equally good if the whole be kneaded up at once, if
it be made quite firm.
 PROFESSOR LIEBIG’S BAVARIAN BROWN BREAD.

(Very nutritious and wholesome.)

Baron Liebig pronounces this bread to be very superior to that
which is made with fine flour solely, both in consequence of the
greater amount of nutriment which it contains, and from its slight
medicinal effect, which renders it valuable to many persons
accustomed to have frequent recourse to drugs, of which it
supersedes the necessity. It is made with the wheat exactly as it is
ground, no part being subtracted, nor any additional flour mingled
with it. He directs that the wheat should not be damped before it is
prepared: but few millers can be found who will depart from their
ordinary practice to oblige private customers; and this determined
adherence to established usage intervenes constantly between us,
and all improvement in our modes of preparing food. The bread is
made in the usual way, with water only, or with a portion of milk
added to the yeast, as taste or convenience may dictate. The loaves
should be well baked at all times; and the dough should of course be
perfectly light when it is placed in the oven. Salt should be mixed
with the meal before the yeast is added.
 ENGLISH BROWN BREAD.

This is often made with a portion only of the unbolted meal

recommended in the preceding receipt, mixed with more or less of
fine flour, according to the quality of bread required; and in many
families the coarse bran is always sifted from the meal, as an
impression exists that it is irritating to the stomach. If one gallon of
meal as it comes from the mill, be well mixed with an equal measure
of flour, and made into a dough in the manner directed for white
household bread, the loaves will still be sufficiently brown for the
general taste in this country, and they will be good and wholesome,
though not, perhaps, so entirely easy of digestion as Baron Liebig’s
Bavarian bread.
 UNFERMENTED BREAD.

This bread, in which carbonate of soda and muriatic acid are

substituted for yeast or other leaven, has within these few years
been highly recommended, and much eaten. It may possibly suit
many persons better than that which is fermented in the usual way,
but it is not in general by any means so pleasant in flavour; and there
is much more chance of failure in preparing it in private families, as it
requires some skill to mix the ingredients with exactness and
despatch; and it is absolutely necessary that the dough should be
set into the oven the instant it is ready. In some hydropathic and
other large establishments, where it is always supplied to the table in
lieu of the more common kinds, it is, we have been informed by
patients who had partaken of it there for many months together,
exceedingly and uniformly good. More detailed information with
regard to it, will be found in our “Cookery for Invalids,” a work for
which our want of space in the present volume compels us to
reserve it.
“For each pound of flour (or meal) take forty grains of
sesquicarbonate of soda, mix it intimately with the sugar and flour,
then add fifty drops of muriatic acid of the shops, diluted with half a
pint of water, or with as much as may be requisite to form the dough,
stirring it constantly into a smooth mass. Divide it into a couple of
loaves, and put them immediately into a quick oven.” Bake them
thoroughly.
Author’s note.—Dr. Pereira, from whose book on diet the
substance of the above receipt is taken, says that delicious bread
was made by it in his presence by the cook of Mr. John Savory, of
Bond Street, equal to any bread fermented by the usual process. We
would suggest that the soda, mixed with the sugar, and a small
portion of the flour, should be rubbed through a hair sieve with a
wooden spoon into the remainder of the flour, and stirred up with it
until the whole is perfectly mingled, before the liquid is added.
Should lighter bread be desired, the soda may be increased to fifty
or even sixty grains, if the quantity of acid be proportionately
augmented. As common salt is formed by the combination of these
two agents, none beside is needed in the bread.
Flour, 1 lb.; sesquicarbonate of soda, 40 grains; sugar, 1
teaspoonful; muriatic acid of the shops, 50 drops; water, 1/2 pint (or
as needed).
 POTATO BREAD.

One pound of good mealy potatoes, steamed or boiled very dry, in

the ordinary way, or prepared by Captain Kater’s receipt (see
Chapter XVII.), and rubbed quite hot, through a coarse sieve, into a
couple of pounds of flour, with which they should be well mixed, will
produce excellent bread, which will remain moist much longer than
wheaten bread made as usual. The yeast should be added
immediately after the potatoes. An ounce or two of butter, an egg
and some new milk, will convert this bread into superior rolls.
 DINNER OR BREAKFAST ROLLS.

Crumble down very small indeed, an ounce of butter into a couple

of pounds of the best flour, and mix with them a large saltspoonful of
salt. Put into a basin a dessertspoonful of solid, well-purified yeast,
and half a teaspoonful of pounded sugar; mix these with half a pint of
warm new milk; hollow the centre of the flour, pour in the yeast
gradually, stirring to it sufficient of the surrounding flour to make a
thick batter; strew more flour on the top, cover a thick double cloth
over the pan, and let it stand in a warm kitchen to rise. In winter it
must be placed within a few feet of the fire. In about an hour, should
the leaven have broken through the flour on the top, and have risen
considerably in height, mix one lightly-whisked egg, or the yolks of
two, with nearly half a pint more of quite warm new milk, and wet up
the mass into a very smooth dough. Cover it as before, and in from
half to three-quarters of an hour turn it on to a paste-board, and
divide it into twenty-four portions of equal size. Knead these up as
lightly as possible into small round, or olive-shaped rolls; make a
slight incision round them, and cut them once or twice across the
top, placing them as they are done on slightly floured baking sheets
an inch or two apart. Let them remain for fifteen or twenty minutes to
prove; then wash the tops with yolk of egg, mixed with a little milk,
and bake them in a rather brisk oven from ten to fifteen minutes.
Turn them upside down upon a dish to cool after they are taken from
the tins. An additional ounce of butter and another egg can be used
for these rolls when richer bread is liked; but it is so much less
wholesome than a more simple kind, that it is not to be
recommended. A cup of good cream would be an admirable
substitute for butter altogether, rendering the rolls exceedingly
delicate both in appearance and in flavour. The yeast used for them
should be stirred up with plenty of cold water the day before it is
wanted; and it will be found very thick indeed when it is poured off,
which should be gently done. Rather less than an ounce of good
fresh German yeast may be used for them instead of brewer’s yeast,
with advantage.
 GENEVA ROLLS, OR BUNS.

Break down into very small crumbs three ounces of butter with two
pounds of flour; add a little salt, and set the sponge with a large
tablespoonful of solid yeast, mixed with a pint of new milk, and a
tablespoonful or more of strong saffron water; let it rise for a full hour,
then stir to a couple of well-beaten eggs as much hot milk as will
render them lukewarm, and wet the rolls with them to a light, lithe
dough; leave it from half to three-quarters of an hour longer, mould it
into small rolls, brush them with beaten yolk of egg, and bake them
from twenty minutes to half an hour. The addition of six ounces of
good sugar, three of butter, half a pound or more of currants, the
grated rind of a large lemon, and a couple of ounces of candied
orange-rind, will convert these into excellent buns. When the flavour
of the saffron is not liked, omit it altogether. Only so much should be
used at any time as will give a rich colour to the bread.
Flour, 2 lbs.; butter, 3 oz.; solid yeast, 1 large tablespoonful
(saffron, 1 teaspoonful; water, less than a quarter pint); new milk, 1
pint: 1 hour, or more. 2 eggs, more milk: 3/4 hour: baked 20 to 30
minutes.
 RUSKS.

Work quite into crumbs six ounces of butter with a couple of

pounds of fine dry flour, and mix them into a lithe paste, with two
tablespoonsful of mild beer yeast, three well-beaten eggs, and nearly
half a pint of warm new milk. When it has risen to its full height
knead it smooth, and make it into very small loaves or thick cakes
cut with a round cake-cutter; place them on a floured tin, and let
them stand in a warm place to prove from ten to twenty minutes
before they are set into the oven. Bake them about a quarter of an
hour; divide them while they are still warm, and put them into a very
slow oven to dry. When they are crisp quite through they are done.
Four teaspoonsful of sifted sugar must be added when sweet-rusks
are preferred.
Flour, 2 lbs.; butter, 6 oz.; yeast, 2 tablespoonsful; eggs, 3; new
milk nearly half a pint: baked 1/4 hour.
For either of the preceding receipts substitute rather more than an
ounce of German yeast, when it can be procured quite fresh; or
should an ounce of it only be used (which we should consider an
ample proportion), let the dough—especially that of the rusks—
become extremely light before it is kneaded down, and also
previously to its being sent to the oven. A somewhat smaller quantity
of yeast is required in warm weather than in cold.

[Remark.—The remainder of this chapter is extracted from a little

treatise on domestic bread-making, which we hope shortly to lay
before the public, as it appears to us to be greatly needed; but, as
we have already more than once repeated, we are unwilling to
withhold from the present volume any information which may be
generally useful.]
 EXCELLENT DAIRY-BREAD MADE WITHOUT YEAST.

(Author’s Receipt.)
When we first heard unfermented bread vaguely spoken of, we
had it tried very successfully in the following manner; and we have
since been told that an almost similar method of preparing it is
common in many remote parts both of England and Ireland, where it
is almost impossible to procure a constant supply of yeast. Blend
well together a teaspoonful of pounded sugar and fifty grains of the
purest carbonate of soda; mix a saltspoonful of salt with a pound of
flour, and rub the soda and sugar through a hair-sieve into it. Stir and
mingle them well, and make them quickly into a firm but not hard
dough with sour buttermilk. Bake the loaf well in a thoroughly heated,
but not fierce oven. In a brick, or good iron oven a few minutes less
than an hour would be sufficient to bake a loaf of similar weight. The
buttermilk should be kept until it is quite acid, but it must never be in
the slightest degree rancid, or otherwise bad. All unfermented bread
should be placed in the oven directly it is made, or it will be heavy.
For a larger baking allow rather less than an ounce of soda to the
gallon (seven pounds) of flour.
Obs.—There are cases in which a knowledge of this, or of any
other equally easy mode of bread-making would be invaluable. For
example:—We learn from the wife of an officer who has for a long
time been stationed off the Isle of Skye, in which his family have their
abode, that the inhabitants depend entirely for bread on supplies
brought to them from Glasgow; and that they are often entirely
without, when the steamer which ought to arrive at intervals of eight
days, is delayed by stress of weather. The residents are then
compelled to have recourse to scones—as a mixture of flour and
water and a little soda (cooked on a flat iron plate), are called—or to
ship’s biscuit; and these are often found unsuitable for young
children and invalids. There are no ovens in the houses, though
there are grates for coal fires, in front of which small loaves of
unfermented bread could be baked extremely well in good American
ovens. Buttermilk can always be procured; and if not, a provision of
carbonate of soda and muriatic acid might be kept at hand to ensure
the means of making wholesome bread. In many other localities the
same plan might prove of equal benefit.
 TO KEEP BREAD.

Bread requires almost as much care as milk to preserve it

wholesome and fresh. It should be laid, as soon as it is perfectly
cold, into a large earthen pan with a cover, which should be kept free
from crumbs, and be frequently scalded, and then wiped very dry for
use. Loaves which have been cut should have a smaller pan
appropriated to them, and this also should have the loose crumbs
wiped from it daily. It is a good plan to raise the bread-pans from the
floor of the larder, when there is no proper stand or frame for the
purpose, by means of two flat wedges of wood, so as to allow a
current of air to pass under them.
 TO FRESHEN STALE BREAD (AND PASTRY, ETC.), AND
PRESERVE IT FROM MOULD.

If entire loaves be placed in a gentle oven and heated quite

through, without being previously dipped into cold water, according
to the old-fashioned plan, they will eat almost like bread newly
baked: they should not remain in it long enough to become hard and
dry, but they should be made hot throughout. In very damp localities,
when large household bakings take place but once in eight or ten
days, it is sometimes necessary to use precautions against the
attack of mould, though the bread may have been exceedingly well
made; and the method recommended above will be the best for
warding it off, and for preserving the bread eatable for several days
longer than it would otherwise be. If large loaves be just dipped into
cold water and then placed in a quick oven until they are again
thoroughly dried, they will resemble new bread altogether.
Pastry, cakes, and biscuits, may all be greatly improved when
stale, by heating them in a gentle oven.
 TO KNOW WHEN BREAD IS SUFFICIENTLY BAKED.

When the surface is uniformly browned, and it is everywhere firm

to the touch, and the bottom crust of a loaf is hard, it is generally
certain that it is thoroughly baked. To test bread that has been cut (or
yeast-cakes), press down the crumb lightly in the centre with the
thumb; when it is elastic and rises again to its place, it is proof that it
is perfectly done; but if the indentation remains, the heat has not
sufficiently penetrated the dough to convert it into wholesome eating.
 ON THE PROPER FERMENTATION OF DOUGH.

As we have previously said, too large a proportion of yeast, which

is very commonly used by persons not well skilled in bread-making,
although it produces quickly a light spongy dough, has a very bad
effect on bread, which it renders much less easy of digestion than
that which is more slowly fermented, and far less sweet and pleasant
in flavour: it also prevents its remaining eatable the same length of
time, as it speedily becomes dry. It is likewise very disadvantageous
to make the dough so lithe that it spreads about in the oven; and if it
be excessively stiff, and its management not thoroughly understood,
it will sometimes be heavy,. To prevent this, it should be kept quite
warm (never heated), and left a much longer time to rise. It will
frequently then prove excellent. It will ferment rather more quickly if,
when it gives symptoms of becoming light it is made up into loaves
with the least possible kneading, and a slight incision is made round
them and across the tops, and they are then placed in a warm air,
and kept secure from cold currents passing over them.