For Andrew, the life got sucked out of him. He threw down his hand, he gaped in disbelief. God damn it! Without a word, the tall man stalked down to the room he used as his office.

He came upstairs again and numb fingers dropped a stack of papers. He signed his bakery over to the winner, wrote a letter as such, and another for his solicitor.

Rose was going to hate him.

Andrew took the half empty decanter of whisky and guzzled some of the contents down. "All years, bloke. I'd hand me wife over too, but she burns the damn bread. Ye ain't gonna like'er cooking..." He kind of snorted and sat almost bonelessly in the chair he had vacated.

"Ye own the name, the ingredients, the product, the cases, this table... Conrashulashions..." And then he sobbed a little and palmed his forehead. "She'll jush hate me more, oh well."