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The drive to The Amber House took twenty minutes. The rain had stopped, leaving a heavy mist hanging over the gravel driveway. The Victorian manor looked imposing in the dark, the ground floor illuminated by the warm glow of lamps.

Victoria bypassed the front entrance, walking around the side of the property. She followed the light spilling from the back windows. She pushed the heavy wooden door open, stepping into the kitchen. The heat of the room hit her instantly. It smelled of yeast, toasted sugar, and strong coffee.

Emma stood at the massive central island. She was wearing a faded t-shirt and jeans, her hands buried in a mound of dough. She moved with a rhythmic, muscular grace, pushing and folding the dough with practiced efficiency.

Victoria stopped in the doorway, letting the silence stretch. She knocked lightly but the woman was too focused on the dough in front of her. She watched the shift of muscles in Emma's arms, the intense focus on her face. For a moment, Victoria felt a dangerous pull in her chest. She wanted to cross the room. She wanted to crowd Emma against the counter and see if she tasted as sweet as she had last night.

Instead, she ruthlessly crushed the impulse. She cleared her throat.

Emma jumped. Her head snapped up, her hands freezing in the dough. The moment she saw Victoria standing in the doorway, the unguarded exhaustion vanished. Her spine snapped straight. The green eyes turned flinty and defensive.

"Do you always wander into private rooms uninvited?" Emma asked, wiping her hands on a dry tea towel. She kept the broad prep table firmly between them.

"Your back latch doesn't catch. Anyone could push it open."

"People around here knock first, Ms. Sterling."

"I did," Victoria replied without missing a beat, stopping just short of the counter. "You were too busy murdering that dough to hear it. We need to talk."

"I thought you made your position clear this morning," Emma replied. She crossed her arms. "Sell the sinkhole. Divide the cash. Ruin my life. Did I miss a bullet point?"

Victoria ignored the provocation. She walked toward the counter, stopping a few feet away.

"I went through Joe’s books," Victoria said, her hands resting in the pockets of her coat. "You are not making enough money from the inn, Ms. Hayes. The slates on the north roof are sliding, half the radiators don't heat, and you don't have enough bookings between November and March to cover the oil bill."

"We’ve survived worse than a drafty radiator," Emma countered. She tossed the tea towel onto the prep table, her chin lifting with that familiar, prickly defiance. "The roof holds when it counts, and I know how to bleed the pipes myself. The village comes here for tea, the Rosebrook Summer Festival gets us lots of tourists, the summer guests rebook every year, and we don't turn away regulars just because the margins aren't neat enough for Manhattan. Joe and I kept this roof over our heads for years without a Wall Street lecture, Victoria. We don't need your panic."

"It isn't a lecture, Ms. Hayes, it's an eviction notice," Victoria said, barely raising her voice. "Did Joe tell you how he paid for this kitchen remodel five years ago?"

Emma faltered, her hands stilling on the butcher block. "He took out a standard loan. The monthly payments are always met."

"It was an interest-only commercial loan using the deed as collateral," Victoria corrected, watching the blood drain from Emma's face. "And the principal balloon payment is due at the end of October. It's a six-figure debt. You don't just have a drafty roof; you have a bank ready to foreclose in exactly six months."

Emma stared at her, the defiance shattering. She gripped the edge of the island as the reality of the debt crashed over her.

"If we fight over this in court, the legal fees will bankrupt the estate before the bank even forecloses," Victoria continued, seamlessly moving in for the kill. "However, I recognize that a foreclosure destroys the land value for both of us. So, I am offering a compromise. A temporary operational agreement. We will run the property for the next six months."

Emma blinked, clearly derailed by the sudden shift from executioner to negotiator. "Six months?"

"Exactly until the balloon payment is due." Victoria nodded. "We track the margins. We implement a strict budget. If the business fails to generate the capital to clear that debt by the end of October, you sign an irrevocable listing agreement. We sell the property privately to a developer, clear the bank debt, and split the remaining profits. No lawyers. No foreclosures."

Emma stared at her, searching for the trap. "And if we make enough profit to pay the bank?"

"If the numbers prove the business is viable and the debt is cleared," Victoria replied, holding her gaze, "we renegotiate the terms of the deed. You keep your home."

Emma’s jaw set stubbornly. Despite the shock of the debt, she clearly believed she could somehow beat the clock. She thought Joe’s will—and her fifty-percent stake—gave her the ultimate veto power, assuming that if she just kept the doors open, The Amber House was untouchable.

And annoyingly, without this agreement, she had enough leverage to make things difficult.

Legally, Victoria didn't actually need Emma's signature to force a liquidation. With her corporate lawyers, Victoria could easily push a partition action through the UK courts. But doing so meant Emma could file injunctions, contest the appraisals, and drag the deed into a messy, prolonged legal dispute. Corporate developers like Vance didn't touch properties tied up in active litigation or hostile local scandals.

Victoria couldn't just crush Emma's little rebellion right here in the kitchen. Using the bank's deadline was cleaner. It bypassed the courts while Victoria finalized her affairs in New York, and it bought her the exact window she needed to properly audit the estate and shop it to the right developer. When the balloon payment inevitably came due in autumn and the B&B defaulted, Emma wouldn't have the funds to fight a foreclosure, let alone file an injunction against Victoria. Selling to Victoria's private buyer would look like the only viable rescue on the table.

"I accept your six months," Emma said softly.

Victoria felt a flicker of triumph. "Excellent."