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When she finally clicked through the last slide of the financial deck, Vance leaned back in his leather chair, a slow, greedy smile spreading across his face. "I like it. Put the dossier together, Victoria. I want first refusal before you float it to anyone else."

"You have it," Victoria said.

"Don't keep us waiting, Victoria," Harrison added, his tone clipped. "We want the paperwork drafted by the end of the quarter."

"Understood," Victoria said.

The screen went black. Victoria exhaled a slow, controlled breath, closing the laptop. A strange, uncomfortable tightness seized her chest. She pictured the wooden carousel horse in the box downstairs. She pictured the smell of blueberry muffins and the fierce way Emma protected the place. For a fleeting second, Victoria’s finger hovered over the trackpad, a sick twist of guilt making her hesitate. She was going to bulldoze Joe's legacy.

She forcefully yanked her hand away. Freedom, she reminded herself violently. Six months, the buyout, the board seat, and Harrison is dead to me. She locked the guilt away in a steel vault and walked downstairs.

✽✽✽

Early May had arrived in Rosebrook with an unseasonable heatwave. The damp chill of April vanished overnight, replaced by a suffocating humidity that settled over the village like a heavy blanket.

When Victoria walked into the kitchen, it felt like stepping into an active furnace. The oven was radiating intense heat, filling the space with the smell of roasting oats and cinnamon.

Emma was standing at the sink, wearing faded denim shorts and a grey tank top, her hair twisted up with a metal clip. They had existed in a state of hyper-efficient avoidance since the incident with the lemon frosting. If Victoria sat at the island, Emma found a reason to organize the pantry. Victoria found the retreat highly amusing.

Sitting next to Victoria’s tablet on the counter was a ceramic mug filled with French press coffee. It was black, exactly how she took it.

"Good morning," Victoria said, wrapping her hands around the warm ceramic. “Thank you.”

Emma scrubbed a baking sheet with unnecessary force, not looking up. "Morning."

Victoria took a sip, unlocked her tablet, and pulled up the master spreadsheet she had built from Joe's handwritten ledgers. Her eyes scanned the columns, her instinct for bad math kicking in immediately.

"We need to discuss the Rosebrook Summer Festival," Victoria stated, tapping the screen. "I reviewed the receipts from last year. You charge two pounds for a slice of pecan pie. Between the pecans, the butter, and your labor, the cost comes out to two pounds and forty pence a slice. You are literally paying people to eat your food."

Emma turned the water off, leaning against the counter. "It’s a community event, Victoria. We don't gouge our neighbors."

"Pricing an item to cover its own cost is not gouging," Victoria replied, irritated by the sheer mathematical absurdity. "It is basic business. If we increase the slice price to four pounds, we generate a margin. That margin pays for the plumber we desperately need for the second floor."

Emma crossed her arms, a defensive spark lighting up her green eyes. "Why do you even care? You hate this place. You want us to fail so you can sell it. Letting me lose money on pies should be exactly what you want."

The accusation hung in the stifling air. Emma was totally correct. Why was she fixing her profit margins?

Because I absolutely despise incompetence, Victoria told herself fiercely.

"I don't fail, Ms. Hayes," Victoria said, her tone deceptively soft. "If this business goes under, it goes under because the market dictated it, not because I allowed my co-owner to give away pastries to the local peasantry out of misguided charity. Until we sell, my name is on the deed, and I run a profitable ship." And I need the valuation high for Vance, she added mentally, shutting down any other dangerous thought.

Emma stared at her, her jaw tightening. "Fine. Change the prices. But if the village complains, I'm sending them to you."

"Let them complain. They will still buy the food because it is excellent," Victoria replied without hesitation. A bead of sweat rolled down her spine. The heat in the house was becoming truly unbearable, and the expensive fabric of her shirt plastering itself against her shoulder blades.

Emma looked up. The compliment caught her off guard. A faint flush appeared on her neck. She quickly looked away, staring back at the numbers.

"Are you planning to wear that all day?" Emma asked, eyeing the immaculate trousers.

"What are you concerned about, Ms. Hayes?"

"Today it’ll be twenty-six degrees," Emma pointed out. "The house traps the heat. You are going to melt."

"I am perfectly comfortable, thank you."

A bead of sweat rolled down the back of Victoria’s neck. She ignored it altogether. She took her coffee and her tablet, retreating to the study to make her morning calls.

Two hours later, the heat on the second floor had turned oppressive. Victoria paced the length of the upstairs corridor, her AirPods in, navigating a tense conference call with her legal team in Manhattan.