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Rosine’s blood began to boil.

“And if you succeed,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, “you become part of something larger. Not just baking buns—but shaping futures. You can employ more Jewish girls and teach them to grow, too. I’m the spark but you’ll be the fire, Rosine.”

Fire indeed. Rosine’s eyes stung. She didn’t blink.

“Then understand this,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon added with sharp finality. “If the raid comes and we collapse, we won’t just lose a confectioner—we’ll lose every soul who built a life here. So we need to protect these walls. Sander stays to protect you, and you shall help, too.”

There was no doubt in her voice. Only expectation—of courage, of loyalty, of action.

I’m trapped. Farewell independence. Goodbye dreams of my own shop. I’ll be a branch of the Lyon’s Den kitchen two streets down.

Rosine let the silence sit between her and Mrs. Dove-Lyon, then inhaled slowly. Nothing was said, but in her chest she felt the weight of purpose clashing with her anger—and she knew the fight would begin tonight and Nagy wasn’t her only opponent.

Rosine didn’t speak. Her jaw set, and she gave a single, deliberate nod.

The light in Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s office seemed brighter now.

Then, as she turned to leave, her eyes caught Sander’s again. He stepped forward—just one step, but the air between them sparked like a struck match.

His gaze was all quiet understanding, and he didn’t come too close nor touch her. The moment hung.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon didn’t say a word, but Rosine saw it—how her gaze flicked between them. How the corners of her mouth tightened, the smallest curve. Knowing. She’d made the match.

Rosine stepped through the door.

The hallway stretched before her, empty. But inside her chest, something new had settled.

Resolve. And the shape of a beginning.

This was her fight now. And she would not turn back.

After Rosine stepped out, Sander stood where a man stands when he has already chosen a side and must now choose his words.

“She wants her independence.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon steepled her fingers. Candlelight caught on the rings that never left her hands. “She has to.”

The answer landed like a measured stroke. He held his breath.

“Independence rarely arrives as we imagine,” she went on, voice low, even. “And its cost is always dearer than we think. For women, dearest of all.” A small shift of her shoulders; the veil softened, not slipping. “I speak from experience.”

He let that sit. Tell Rosine or keep the secret. Neither was a good choice. On the board, this would lead to a stalemate.

Sander was not a man built for fictions; he was a man who made pieces do exactly what he told them. But in chess, the board was on the table. If he had a strategy, it was in his mind. Pieces moved openly. I kept too big a secret from Rosine.

“How do I convince her?” he asked, and disliked the plea in it.

“You should not,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon replied as if she’d just dismissed his entire strategy like a grandmaster.

“She wants her independence,” he said. “She needs my protection.” And I need her as much as life itself.

“That’s why you needed my help,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, like the matchmaker she was, stepping into the ring.

“I asked for your help to expedite her dream come true because I would not spend her name in corners because she’s so precious. Rosine deserves a choice in her life and future, not a man who will corner her in how she makes her decisions. She works under your roof; I needed your support to safeguard her free-will and independence, so she never feels pressed by a man who can bar a door. And the lease—I’d put it in her reach even if she never takes my hand. If I’m gone by winter and on a ship to Boston, she keeps the oven.” Warmth ran under his skin, not gentle. He saw again the small certainty of her fingers on his waistcoat.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s answer was simple: “You should tell the truth about how much you love her. If there is the smallest seed between you, truth is rain. If there is none… persuasion will rot what you try to keep.”

Tell her the shop is hers regardless. Tell her your line ends where hers begins. Then wait—and want—properly.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon reached for a ledger and turned it so the spine made a neat line with the desk’s edge. “Now. To business. We meet the raid with light. A show on our terms. The House needs a mind on display and the sharpest one we have is yours.”