Dani didn't sleep the night before the meeting.
She lay awake in the apartment above the bakery, staring at the ceiling while the hum of refrigeration vibrated through the floorboards. Every sound felt amplified—the tick of the clock, the creak of the building settling, the distant rumble of traffic.
The business card sat on her nightstand.
She hadn't called the number.
Not yet.
Instead, she rehearsed what she would say if—when—she did.
I'm not selling. I'm not interested. This place isn't for sale.
The words sounded strong in her head.
She hoped they'd sound strong out loud.
By morning, Franklin Square was already awake.
Dani unlocked the bakery with practiced motions, grounding herself in routine. Turn on the lights. Check the ovens. Start the first batch.
The familiar smells wrapped around her like armor.
Parker arrived just after seven.
"You're up early," he said.
"I never slept."
He studied her face. "You don't have to do this today."
"Yes," Dani said quietly. "I do."
She reached into her apron pocket and placed the business card on the counter between them.
"I'm meeting them."
Parker didn't touch the card. "To listen?"
"To listen," she confirmed. "Not to negotiate."
He nodded once. "Where?"
"Their office. Downtown."
"That's neutral territory."
"That's intentional."
Silence settled between them.
"You want me there?" Parker asked.
Dani shook her head immediately. "No."
He didn't argue.
"Not because I don't trust you," she added. "Because I need this to be mine."
"I understand," Parker said.
And she believed him.
The office was sleek in the way Dani disliked.
Glass walls. Polished floors. Neutral art that meant nothing. Everything is designed to feel temporary—even power.
She was ushered into a conference room by a woman who smiled without warmth.
"Ms. Clark," the woman said. "Thank you for coming."
Two men waited inside. Both well-dressed. Both were attentive in a way that felt practiced.
"Please," one said. "Have a seat."
Dani remained standing. "I won't be long."
The men exchanged a glance.
"Fair enough," the other said. "We'll be direct."
They talked numbers first.
Not offers—possibilities.
Growth. Expansion. Opportunity. The inevitable evolution of Franklin Square.
Dani listened without interrupting, hands folded calmly in front of her.
When they paused, waiting, she spoke.
"My bakery isn't for sale," Dani said evenly.
One of the men smiled. "We didn't say it was."
"You implied it."
"We're offering options."
"You're testing resistance."
The smile faded slightly.
"We're impressed by what you've built," the man said. "But markets change."
"So do people," Dani replied. "I'm not one of them."
The other man leaned back. "You're engaged to Parker Grayson."
Dani felt the shift immediately.
"Yes."
"That changes things."
"No," Dani said firmly. "It doesn't."
They studied her, patient as vultures.
"We'd hate to see pressure applied where it isn't necessary," one said carefully.
Dani's stomach tightened. Her voice didn't.
"This meeting is over," she said. "If you contact me again, it will be through my attorney."
The men blinked.
"You didn't bring one," the woman noted.
Dani smiled tightly. "I didn't need to."
She walked out without shaking hands.
Her heart didn't slow until she was back on the street.
And the worst part—
Parker didn't call.
That surprised her.
By the time Dani returned to the bakery, the adrenaline had burned off, replaced by exhaustion that sank deep into her bones.
She unlocked the door, stepped inside—
—and froze.
A small crowd had gathered near the counter.
Regulars. Neighbors. People who knew her.
Someone had put up a handwritten sign:
WE SUPPORT LOCAL.
Dani stared at it, throat tightening.
Parker stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching her carefully.
"You did this?" she asked quietly.
He shook his head. "No."
A woman stepped forward. "We heard people were asking questions."
Another added, "About the shop."
"We just wanted to be clear," the first woman said. "We're not going anywhere."
Emotion swelled dangerously in Dani's chest.
"Thank you," she managed. "But you didn't have to—"
"Yes, we did," someone interrupted. "This place matters."
Dani's hands curled into fists at her sides—not from anger, but from the instinct to keep herself from shaking.
Parker watched her absorb it all—her discomfort, her pride, her fear.
She turned to him later, voice low.
"You didn't tell them to do this."
"I didn't," he said. "I swear."
She believed him.
That scared her more than if he'd orchestrated it.
Because if Parker wasn't controlling the ripple effect…
Then neither was she.
That evening, after the last customer left and the shop quieted, Dani sat at the back table, staring at the sign like it might change shape if she stared long enough.
"I drew a line today," she said softly.
Parker nodded. "You did."
"And they noticed."
"Yes."
She looked up at him. "This is where it gets harder, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Because now they know I won't fold."
"And they'll adjust."
Dani exhaled through her nose. "I don't know if I'm ready for what comes next."
Parker met her gaze. "You don't have to be ready. You just have to be consistent."
She smiled faintly. "You sound like my conscience."
He returned it. "I'm trying not to sound like my father."
That mattered.
More than it should have.
The pressure shifted after that.
Not louder.
Sharper.
Calls that went unanswered. Meetings postponed. A sudden delay on a permit Dani had already submitted.
Nothing she could point to.
Everything she could feel.
She confronted Parker that night.
"This is where you step in," she said. "And this is where you don't."
He listened carefully, like every word was a clause.
"If I ask," she continued, "you help. If I don't—"
"I don't," he finished.
"And if you think I'm making a mistake?"
"I tell you," Parker said. "Once."
She nodded. "Good."
They stood close—too close—but neither moved.
"No touching," she reminded him, softer now.
"I know."
He didn't step away.
Neither did she.
Then Dani broke the moment herself, turning back to the counter like it was safer than his eyes.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
"For what?"
"For letting me do this alone."
Parker watched her for a long moment.
"You're not alone," he said.
She didn't correct him.
Across town, Parker stared out the window of his hotel room, phone in his hand, ignoring messages urging him to intervene.
He didn't.
Because for the first time, restraint wasn't weakness.
It was loyalty.
And the proposition—so carefully constructed, so deliberately transactional—was beginning to test not whether it could hold them together…
…but whether it could keep them apart.
The days following the meeting didn't explode.
They narrowed.
Dani felt it in the way conversations stopped when she walked into a room. In the half-second pause before people smiled. In the careful neutrality of emails that used to sound friendly.
Nothing was openly hostile.
That was the problem.
At the bakery, customers asked fewer questions—but watched more closely. Some lingered longer than usual. Others avoided eye contact, as if proximity itself carried risk.
"You okay?" one regular asked gently as Dani boxed an order.
"I am," Dani replied honestly. "Just busy."
The woman nodded, but didn't look convinced.
Later that afternoon, a vendor called to "confirm delivery windows," despite nothing changing. Another asked for written confirmation of existing agreements.
Dani hung up and exhaled sharply.
"They're nervous."
Parker, who had been standing nearby but pointedly silent, nodded. "When power shifts, uncertainty spreads."
"I didn't shift anything," Dani snapped.
"No," he agreed. "You exposed it."
That distinction mattered.
That evening, Dani found Parker standing outside the bakery again—not watching this time, but waiting.
She locked up and stepped into the cool air.
"You don't have to hover."
"I'm not," he replied. "I'm available."
She eyed him. "There's a difference."
"Yes," he said. "I'm respecting it."
They walked a few steps together in silence.
"People think I made a statement today," Dani said quietly.
"You did."
"I didn't say anything."
"You didn't need to," Parker replied. "Silence can be louder than denial."
She stopped walking. "This wasn't supposed to be public."
"No," he said. "But public lines have weight."
She looked at him, searching. "And now?"
"And now," Parker said carefully, "they'll decide whether to test it."
Her stomach tightened. "How?"
"By waiting," he said. "Or by pressing somewhere else."
She crossed her arms. "My landlord already did."
Parker's jaw tightened—but he didn't speak.
"That's restraint," Dani said quietly. "Not easy, is it?"
"No," he admitted. "But necessary."
That night, Dani stood alone in the bakery after everyone left, staring at the WE SUPPORT LOCAL sign.
She took it down.
Not because she didn't appreciate it.
But because she refused to let anyone mistake support for surrender.
She folded the sign carefully and placed it under the counter.
Then she turned off the lights, locked the door, and stood there for a long moment, her hand resting against the glass.
She had drawn the line.
Now she would learn who respected it.
And who intended to cross it anyway?