“You’re already doing it. And you’re not alone. I’m here. Camila, Renata… everyone in this town is with you. We’ll do it—together.”
I smiled, feeling steadier, stronger, because Júlia always knew how to speak to the parts of me that still trembled.
“Thank you for being here,” I said, squeezing her hand briefly.
“Always,” she replied. “Now go get some rest. You’ll need energy tomorrow.”
I laughed softly and nodded, watching her leave.
When I was finally alone, I looked around the bakery and let it fill me—the warmth, the smell of sugar and coffee, the quiet pride of everything I’d built with my own hands.
A few days later, I was straightening the tables for the lunch rush when the bell above the door chimed.
“I’m sorry, we’re not open yet,” I called politely, not looking up from the menu I was adjusting.
“I’m not here for lunch,” a man’s voice replied—professional, cold. “I’m here for a conversation.”
I lifted my eyes immediately.
A man stood in the doorway wearing a suit too expensive, too sharp, too intentional for a casual tourist. Behind him, two other men waited in silence, their eyes sweeping the bakery as if they were evaluating inventory.
My stomach tightened, but I kept my face calm as I stepped toward them.
“How can I help you?”
The man walked in with measured confidence, scanning the room like he was calculating its value. Then he looked at me.
“My name is Guilherme Antunes,” he said. “I’m an attorney for Ferrara Group.” He paused, waiting for a reaction. I forced my expression to remain unreadable. “We’re here to make you an offer, Ms. Muniz.”
My whole body went taut at the name—Ferrara—but I refused to let him see it. I crossed my arms and met his gaze.
“I’m not interested in hearing any offer,” I said evenly. “My business isn’t for sale. I believe you already know that.”
He smiled with false warmth and stepped closer—subtle intimidation dressed as courtesy.
“I would advise you to reconsider, Ms. Muniz. The financial offer we have prepared is generous. Well above the property’s market value.” His eyes flicked around the bakery as if measuring me against it. “I’m sure it would be more than enough for you to start over somewhere else. Somewhere more… suitable.”
“More suitable?” I repeated, my voice turning colder. “I don’t believe there is anywhere more suitable than the place I chose to raise my daughter and build my life. This bakery is not for sale—no matter what number you attach to it.”
Guilherme exhaled, irritation slipping through his polished mask.
His tone sharpened. He stepped closer again.
“Ms. Muniz, I need to be clear. This development is happening—with or without your cooperation. We’re trying to be amicable now. But there are other legal ways to obtain what we need, and I assure you—Ferrara Group will not hesitate to use them.”
A chill slid down my spine.
Those words were meant to scare me. To make me fold. To make me move.
Instead, they lit something hard and bright inside me.
I held his gaze and took a slow breath.
“I understood your message perfectly, Mr. Antunes,” I said calmly. “Now hear mine: I will not sell. I will not leave. And I will not be intimidated by veiled threats. If your client is used to getting everything he wants, maybe it’s time he learns that money and power don’t buy everything.”
He stared at me for a moment, visibly surprised.
Then he nodded, a cold, ironic smile curling his mouth.
