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Gary dropped his map onto the table with a thud. "This is a joke, right? You've put me right at the bloody back. Nobody's going to walk all the way down there for a baked potato, Emma."

Emma felt her stomach drop. Gary was notoriously difficult. "Gary, the power outlets for your ovens are limited. We had to place you near the generator line—"

"If I'm at the back, I'm pulling out," Gary interrupted, crossing his arms.

"Gary," a quiet voice cut through the noise.

The table fell silent. Victoria stepped forward from her place near the windows. She radiated an aura of absolute authority.

Gary narrowed his eyes. "And you are?"

"Victoria Sterling. Joe's granddaughter," she said, walking toward the table. "I drafted the layout. And I put you at the back for a specific reason."

"To hide me?"

"To double your sales," Victoria corrected. "People don't buy a heavy, hot meal the second they walk through the gates. They want to play games. But if we put you at the far end, the wind carries the scent of your ovens across the entire festival ground. By the time they reach you, they've been walking for an hour. They're hungry, and you're the only hot food available."

Gary frowned, listening despite himself.

"You anchor the crowd," Victoria finished, offering a confident smile. "And the cider tent is right next to you. Salty food requires a drink. You feed them, they get thirsty, they buy cider. You both win."

Gary looked down at the map, scratched his chin, and sighed. "Fine. But if I have leftover potatoes by Sunday evening, I'm leaving them on your porch, London."

"New York," Victoria corrected. "And I look forward to it."

The tension vanished, replaced by a ripple of laughter. Within twenty minutes, the room was empty again. As the last vendor walked out, Emma stood rigid near the tea station, unable to tear her gaze away from Victoria.

"Close your mouth, Emma," Lucy whispered dryly, bumping her shoulder. "You're embarrassing yourself."

Emma snapped her mouth shut, her face burning as she grabbed a stack of dirty saucers and marched toward the kitchen without looking back at the window.

Chapter Sixteen

Victoria

It was Thursday, exactly twenty-four hours before the Rosebrook Summer Festival officially opened its gates.

Victoria sat behind the wooden desk in the study, staring at her phone. The screen illuminated the dim room, displaying two missed calls from Harrison, followed by a crisp text message.

Your output is dropping, Victoria. I expect more from you. If there is no tangible progress on the Vance dossier by next week, this UK experiment is over and your shares are going to be in serious danger.

Victoria stared at the words, placing her hands flat on the desk. She breathed in the scent of lemon polish and old paper. She looked at the paperwork scattered across the desk—the vendor layout for the festival. Emma’s handwriting was scrawled in the margins, complete with a smiley face drawn next to her pastry stall.

A sudden, sharp ache tightened Victoria’s chest. The thought of handing this property over to Vance’s bulldozers suddenly felt heavy, almost suffocating. Emma had built a life here in over fifteen years, piece by piece.

But Victoria closed her eyes, shutting out the smiley face. Freedom, she reminded herself fiercely. Her shares, the board seat, the end of Harrison's control over her life. She couldn't afford to get sentimental over a Victorian house and a village festival. She typed a rapid reply.

I am finalizing the land surveys today. The preliminary dossier will be in your inbox by next week.

She hit send and turned the phone face-down. The plan was moving forward.

She walked out of the study and into the hallway. The front door was open, sunlight spilling across the floorboards. Emma was standing on the porch, sweeping leaves off the welcome mat. She wore denim overalls and a faded yellow t-shirt, her hair pulled into a messy knot. She looked up as Victoria approached the threshold.

"Morning," Emma said, her eyes locking onto Victoria’s face. The electric tension that had been humming between them for days hovered in the warm air, making the porch feel far too small. "You survived your work calls?"

"Barely," Victoria murmured. She leaned against the doorframe.

Emma rested on her broom, studying Victoria with a quiet intensity. "You look pale. Did something happen?"