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He stopped at station four.

He looked down at the four purple domes. They sat on the porcelain like polished gems, uniform to the millimeter.

Laurent drew his tasting spoon from his pocket. He brought his face close to the plate, inspecting the mirror finish. "The shine is correct. No air bubbles."

He drove the spoon downward. The glaze yielded. The mousse offered zero resistance, parting cleanly around the blackberry core. The financier base provided a crisp, buttery anchor at the bottom.

Laurent put the bite into his mouth.

He closed his eyes. For five seconds, the only sound was the ventilation hood. He took a second bite, cutting deeper into the thyme-infused sponge.

He wiped his mouth with a linen cloth. He looked up, his pale eyes fixing directly on Emma.

"What is the inspiration, Hayes?"

"An English country garden, Chef," Emma answered, her chin lifted. "Blackberry and thyme. But structured with French balance."

Laurent rested his hands on the prep table. He looked at the clean station, the tidy knife roll, and the girl standing before him with straight shoulders.

"The acidity in the insert is aggressive," Laurent said. Emma’s stomach tightened. Then he added, "But it is absolutely necessary. The goat cheese cuts the sugar. The crumb of the financier has the correct moisture."

He picked up his pen, making a notation in his book.

"This is not English tea food," Laurent said, turning his shoulder to move to the next station. "This is pâtisserie. You are a chef, Hayes. Stop doubting your hands and you will actually achieve something in your life."

Emma stood at her station as he walked away. Her throat tightened, a sudden prickle of heat gathering behind her eyes. But she didn't cry.

She looked down at her hands—flour-dusted, scarred, capable.

I did this, she thought, the realization ringing through her head like a brass bell. Not hiding behind Joe’s grief. Not living on Victoria’s terms. Me.

✽✽✽

The evening air was sharp as Emma and Camille reached a brasserie in Le Marais. The zinc bar was crowded with patrons drinking aperitifs, the sound of laughter and clinking glasses spilling out onto the terrace.

They secured a small corner table. Camille ordered a bottle of Chablis and a platter of aged Comté.

Camille poured the wine, the pale gold liquid catching the dim candlelight. "You look happy today," she noted, setting the bottle down with a thud.

Emma picked up her glass. "Laurent liked my entremets. Said I was a real chef."

"Oh mon Dieu," Camille said, pointing her glass at Emma with a wide grin. "The tyrant actually has a soul! That is huge, Emma. Happy we ordered a bottle instead of a glass!"

Emma laughed, the knot in her chest finally loosening as she clinked her glass against Camille's. "I know! He didn't even make a face."

"See? I told you you were brilliant," Camille said, taking a generous sip before breaking off a piece of crusty half-baguette. She pushed the basket toward Emma. "You've been killing yourself over that marble counter for weeks now. You earned this. So, what's next? You conquer Paris, or you open that dream café and make everyone else look bad?"

Emma looked down at the pale wine, the crisp acidity sharp on her tongue. The answer came without the familiar sting of panic.

"I think I’m going to build my own place," Emma said quietly, feeling the truth settle deep into her bones. "My recipes, my hours, my terms."

Camille watched her across the table, her expression shifting into something warmer, almost protective. "Back across the Channel?"

"Back home, I think I’m ready now," Emma murmured.

"A woman with a business plan and money in the bank is dangerous," Camille said, clinking her glass firmly against Emma’s. "To the future, then. To your café."

"To the future," Emma agreed, drinking deeply.