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It was the exact structural footprint of the sketch she had held up to her phone camera on that balcony in Paris.

"Lucy," Emma murmured, her fingertips tracing the rough edge of the exposed brick. "What is this?"

Resting on a temporary plywood worktable in the center of the room was a cardboard box. Inside, folded over tissue paper, lay a canvas apron in dark forest green.

Emma leaned over the wood. Embroidered on the bib, in elegant cream thread, was the exact logo she had scribbled into the margins of her stained notebook months ago: a sprig of wheat curving around a rolling pin and an open book. Beneath it, the words: The Lemon Tart.

Emma traced the stitches. Her heart thumped once, hard and steady against her ribs.

"She didn’t put anything on the exterior sign," Lucy explained quietly from the doorway. "She said that part had to be yours."

"Lucy, wait," Emma stammered, her brow furrowing in deep confusion. "Who did this? Did... did Nate take out a loan? Did Mrs. Marble leave this to me? Who is 'she'?"

Lucy leaned back against the doorframe, crossing her arms. An unrepentant smirk tugged at her mouth as she watched Emma struggle to connect the dots.

"Oh, come on, Hayes. Use that fancy French culinary brain," Lucy teased, tapping her temple. "How many women do you know who possess a terrifying stare, wear cashmere to haul cast-iron display cases, and casually find the perfect spot for a Book Café just to get your attention?"

The air left in Emma's lungs in a sudden, sharp rush. "Victoria."

"The one and only," Lucy said, looking far too pleased with herself. "Turns out the Manhattan shark is surprisingly good at manual labor. Though she did complain about the plumbing the entire time."

Emma's heart hammered against her ribs. "But what is she doing here? What does it mean? What—"

"I'm just the spy who leaked your floor plans, mate," Lucy interrupted with a wicked grin, nodding toward the road that led up to the estate. "If you want the rest of the story, go up that hill and ask her yourself."

Lucy tossed the brass key across the room. Emma caught it on reflex, shoved it into her coat pocket, and walked out the door without another word.

She jogged the three blocks to the gravel lot behind Nate's Café, climbed into the cab of her battered Ford, and turned the ignition. The engine coughed to life with its familiar roar.

✽✽✽

The drive up the hill to The Amber House took barely five minutes—a route that usually demanded at least eight in Betsy’s rattling frame. Emma pushed the accelerator flat against the floorboards, taking the bends with zero caution. She didn’t have the patience. She had spent three entire months waiting, and her time was up. She swung the truck hard onto the gravel driveway, killing the engine as she skidded to a halt near the ancient oak tree.

The grounds looked pristine. The climbing ivy had been pruned neatly away from the leaded glass. The gutters were straight. The stone porch had been scrubbed clean. The house looked anchored, warm, and cared for.

The front hallway smelled of floor wax and fresh linen. Emma stepped inside. Her boot landed on the floorboard near the staircase. Silence. No creak. She reached down, resting her palm against the cast-iron radiator beneath the stained-glass window. It was burning hot, pumping steady heat into the air.

The chime of the reception bell echoed from the desk.

"Oh, you must be the Portmans!"

The voice drifted down from the upper landing, slightly breathless, accompanied by the thud of heavy luggage wheels.

"Welcome to The Amber House! I am just helping with the bags, and I will be right with—"

Emma walked to the base of the staircase and looked up.

Victoria stopped on the third step down.

She was holding a navy suitcase in each hand, the heavy leather handles cutting deep into her palms. She wore faded jeans and an oversized cream cardigan that looked soft and worn. Her dark hair was gathered in a messy bun, thick strands falling loose around her jaw. A smudge of gray dust marked her right knee, and her face was flushed from the stairs.

The suitcases slipped from her grip. They tumbled down a single riser, hitting the runner with a muffled thud.

Victoria’s eyes went wide, a sharp intake of air jerking her shoulders rigid.

Emma stood at the bottom of the stairs, her hands resting in the pockets of her wool coat, taking in the scene with complete clarity.

Before the silence could break, an older woman leaned over the upstairs railing, smiling down at Victoria. "Thank you so much for taking those up, dear. Room Three, was it?"