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The tray wobbled violently. Lucy managed to catch the lip of the wood with both hands before the whole thing went down, saving the glasses from crashing to the floorboards, but two of the heavy pints tipped sideways. They rolled across the tray in a rush of foam, sending a cold, sticky wave of amber cider sloshing directly over the rim and straight down the front of Chloe’s pristine blouse.

Behind the counter, Victoria went absolutely rigid.

"Oh, god," Victoria whispered, gripping the edge of the espresso machine. Her tone was deadpan, laced with impending doom. "This is going to be a bloodbath. I have seen her destroy grown men for stepping on her shoes. I need to intervene before she fires Lucy from a job she does not even own."

Emma held her breath, waiting for the inevitable explosion.

But the explosion never came.

Chloe went dead still in the middle of the room, staring down at the ruined fabric clinging to her chest. Then, she slowly lifted her head to look at Lucy.

Lucy was already scrambling, grabbing a towel from her apron. "Shit. I am so sorry, I didn't see you turning, I should have called out—"

"No," Chloe interrupted. Her voice was incredibly small. The commanding gallery director had vanished entirely. She looked up at Lucy, her eyes wide, a frantic flush rushing up her neck. "It was my fault. I stepped right into you. I wasn't looking."

Emma frowned, trading a bewildered glance with Victoria. Chloe apologizing? Unprompted?

"Oh my god, you're soaked," Lucy said, her face twisted in genuine distress. She looked around, realizing the small towel was completely useless against the damage. Without hesitating for a single second, Lucy reached for the hem of her faded overshirt and pulled it over her head.

She tossed the ruined towel aside and stood there in a ribbed tank top, the faded cotton pulling tight across her torso, exposing the defined muscles of her arms from years of lugging stone planters, hauling soil bags, and running the flower shop.

"Here," Lucy said, holding the overshirt out. "Use this to soak it up before it stains."

Chloe did not take the shirt.

Chloe did not move at all. She just stared at Lucy. Specifically, she stared at Lucy’s shoulders, her jaw slackening. The flush that had started on her neck rapidly consumed her entire face, turning her cheeks a violent shade of crimson. The formidable Chloe Sterling was effectively short-circuiting in the middle of the bakery.

"I..." Chloe stammered, failing to form a coherent sentence. "It's... the silk is..."

"Right," Lucy muttered, dragging a hand through her hair and taking in the sheer state of Chloe’s blouse with a wince. "Let's get you sorted. Come on, through the back to the bathroom. Cold water will lift most of it, and you're wearing my overshirt whether it clashes with your whole high-society thing or not. I'm not having you catch pneumonia on Emma's opening day."

Lucy gently wrapped a hand around Chloe’s elbow to guide her. Chloe flinched at the contact, swallowed hard, and followed Lucy toward the hallway like an obedient puppy, not uttering a single word of complaint.

The swinging door closed behind them.

Silence hung over the counter for a solid ten seconds.

Emma slowly turned her head to look at Victoria. Victoria was staring at the hallway door, her eyes slightly narrowed, processing the data.

"Did that just happen?" Emma whispered.

"A tank top," Victoria said flatly, her voice laced with profound disbelief. "A literal tank top just defeated my sister. The woman tore down a notoriously temperamental sculptor in Chelsea last week without blinking, and she just lost the ability to speak because someone showed her a bicep."

Emma bit her lip, trying desperately to suppress a laugh. She leaned against the counter, shaking her head. "Well. I guess we know why she was so eager to set up a monthly art rotation."

Victoria let out a quiet laugh, running a hand over her mouth. "Incredible. The terror of Manhattan, defeated by a floral shop owner in a tank top."

"Rosebrook changes people," Emma said softly.

"It really does," Victoria agreed.

Victoria took a step closer, erasing the remaining space between them. She reached out, her fingers catching the knot of Emma’s apron strings at the back of her waist, pulling her flush against her. The noise of the café, the clinking cups, the chatter of their friends, all of it faded into a pleasant hum.

Emma rested her hands flat against Victoria’s chest, feeling the steady beat of her heart beneath the dark knit. She looked up, tracing the familiar lines of Victoria’s face. There was no hesitation here. No secrets, no distance, no bags packed for a flight back across the ocean.

There was only this. Just the heat of Victoria’s chest under her palms and the room full of people they loved.

"I am very proud of you, Emma," Victoria whispered, her dark eyes sincere. "You built something beautiful."