Hand over the bakery deed, Grandma, before you embarrass yourself in front of the

I walked to the sideboard, opened the drawer Nana always kept locked, and pulled out a slim manila folder. Tyler smirked. “What’s that, sweetheart? Your apron warranty?” I didn’t answer him. I handed the folder to Mr. Halloran, the family attorney, who had been quietly sipping wine in the corner — invited by Nana, not by Tyler. Mr. Halloran opened it, adjusted his glasses, and cleared his throat. “This is the deed transfer Mrs. Costa filed eighteen months ago,” he said. “The bakery, the building, and the trademark on every recipe in the Costa notebook were legally assigned to Emily Costa on her twenty-seventh birthday. Mrs. Costa retains a lifetime usage clause. There is nothing for anyone at this table to sign.” Tyler’s face drained. His fiancée set down her fork like it had burned her. “That’s — that’s not possible. Grandma promised the family business stays in the family.” Nana finally spoke, her voice soft but steady. “Emily is the family, Tyler. She showed up. You showed up tonight because you smelled money.” I pulled out my phone and turned the screen toward him. “Also, the crypto lounge pitch deck you emailed your investors last week? You CC’d the bakery’s public inbox by mistake. I forwarded it to Mr. Halloran the same afternoon. Along with the part where you called Nana, and I quote, a confused old woman who’ll sign anything for a hug.” His fiancée stood up. Grabbed her purse. Didn’t even look at him. Tyler stammered something about a misunderstanding, but Nana raised one finger — the same finger that had pointed at burnt loaves and lazy apprentices for fifty years — and pointed at the door. He left without his coat. I picked up the piping bag, finished the rosette on Nana’s cake, and lit the candles. She blew them out on the first breath. The next morning, at four a.m. sharp, I unlocked the bakery. The ovens were already warm.