Vivienne fanned the email across the counter like a magician revealing a card. “Daniel’s will. His thirty percent share transfers to blood family upon death. That’s me. So unless you can buy me out by Friday, I’m liquidating. Maybe a nice nail salon goes here instead.” The line of morning customers went silent. Old Mr. Petrov lowered his croissant. I wiped my palms on my apron, slow, the way Daniel used to wipe his hands before he said something that mattered. “Vivienne,” I said gently, “would you read the date on that email out loud?” She squinted. “March 14th. So?” “And the company letterhead?” Her smile faltered. “Marlow Holdings.” I nodded. “Marlow Holdings was dissolved on March 1st. Two weeks before that email was supposedly sent. By me. Because I am the sole remaining director.” I slid a folder across the counter — court-stamped, notarized, boring in the way only real documents are. “Daniel restructured everything the month he got his diagnosis. He moved the bakery, the recipes, the building, even the espresso machines into a trust. In my name. Your thirty percent is thirty percent of a shell company that owns one expired printer warranty.” Her mouth opened. Nothing came out. “Also,” I added, sliding a second page forward, “that email you’re holding? My lawyer flagged it last night. Forged signature. The IP traces back to your home office. Fraud against an estate is a felony in this state. He’s outside in the silver sedan, if you’d like to discuss it.” Mr. Petrov started clapping. Then a barista. Then the whole line. Vivienne’s heels couldn’t carry her out fast enough; one snapped on the threshold, and she left it behind like Cinderella’s evil understudy. I picked up the broken stiletto, dropped it in the lost-and-found bin, and turned to my customers with the warmest smile I’d worn in a year. “Sorry for the wait. Croissants are on the house this morning. Daniel would’ve insisted.”
