Sign the papers, Margaret, or watch your precious little bakery crumble into dust by

I picked up the pen. Trevor leaned back, victorious, already loosening his silk tie. “Smart girl. Daniel would’ve wanted you to be practical.” I paused, the pen hovering over the signature line. “Daniel,” I said softly, “used to say something about you, Trevor. He said you always read the headline and never the fine print.” I set the pen down. The door behind him opened. In walked Mr. Halvorsen, the eighty-year-old owner of the entire building Trevor thought he’d cornered. Behind him, my supplier Luis from the flour mill. Behind Luis, a woman in a navy blazer Trevor didn’t recognize — but his lawyer did, because she went pale. “Trevor,” I said, “meet the new majority partner of Maggie’s Hearth. Mr. Halvorsen sold me the building last Tuesday. For a dollar. Because thirty years ago, when his wife was dying, Daniel delivered her favorite cinnamon bread to the hospital every single morning. For free. For four months.” Trevor’s mouth opened. Nothing came out. “Luis here renegotiated my flour contract at half the rate, because Daniel co-signed his first loan in 1998. And this woman?” I nodded toward the navy blazer. “She’s from the state attorney’s office. Turns out buying distressed debt to coerce a widow into a fire-sale signature is a fascinating little crime called economic duress. They’ve been reviewing your emails for three weeks.” I stood up, smoothed my apron, and slid the unsigned contract back across the polished table. “You were right about one thing, Trevor. Somebody’s bakery is crumbling by Friday. It’s just not mine.” I walked to the door, then turned. “Oh — and the family Christmas dinner this year? Don’t bother. Your sister already knows everything.” The last thing I heard as the door clicked shut was the sound of his Rolex hitting the table as he buried his face in his hands.