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“It says I can’t stand on my own.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then he handed me the coffee and said, “You’ve been standing on your own two feet for years, Ruby. You’ll do great.”

I’m still thinking about that sentence as I pull into the parking lot. I spent years trying to become easier to love. Nobody mentioned that the right person wouldn’t ask me to.

I reach the small office building, it’s professional but not intimidating. Caroline’s business occupies the second floor. I park, check my face in the mirror—minimal makeup, hair down, the blouse that Liv said makes me look “like a woman who has her life together.”

I grab the folder. Get out of the car.

My hands are shaking, but I keep moving.

The receptionist sends me up. The office is clean and bright—white walls, framed photos from past festivals, a shelf of awards. Caroline is behind her desk, silver hair pulled back, reading glasses on.

“Ruby.” She stands, shakes my hand. Firm. Direct. “Thanks for coming in. Have a seat.”

I sit. Open the folder. My hands are still shaking, but I lower myself into the chair.

“So,” Caroline says, settling into her own seat. “I was impressed at the wedding. Your boyfriend certainly knows your numbers.”

“He does.” I straighten the folder. “But today it’s just me. And my numbers.”

Caroline’s mouth curves slightly. “Good. Let’s hear them.”

I open my mouth. And the first thing that comes out is too small.

“Hart’s Bakery has been operating for about two years, and we’re a small operation—it’s mostly just me and a part-timer—but we’ve been growing, and I think—”

I stop.

I hear myself. The qualifiers. The “just me.” The “about.” The “I think.” Every word designed to make myself smaller, to lower expectations so that if I fail, at least I warned them. It’s the voice I’ve used for two years. The one that says “the bakery is hanging in there” instead of “the bakery is mine and it matters.”

I hear Aiden in my head. Not the numbers—him. “Any person who stopped finding you interesting was not paying attention.”

I close my mouth. Take a breath. Open it again.

“Let me start over.” I look Caroline in the eye. “Hart’s Bakery produces approximately two hundred and forty units per day across six core product lines. Our ingredient sourcing is ninety percent local within a thirty-mile radius. Our customer retention rate is sixty-eight percent, which is above the industry average of fifty-two. We have a fantastic reputation and excellent reviews online. Our social media followers are engaged and active. And we’ve seen a fourteen percent revenue increase quarter over quarter.”

The numbers come out clean. Not because I memorized a script—because I know them now. Not from his spreadsheet. From my own records. My numbers. My bakery. My work.

“The festival runs three days,” I continue. “I can scale. I’ve run the projections—I’ll need to bring on temporary help and pre-produce some items, but my kitchen can handle the volume. The constraint has never been capability. It’s been opportunity.”

That last line is Aiden’s. He said it to Caroline at the wedding, and I stole it, and I’m not sorry.

Caroline is watching me. Not the polite networking look from the cocktail hour. The real look. The one that says I’m reassessing you.

“Tell me about the cinnamon rolls,” she says.

My mouth lifts in a smile. “My grandmother’s recipe. Modified for commercial production but the core is the same. Hand-rolled, not machine-cut. We use real cinnamon, not extract, and local butter. They’re the best thing I make, and they’re the reason most of my repeat customers come back.”

“Most bakeries lead with their bread.”

“Most bakeries aren’t built on their grandmother’s cinnamon rolls.”

Caroline smiles. Not the networking smile. A real one.

She asks more questions. About logistics, about staffing, about my plan for the three-day run. I answer all of them—clearly, specifically, without the qualifiers. When I don’t know something, I say “I’ll need to work that out” instead of “I’m not sure, sorry.” When she pushes on my capacity, I push back—respectfully, with data.

Aiden would be proud of me. Aiden would also be tracking Caroline’s heart rate and pupil dilation and telling me afterward what percentage confident she was, which is why I needed to do this alone. Because this has to be mine. My pitch, my words, my business, my backbone.