My wife’s college sweetheart just flew back into the country. The entire family was looking at me like I was already a corpse waiting to be hauled out. My mother-in-law didn't even flinch as she made up the master guest suite right in front of me, dropping the spare key into the man’s waiting hand. And me? I poured him a glass of bourbon, looked him dead in the eye, and said with complete, unadulterated sincerity: "Man, I’ve been waiting for you." I have been stuck inside this trashy romance novel for three years. For three long years, I have dreamed of returning the female lead to her rightful owner. If this guy could pack up my ice-queen wife and take her off my hands, I’d gladly drop to my knees and thank him. After all, the girl who actually belongs to me in this world is still waiting. 1 My name is Jeff. Three years ago, I woke up with a pounding headache only to realize I had transmigrated into a melodrama about a cutthroat corporate dynasty, cast in the thankless role of the female lead’s contract husband. The terms were written in cold, indisputable black and white: a three-year term, zero physical intimacy, complete non-interference, automatic dissolution upon expiration. My wife was Vicky Townsend, the undisputed queen of the city’s corporate elite. Vicky was colder than a meat locker. In three years, if you stitched together every single word she had ever spoken to me, it wouldn't fill a single sheet of printer paper. As for my character’s backstory, I was an absolute nobody. I’d happened to pull Vicky’s grandfather out of a bad car wreck, and in a fit of old-money eccentric gratitude, the patriarch had forced his granddaughter to marry me. In the original plot, the original Jeff was a pathetic fool. Right before the three-year contract was set to expire, Vicky’s one true love returned—Adrian Pierce, an Ivy League-pedigreed golden boy and the only man who had ever cracked Vicky’s icy exterior during their college days. The original Jeff made the classic, fatal mistake: he couldn’t let go. He stalked them. He threw temper tantrums in public. He picked fights with Adrian at high-society galas. The payoff? He was kicked out of the Townsend estate without a dime, his reputation was thoroughly dragged through the mud, he was blacklisted from every job in the city, and he eventually drank himself to death in a rat-infested studio apartment. A textbook cannon-fodder ending. The very first morning I woke up in this body, I made up my mind: I didn't want this marriage. I had zero interest in fighting over the female lead. My game plan was simple: keep my head down, wait out the remaining months of the contract, stash away every penny of my modest allowance, and walk away clean to find the one person written into this story who actually mattered to me. Her name was Josie. She was a minor side character in the book—gentle, sharp, and the owner of a quiet little neighborhood bakery. In the original text, her fate was tragic: a corrupt real estate mogul bought up her block, jacked up the rent, and crushed her life’s work just to force her out. I needed to find her before that happened. I needed to protect her. "That" was my real quest. As for the star-crossed romance between Vicky Townsend and Adrian Pierce? Not my circus, not my monkeys. So when Vicky stood in our sprawling, minimalist living room and told me without a shred of emotion, "Adrian is coming back next week," I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. "Oh? That’s great news," I said, putting down my phone. "Need me to pick him up from the airport? I’m a pretty smooth driver." Vicky looked at me. It was a look reserved for someone trying to determine whether a stray dog was rabid or just profoundly stupid. "That won't be necessary." She turned on her heel and glided upstairs. I sat back on the Italian leather sofa, rubbing my palms together. "It’s happening." The plot was finally moving forward. Three years of playing a houseplant in this marble tomb, and the finish line was in sight. "Hurry up and get here, Adrian. Sweep your queen off her feet. I’ll roll out the red carpet, hire a brass band, and hold the door open for you—just get it done." The next morning, my mother-in-law, Marian, swept into the house like a cold front. Her attitude toward me over the past three years had been consistent: she treated me like oxygen. Or rather, worse than oxygen. Oxygen served a biological purpose; I was merely occupying square footage that could have held an antique vase. The moment she crossed the threshold, she began barking orders at the housekeeper. "Change the duvet to Egyptian cotton. Fresh white lilies in the vase—no roses, Adrian is sensitive to strong floral scents." She orchestrated every minute detail like a field general preparing for royalty. Then, her gaze drifted down to me. "Jeff, clear out your study." "Clear out what?" "Adrian needs an office while he stays here. He can’t very well be expected to work from a laptop on the coffee table." I paused for two seconds. Not because I was offended, but because I was actively fighting a belly laugh. "Lady, the guy hasn't even cleared customs yet and you're already evicting me from the furniture?" "Sure thing," I said, standing up easily. "I’ll have my stuff boxed up in twenty minutes." Marian blinked, visibly unsettled by how cheerfully I’d agreed. I flashed her a helpful smile. "Tell you what, do you want my bedroom too? I can crash on the sectional downstairs. It pulls out. No problem at all." Marian’s lip twitched with pure, unadulterated disdain. I knew that face. It was the look of a high-society matriarch confronted with a son-in-law whose complete lack of pride was practically suffocating. Little did she know, I was practically setting off fireworks in my head. 2 Adrian’s flight touched down on a crisp Saturday afternoon. I actually went to the airport. Not because Vicky asked me to, but because I volunteered. My buddy Hank was screaming into my ear over Bluetooth the entire drive to the terminal. "Are you out of your damn mind? You’re personally chauffeuring your wife’s ex-boyfriend from the airport? What kind of cuckold fantasy is this, Jeff?" "You don't get it," I said, tapping the steering wheel to the rhythm of the radio, in the best mood I’d been in all year. "It’s called customer service. If I welcome the guy with open arms, then when he rides off into the sunset with my wife, we can part ways with dignity and mutual respect." There was a five-second silence on the other end. "Jeff, man... have you just accepted being a doormat as a lifestyle choice?" I hung up on him. When the passengers began trickling through international arrivals, I spotted Adrian immediately. The author’s original description was spot on: six-foot-one, clean-cut features with a tailored, academic elegance, wire-rimmed glasses, and an impossibly crisp oxford shirt that seemed immune to the laws of long-haul turbulence. Five years abroad at Oxford had given him that effortless, old-money aura. I stepped forward to meet him. "Mr. Pierce? I’m Jeff. Vicky’s—" I paused, flashing a disarming grin. "—roommate." Adrian stopped pushing his luggage cart and gave me a long, evaluating look. It was subtle, but there was a flicker of condescending curiosity behind his lenses. "Ah, so this is the little charity case." "Jeff. A pleasure," he said, extending a hand. His grip was firm, measured, impeccably polite. "Vicky mentioned you." "Mentioned me?" I’d bet my life savings she hadn't wasted more than four words on the topic: "There’s a guy living here." "Let me take that bag," I said, hauling his Hartmann suitcase into the trunk of my SUV. On the drive back, I played the genial host, throwing out easy conversational softballs—his research fellowship in London, the new skyline developments in the city, the unseasonably mild weather. Adrian didn't say much, but he was courteous. His voice was a calm, low baritone, radiating the kind of effortless charisma that made people instinctively lean in. I totally got why Vicky fell for him back in the day. If I were a woman, I’d probably be swooning too. When we pulled into the driveway, Vicky was already standing in the foyer. I caught a detail right away: she had changed. For three years, Vicky’s domestic wardrobe consisted entirely of sharp monochrome—black slacks, charcoal cashmere, crisp white blouses. Today, she wore a soft, slate-blue knit dress. Her long hair, usually scraped back into an immaculate corporate bun, fell loose over her shoulders. I pretended not to notice, stepping aside to hold the heavy front door. "After you." Adrian stepped inside, and the second his eyes landed on Vicky, his stride hitched. "Vicky." Vicky gave a small nod. "You must be exhausted. Your room is ready." Just a few words. Yet I caught the faint, rosy flush creeping up the tips of her ears. "Case closed." My work here was practically done. I could already taste my freedom. Dinner that evening was cooked entirely by Marian herself. A five-course spread: pan-seared sea bass, garlic butter prawns, roasted asparagus, wild rice pilaf. In the three years I had lived under this roof, the woman hadn't so much as poured me a glass of tap water. Tonight, even the silverware was aligned to the millimeter, the best vintage was uncorked, and the soup tureen was placed within easiest reach of Adrian’s elbow. I sat at the far corner of the table, happily stuffing my face with sea bass. Marian spent the entire meal fawning over Adrian. "You look so thin, Adrian. The food in England must have been dreadful." "Don't work yourself to the bone, darling. Health comes first." "Vicky has been carrying the entire firm on her shoulders these past few years... not a single person around her she can actually lean on..." On that last sentence, she shot me a venomous side-eye. The subtext was painted in neon: "You, Jeff, are a useless piece of decorative junk, while Adrian is the partner my daughter actually deserves." I chewed on a mouthful of sea bass. It was flaky, buttery, and seasoned to perfection. My first time tasting my mother-in-law’s cooking, and honestly? Four stars. Adrian, to his credit, had manners. Whenever Marian tried to use him as a bludgeon to belittle me, he smoothly deflected. "Marian, this bass is incredible. The searing is absolute perfection." A classy guy. Halfway through dinner, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I slipped it out under the rim of the table. A notification from a local food app popped up: [Josie’s Hearth Bakery • Weekend Special: Chestnut Mont Blanc Tart, limited run for three days.] A faint smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. Her shop was a twenty-minute drive from the estate. I made a mental note. "Jeff?" Vicky’s cool voice sliced through my thoughts. I looked up. "Yeah?" "There’s a corporate dinner with our overseas clients tomorrow night," she said evenly. "You don't need to attend." In the past, she would occasionally drag me along to these galas as a nominal husband to fend off unwanted suitors. Now that Adrian was back, her arm candy had received an immediate, massive upgrade. "Understood," I said instantly. No hesitation. No drama. Vicky stared at me, her dark brows knitting together into a faint line. I knew that expression. Whenever I complied too quickly, whenever I acted like I genuinely didn't give a damn, she would look at me like that. Like she was trying to spot the trap. Like she couldn't comprehend why a man in my position wasn't groveling. She didn't press it, though. She just lowered her eyes and took a sip of her white wine. I laid my napkin across my plate and pushed my chair back. "I’m all set. I’ll come down and do the dishes in a bit. Take your time, guys." As I walked out of the dining room, I could feel two pairs of eyes burning into the back of my neck. One belonged to Vicky. The other belonged to Adrian. I didn't turn around. My mind was already focused on plotting the best driving route to Josie’s bakery tomorrow afternoon to score that limited-edition chestnut tart. 3 The next afternoon, I cut out of work early. To be fair, my job at Townsend Enterprises was purely decorative. I held a title as a "Planning Consultant"—I showed up three days a week, sat in an air-conditioned office, and nobody ever assigned me a single task. The entire building knew I was the CEO’s contract spouse; no one dared cross me, but nobody took me seriously either. It suited me just fine. I pulled my car up to the curb outside Josie’s bakery. It was a small, unassuming storefront tucked into the corner of a leafy, bohemian neighborhood. Warm amber light spilled through the paned windows, and the sign above the door was carved in simple, rustic wood: "Josie’s Hearth". I pushed the door open. A small brass bell chimed overhead. Behind the counter stood a girl with her hair tied back in a messy ponytail, a smudge of white flour dusting the front of her denim apron. She was leaning over a prep table, carefully piping delicate ribbons of cream onto a pastry. Josie. I had read the descriptions of her in the novel countless times. She wasn't the kind of woman whose beauty knocked the breath out of you from across the room like Vicky; she was the kind of person who made the room feel instantly warmer. Soft features, warm hazel eyes, and a faint, sweet dimple when she smiled. She looked up, giving me an easy, welcoming smile. "Afternoon! Table for one?" "Yeah," I said, walking up to the glass display. "Do you still have the Chestnut Mont Blanc?" "You're in luck," she said, setting down her piping bag and wiping her hands on a clean towel. "Got the last two in the back. Perfect timing." I grabbed a small wooden table by the window. Sunlight streamed through the glass, warming my sleeves. Sitting here felt light-years away from the sterile, museum-like chill of the Townsend mansion. When Josie brought the tart over on a ceramic plate, I noticed a flesh-colored bandage wrapped around her right wrist. "Burn?" I asked quietly. She glanced down at her wrist and gave a dismissive wave. "Just a splash of hot caramel. Occupational hazard. Nothing serious." I didn't pry. I picked up my dessert fork and took a bite of the Mont Blanc. The chestnut purée was silky and earthy, the whipped cream light as air, the sweetness perfectly calibrated. "Incredible," I murmured. Behind the counter, she caught my praise, and her eyes crinkled. "Thank you." I ate slowly, taking in the rhythm of the shop. Three o'clock on a Tuesday. Foot traffic was sparse. In the forty minutes I sat there, only four people walked in: two grabbed takeout coffees and left, one teenager spent half an hour taking selfies with a single cupcake before leaving, and besides me, there was only one other paying customer. This volume was unsustainable. The novel had laid it out plainly: Josie’s bakery managed to survive on razor-thin margins for two years, but when a commercial developer tied to the main villain acquired the adjacent properties, they intentionally choked out the independent tenants with predatory rent hikes. She was forced to shutter her doors in tears. According to the timeline, that crisis was still six months away. I still had time. When I went up to settle the bill, I picked up one of the business cards resting beside the register. "Do you do custom catering? Corporate events, private orders?" Josie poked her head out from behind the espresso machine. "We do! We just need about three days' notice. Birthdays, small corporate mixers, custom dessert bars—anything you need." "Good to know," I said, slipping the card into my wallet. When I stepped back onto the sidewalk, the afternoon sun was beginning to dip, casting long, golden shadows across the pavement. I took a deep breath of the crisp air. Sweet. The air genuinely smelled like vanilla and toasted sugar. "This" was the life I wanted. Not playing an invisible ghost in a billionaire's mansion. Not dodging the cold glares of an overbearing mother-in-law. Not being a front-row spectator to someone else’s destined romance. My phone rang. Hank’s name flashed across the screen. "Yo. Beers tonight?" "I’m in," I said. "The usual dive?" "See you in twenty." 4 Our usual spot was a smoky neighborhood barbecue joint down an alley off 4th Street. By the time I slid into the booth, Hank had already ordered a pitcher of IPA and a mountain of charred skewers. Hank was the only real friend I’d made since waking up in this world. He wasn't part of the original book; he was just an architect I met at a hardware store two years ago who talked too much, cared too much, and had no filter after two drinks. He shoved a frosted glass across the table. "Alright, spill. What’s the deal with the fancy Ivy League ex? Is he actually sleeping under your roof?" "He is." "He’s in your guest room, sleeping down the hall, actively trying to get with your wife. And you're just sitting there passing the butter?" I took a bite of a lamb skewer. "Vicky and I signed a three-year contract, Hank. It’s up in four months. Adrian coming back is great—it speeds up the timeline, and I get my life back early." Hank stared at me like I was speaking Martian. "Why do you always talk like you're reading from a script? What the hell does 'speeds up the timeline' mean?" I caught myself. Right—he didn't know I was living in a paperback novel. "Figure of speech," I said, taking a long pull from my beer. "I mean we don't have feelings for each other. Her heart belongs to someone else, and my heart... well, I’ve got my own priorities. Splitting up is a win-win." Hank chewed slowly, his eyes narrowing as he processed my words. Suddenly, his eyebrows shot up. "Wait a second. "Your" heart belongs to someone else? Who? Since when? You dirty dog, you’ve been holding out on me!" I couldn't help a grin. "Not yet. Timing isn't right." "Unbelievable," he muttered, shaking his head and draining half his glass. "Alright, let me ask you one real question, Jeff. Be honest with me. In three whole years... you really never felt a single spark for Vicky?" I went quiet for a moment. I thought about it. Genuinely thought about it. Vicky Townsend was, objectively speaking, an extraordinary woman. Breathtakingly beautiful, brutally competent, poised under pressure. The problem was—she wasn't written for me. Every internal monologue, every romantic beat, every soft vulnerability the author had penned for Vicky was reserved exclusively for Adrian Pierce. To her, I was a placeholder. A decorative chess piece used to satisfy her grandfather's dying wish. "No," I said, setting my glass on the sticky table. "Not even once." Hank searched my eyes for several seconds, looking for a crack in the armor. Finally, he let out a heavy sigh. "Man. You’re cold as ice." It wasn't coldness. It was survival. The cardinal sin for any transmigrator is getting high on your own supply—confusing someone else’s scripted romance with your own reality. The original Jeff died because he couldn't accept that he was an extra in someone else’s love story. I refused to make that mistake. We finished the pitcher around nine, and I drove home under the streetlights. When I unlocked the front door, the living room lights were dimmed to a soft glow. Vicky and Adrian were sitting on the sectional together, separated by a single decorative pillow, each holding a glass of pinot noir. The flat-screen was playing a nature documentary at a low volume. The composition was picture-perfect. High-class domestic harmony. I kicked off my sneakers by the door. "Evening." Vicky turned her head, her nose twitching faintly. "Have you been drinking?" "Grabbed barbecue with a buddy. Had a couple of beers. Nothing crazy." "Don't you have to go into the office tomorrow?" "I’ll be there." She didn't say anything else, turning her gaze back toward the screen. Adrian offered me a polite, easy smile. "Jeff, care to join us? It’s a fascinating piece on deep-sea ecosystems." "I’m good, thanks. Heading up," I said, offering a casual wave before taking the stairs two at a time. Behind the closed door of my bedroom, I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. My jacket smelled faintly of woodsmoke and cumin; my hair was windswept and messy. Downstairs, the two of them looked like an ad for an upscale private bank. The contrast was stark. And I couldn't care less. Honestly, I wished they’d hurry up. I wished they’d skip the slow-burn tension, confess their undying love tomorrow, file the paperwork the next day, and let me pack my bags by Friday. Unfortunately, romance novels don't work like that. In the original plot, Adrian’s return kicked off a three-month dance of emotional hesitation. Vicky spent weeks wrestling with her pride and her past before finally breaking down on a rainy night, confessing her feelings, and demanding a divorce. Three months. Not too long, not too short. I could wait. Because in those three months, I had my own work to do: get close to Josie, build her trust, and set the board so that when the developer came for her shop, we’d be ready to strike back. I lay on my bed and pulled out my phone. I pinned "Josie’s Hearth" to the top of my maps. Then I set a recurring alarm for 3:00 PM every weekday—right when the bakery hit its afternoon lull. Time to become a regular. 5 For the next two weeks, I showed up at "Josie’s Hearth" like clockwork. During the first week, Josie treated me like any other polite customer. "The usual? Mont Blanc?" "Let's switch it up today. Tiramisu." "Coming right up." By the second week, she had memorized my quirks. The moment I pushed the door open, she’d already have an iced Americano waiting—no syrup, light ice. "What exactly do you do for a living?" she asked one afternoon, resting her elbows on the counter. "I’ve never seen someone under thirty with this much free time on a Tuesday." "Let's call it semi-retired." "Semi-retired? You look twenty-seven." "Just good luck, I guess." She let out a soft laugh, then quickly caught herself, looking slightly embarrassed. That faint dimple flashed on her cheek. "This girl isn't a minor character," I thought to myself. "She's a hidden treasure." I didn't rush things. In the book, Josie was naturally reserved, instinctively wary of men who came on too strong. If I showed up playing the white knight, she’d put her guard up. I had to play the long game. Become a friend first. Earn her trust. Make my presence a comforting, constant fixture in her day. You can't microwave real connection. Luckily, time was the one thing I had in abundance. That Thursday afternoon, I was at my usual table by the window. Josie was behind the counter kneading a batch of brioche dough. Aside from me, the only other customer was a young mother reading a picture book to her toddler in the corner. It was peaceful. Then the front door was pushed open with unnecessary force. The brass bell didn't chime; it clattered violently against the frame. A man in a sharp, slick grey suit walked in, his hair slicked back with too much pomade, followed closely by an assistant carrying a leather portfolio. He didn't glance at the menu. He walked straight to the counter. "Josie Lin?" Josie looked up, wiping flour from her hands with a dry towel. "Yes. Can I help you?" "My name is Paul Briggs. Apex Properties." He slid an embossed business card across the counter. "We acquired the two retail spaces adjacent to yours last month. We’re going to be neighbors. I’m here today to discuss a transition plan." Josie took the card, her expression tightening. "What kind of transition?" Briggs offered a practiced, predatory smile, tapping the counter with his manicured fingers. "To put it simply, Apex is redeveloping this entire strip into a high-end lifestyle corridor. Your current footprint falls squarely within our phase-one master plan." "And?" "And when your current commercial lease expires, the renewal terms will reflect the updated market valuation of the district." He spoke with polished politeness. But the words "updated valuation" were code for economic eviction. Josie’s hands clenched into the dough on the prep board, flattening it out of shape. "My lease still has eight months left on it." "Indeed. Which is why I’m here early, as a courtesy," Briggs said smoothly. "Of course, if you’re open to vacating early to accommodate our construction timeline, Apex is prepared to offer a very reasonable buyout package." "I don't understand what you mean by 'accommodating.'" "I mean breaking your lease early and moving out." He said it so casually, as if he were doing her a massive personal favor. Josie drew in a sharp, quiet breath. "Mr. Briggs, I have no intention of leaving early. I poured every cent I have into opening this shop. There is no reason for me to walk away." Briggs’s smile vanished. He stared at her for two cold seconds. "Ms. Lin, I suggest you think it over carefully. When Apex takes on a project, we see it through to the end." He turned on his heel and strode out, his assistant trailing behind him. The door swung shut, the bell rattling once more. The sound felt sharp and ugly in the quiet room. Josie remained standing behind the counter, her small hands clutching the dough so hard her knuckles were white. I set down my coffee cup, stood up, and walked over to the counter. "You alright?" She looked up, forcing a brittle, defensive smile. "I’m fine. Just a corporate guy throwing his weight around." Her lower lashes were glistening. The plot had moved up. Two whole months earlier than in the book. Apex Properties was a shell company owned by Victor Croft—a ruthless developer with deep, dirty ties to local zoning boards. Croft had gotten insider wind of a planned subway extension along this avenue and was aggressively clearing out independent shop owners at rock-bottom prices so he could flip the unified parcel to a mega-developer. In the original novel, Josie held out alone for two agonizing months before the pressure broke her, forcing her to pack her kitchen into cardboard boxes. Not this time. I was here now. And I wasn't going to let that ending happen. "Josie," I said softly. She looked at me. "Your pastries are genuinely the best in the city. I’m planning on being a customer for a very long time," I paused, leaning slightly against the wooden counter. "Also, I know a few local food influencers and lifestyle editors. Would you be open to doing some promo collabs?" She blinked, caught off guard. "You... you know food bloggers?" "Friends of friends. Let me make a few calls and set something up." Josie looked at me, her hazel eyes searching mine, something bright and fragile flickering in her gaze. "Thank you, Jeff." "Just doing my civic duty to protect my favorite bakery," I smiled. That was step one. 6 By the time I drove back to the Townsend estate, dusk had settled. As soon as I stepped through the double mahogany doors, I realized the living room was packed. Vicky, Adrian, Marian, and Vicky’s uncle, Richard Townsend. The air was heavy enough to cut with a steak knife. Marian’s lip curled the second she saw me. Uncle Richard, at least, offered a polite nod—he was a mild-mannered corporate director who preferred keeping the peace, always careful to maintain decorum. "Ah, Jeff’s back," Richard said, breaking the silence. "Come sit down. We were just discussing the calendar." I took an armchair on the periphery. Marian got straight to the point. "The Townsend Group’s Annual Gala is on the fifteenth of next month. Normally, you accompany Vicky as her spouse. This year..." She trailed off, her gaze darting deliberately between me and Adrian. The implication wasn't subtle: she wanted Adrian on Vicky’s arm for the society pages, and I was an embarrassing blemish on the family portrait. Vicky held her porcelain teacup, silent, her gaze fixed on the steam rising from the liquid. I leaned back into the armchair, interlacing my fingers, waiting. Adrian was the one who spoke up first. "Marian, that wouldn't be appropriate. Jeff is Vicky’s legal husband. At a high-profile corporate event—" "A husband in name only," Marian snapped, cutting him off. "Three years of this charade is enough. It’s time Vicky had a dignified, public resolution." She turned her sights fully on me. "Jeff, you’re an adult. You know exactly what this arrangement has been from day one. Rather than dragging this out until the bitter end, wouldn't it be better to just—" "Get a divorce?" I finished the sentence for her. The room went dead silent. Vicky snapped her head up, her gaze locking onto mine with an unreadable intensity. "There’s no rush," I said with an easy, untroubled smile. "The contract states we have four months remaining. I believe in honoring agreements." "Jeff, don't be—" "Marian," I said, cutting through her protest with calm, measured authority. "A contract is a contract. Four months from now, I will sign the dissolution papers, pack my single suitcase, take zero spousal support, and walk out that door without a word. But until that date arrives, we follow the agreed-upon rules. I won't attend the gala—that’s fine by me, I hate black-tie events anyway. But the rest stays as is." Marian’s face went rigid. My response was airtight. I wasn't groveling, I wasn't picking a fight, and I hadn't given her an inch of leverage to throw a scene. Uncle Richard cleared his throat, smoothing over the tension. "Alright, alright. We still have four months. No need to rush the paperwork today." The meeting dissolved. I stood up. "If that’s all, I’m heading up." As I turned toward the staircase, my peripheral vision caught Adrian’s expression. He was staring at me. Not with smugness. Not with pity. It was the look of a man trying to solve a puzzle—re-evaluating an opponent he had assumed was a complete non-entity. Back in my room, I shut the door and let out a long breath against the wood. Four months. I just had to hold the line for four more months. Keep things stable on the Townsend front while dismantling the threat against Josie on the outside. Two tracks running parallel. Tight timeline, but entirely doable. I pulled out my phone and tapped Hank’s name. "Me: Hey, didn't you mention your cousin runs a local foodie channel? The one with decent reach?" Hank replied instantly: "Yeah, Callie. Why, you trying to take a girl on a date?" "Me: Connect us. I have a business proposal for her." "Hank: Done. I’ll make an intro group chat tomorrow." I tossed the phone onto the bed and began mapping out the strategy in my head. Josie’s immediate issue was volume. A great bakery tucked into a side street needed digital discovery. If we pumped up her foot traffic and established a steady revenue stream, she’d have the financial cushion to stand her ground. When Apex pushed harder, she wouldn't be desperate. As for completely neutralizing Victor Croft and Apex Properties... that required a much bigger hammer. One step at a time. 7 Hank’s cousin, Callie, ran a popular metropolitan lifestyle blog with around 120,000 engaged local followers. Not a mega-influencer, but she had serious sway among the city’s brunch-and-pastry crowd. I paid her fee out of my private savings and had her visit "Josie’s Hearth" for an organic feature. I explicitly told her not to mention my name. The prompt was simple: frame it as a spontaneous discovery of a "hidden gem" artisanal bakery. The video went live on a Thursday evening. By Friday afternoon, Josie’s online delivery orders had tripled. By Saturday morning, customers were driving across the bridge from the north side just to buy her Mont Blanc tarts. On Tuesday, my phone buzzed with a message from Josie. "Josie: Jeff, the shop has been slammed for three days straight. Half the people in line said they saw us on a food blog video. Did you... did you have something to do with this?"
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