London. Two Days Later.
The shop was quiet, but it was a different kind of quiet. It wasn't the silence of fear; it was the hush of focused work.
Sarah Solomon sat at the small, worn desk in the back room, papers scattered across it. The old leather-bound ledger laid open, its pages held her husband's hopeful but disastrous accounting. Next to it, her new notepad stood as evidence of a tough, methodical comeback.
She drew a thick line through a supplier's name.
"Done," she said firmly. "The German cardamom is gone. I found your father's old contact in Haifa. Half the price, twice the quality. They're shipping tomorrow."
In the front shop, now Maya's "design studio," the younger sister didn't look up from her laptop. "Got it, Mom. I'm working on the new 'Sourcing' page. I'll need photos of the Haifa farm."
"Already requested," Sarah replied, making another note.
They were making progress. They had cut their expenses by a third. The landlord, Shlomo, had agreed to her 30-day plan. They were a team.
But the gap was still there. A huge 40% hole where the Élan contract had been. They were surviving on hopes and the drive of their own skills. Sarah calculated they had six weeks. Six weeks to secure a new, major client before the fragile structure she had rebuilt collapsed completely.
The brass bell on the front door rang.
Sarah and Maya both froze. This wasn't the sound of a customer. It was 3 PM on a Tuesday, their slowest time. It was when bill collectors and summons servers usually showed up.
Sarah's spine stiffened. She walked out of the back room, her face a mask of polite determination.
A man stood just inside the door.
He was not a customer. He was not a bill collector.
He wore a dark, well-tailored suit that likely cost more than their entire quarterly lease. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, with sharp, intelligent eyes behind stylish glasses. He gave off an air of expensive, high-stakes confidence.
"Can I help you?" Sarah asked, her voice steady.
"Mrs. Sarah Solomon?" the man asked. His voice was polite, smooth, and precise.
"I am."
"My name is Ari Cohen." He offered her a slim, elegant business card.
Sarah took it. The cardstock was thick and creamy, feeling like it was made of money. The name was embossed in a simple, straightforward font. Below it, just one title: Director, The Culinary Guild.
"I'm not familiar with your Guild," Sarah said, keeping her guard up.
"You wouldn't be. We are new and discreet," Ari replied. He smiled, a thin, professional smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "We're a consortium, Mrs. Solomon. We work with Europe's top private chefs—the ones who don't have time to manage their own sourcing. We find them the best, most authentic artisanal products, and we take care of the rest."
"I see," Sarah said, though she didn't. "And how does that involve us?"
"Our Director," Ari continued, looking around the shop, "is very particular about quality. Recently, he dined at Élan and was furious to learn they had parted ways with their spice supplier over a minor issue. He saw it as a major failure in their management."
Maya, arms crossed and watching from the counter, spoke up. "Who told you that? Chef Arnaud?"
Ari glanced at Maya. "Chef Arnaud, in his frustration, mentioned your name. He called your product 'irreplaceable.' Our Director, Mr. Asher, believes—"
"Asher?" Talia's name hit the air like a cold dagger.
Ari didn't react. "Excuse me?"
"You said 'Mr. Asher,'" Sarah said, narrowing her eyes. "As in... 'The Asher Group'?"
Ari's expression remained a perfect mask of polite confusion. "Oh. No. Our Director is Mr. Arie. A-R-I-E. A different and much friendlier individual."
He delivered the lie—one Jadon had given him—flawlessly.
"Mr. Arie," Ari continued, "thinks that Élan's loss should be your gain. He's heard rumors about your father's legacy. He wants 'Solomon & Daughters' to be our Guild's exclusive, primary partner."
He placed a thick, embossed folder on the counter.
"This," he said, "is our proposal."
Sarah and Maya just stared at it. It looked important. Slowly, Sarah opened the folder.
She scanned the top page. She blinked, read it again, her lips moving silently. She put a hand on the counter to steady herself.
"This... this can't be right," she whispered.
"I assure you, it is," Ari said.
"This retainer..." Sarah looked up, her face pale. "This is double what Élan was paying."
"We believe in paying for quality, Mrs. Solomon," Ari replied smoothly. "And if you'll notice the payment terms, we pay the first quarter in advance. As a signing bonus. To secure your loyalty."
Maya, who had come over, read the number over her mother's shoulder. Her knees buckled, and she grabbed the counter.
It wasn't just a miracle. It wasn't just a lifeline.
It was a lottery ticket. It was a blank check. It was Maya's tuition. It was the lease. It was new grinders. It was everything for the next year, with extra to spare.
"Why?" Maya asked, her voice a nervous squeak. "It's too much. It sounds too good to be true."
"Mr. Arie is a passionate man," Ari said, offering a neutral explanation. "He believes the future of culinary art is in authentic family-run suppliers like yours. He's investing in you. He asked me to get a signature today, if possible. He's very eager to begin."
Sarah looked at Maya. Maya looked at Sarah. They were both thinking the same thing: This is crazy.
Sarah, the realist, took a deep breath. "Our lawyer will need to review this."
"Of course," Ari replied, not surprised at all. He pulled a second business card from his pocket. "This is my personal number. Have your lawyer call me. We are prepared to be very flexible. We want this."
He smiled again, that thin, sharp smile. "I'll let myself out. A pleasure, 'Solomon & Daughters.' I love the new direction."
He turned and walked out, the bell ringing behind him.
For a full minute, Sarah and Maya stood in stunned silence, just staring at the amazing contract on the counter.
"Mom..." Maya finally breathed. "What... what just happened?"
Sarah sank onto a stool, her hand on her heart. "I... I think... I think we're saved."
Her eyes filled with sudden, happy tears of relief. "Oh, my God. Maya... we have to... we have to call Talia."
"We can't!" Maya said, grabbing her hair. "Aunt Elara has her phone! She's on a detox!"
"Then we're calling Elara," Sarah declared, fumbling for her phone, her hands shaking so badly she could barely dial. "This... this is... a miracle. A miracle from a man named 'Arie.' She will not believe this."