Exposure didn't arrive with cameras or headlines.
It arrived with attention.
Dani felt it the moment she unlocked the bakery and realized she was being watched—not openly, not rudely, but with an awareness that hadn't existed before. People noticed when she arrived. They noticed when she left. They noticed who walked in with her.
The square hadn't changed.
She had.
The bell over the door chimed as the first customer entered, smiling a little too brightly.
"Morning, Dani. You're early."
"I usually am," Dani replied.
The woman nodded, glancing past her toward the empty shop. "Busy day?"
"Always."
The conversation lingered, unfinished. Like so many others lately—polite, careful, loaded with questions no one wanted to ask directly.
Parker arrived mid-morning, exactly when he said he would. He paused just inside the doorway, scanning the room before stepping fully in.
"You're doing that thing," Dani said quietly.
"What thing?"
"Assessing."
He smiled faintly. "Habit."
She nodded. "Try not to."
"I'll try."
He didn't promise.
The exposure came in layers.
A food blogger asked for an interview "about the bakery's future." A local council aide stopped by to clarify permits that were already approved. A charity organizer hinted that Dani's engagement might "bring in a different crowd."
Dani declined politely.
Every time.
By noon, her patience wore thin.
"This isn't curiosity," she muttered to Parker as they stood near the prep table. "It's positioning."
"Yes," he agreed. "They're mapping influence."
"And me?"
"You're the variable."
She folded her arms. "I don't want to be a variable."
"I know."
"You said this wouldn't touch my shop."
"I said I'd limit the fallout," Parker corrected gently. "Not eliminate it."
The honesty stung more than reassurance would have.
The real test came that afternoon.
Dani's landlord called again.
This time, he didn't soften it.
"I've received a formal inquiry," he said. "They want to discuss a potential offer."
Dani closed her eyes. "You're still not selling."
"I didn't say I was. But I need to explore options."
"You don't need to," Dani said firmly.
There was a pause.
"Franklin Square isn't sentimental," he replied. "It's strategic."
The call ended before she could respond.
Dani sat heavily on a stool.
"They're moving up the chain."
Parker stood a careful distance away. "Do you want me to step in?"
She looked at him sharply. "Do you want to?"
"Yes."
"Then don't."
He nodded once. "Okay."
That choice cost him more than he let on.
That evening, Dani hosted a small tasting—nothing publicized, just locals and regulars. She needed to remind herself of what grounded her.
For a while, it worked.
Laughter returned. Conversations stayed simple. The bakery felt like itself again.
Then someone asked the question she'd been dreading.
"So," a man said casually, cupcake in hand, "does the shop change after the wedding?"
The room went quiet.
Dani didn't look at Parker.
She didn't need to.
"No," Dani said clearly. "It doesn't."
Someone laughed nervously. "Just asking."
"I know," Dani replied. "And now you know."
The conversation resumed, but something had shifted. The line had been drawn publicly now.
After closing, Dani sank into a chair, exhaustion pressing down hard.
"I hate that I had to say that."
"You didn't have to," Parker said. "You chose to."
She looked up. "Is there a difference?"
"Yes," he replied. "Choice creates authority."
She considered that.
"Authority invites challenge."
"Yes," Parker agreed. "That's the trade."
She rubbed her temples. "I didn't sign up for this kind of visibility."
"No," he said. "You signed up to survive."
She laughed softly. "That sounds worse."
"It's honest."
The next day, exposure followed her home.
A note slid under the apartment door.
Not anonymous this time.
A handwritten message from a neighbor.
I hope you're not selling. This place feels like ours, too.
Dani stared at the words for a long time.
She wasn't just defending a business anymore.
She was defending a promise she'd never made.
Parker felt the shift, too.
Calls increased. Meetings were suggested. His father's name surfaced in conversations that hadn't included it before.
He ignored most of them.
But not all.
Late one night, his phone buzzed with a message he didn't expect.
THEODORE: You're creating noise.
Parker stared at the screen.
PARKER: I'm containing it.
There was no reply.
That worried him.
The tension came to a head three days later.
Dani returned from a supply run to find Parker inside the shop, speaking quietly with a woman in a tailored suit.
The woman turned as Dani entered.
"Ms. Clark," she said smoothly. "I was just introducing myself."
Parker stiffened.
"I didn't agree to meetings," Dani said calmly.
The woman smiled. "This isn't a meeting. It's a courtesy."
Dani met her gaze. "Courtesy would've been asking."
The woman inclined her head slightly. "Noted."
She left moments later, heels clicking decisively against the floor.
Dani turned to Parker, anger sharp and immediate.
"You said no silent fixing."
"I didn't invite her," he said quickly.
"Then why was she here?"
"She works for a firm advising multiple interests in the area."
"And?"
"And she wanted to see the space. I didn't say yes."
Dani folded her arms. "You let her in."
"Yes," he admitted. "That's on me."
The silence crackled between them.
"This is what exposure looks like," Dani said quietly. "It doesn't ask permission."
"I know," Parker replied. "I'm trying to manage it."
"I don't want it managed," Dani snapped. "I want it respected."
He met her gaze. "Then we need clearer terms."
She inhaled slowly. "Say them."
"Any interaction involving your business requires your consent," Parker said. "Written, verbal, explicit."
"And if someone uses your name to bypass me?"
"I shut it down."
"Publicly?"
"Yes."
She studied him carefully. "That will cost you."
He didn't hesitate. "I know."
That answer settled something in her chest.
That night, Dani lay awake again.
But this time, it wasn't fear keeping her up.
It was resolved.
She couldn't control exposure.
But she could control her response.
Down the street, Parker sat at his hotel desk, rewriting boundaries in his head like clauses in a contract that was becoming far more complicated than either of them had anticipated.
The proposition had been simple.
Marriage for protection.
Help for stability.
But exposure didn't care about simplicity.
It demanded definition.
And soon—very soon—it would demand payment.
Exposure didn't stop at business hours.
It followed Dani home.
The hallway light outside her apartment had been replaced—brighter, harsher. Someone had cared enough to change it. Someone had been paying attention.
Nothing was wrong.
Which somehow made it worse.
She set her keys down and leaned back against the door, listening to the unfamiliar quiet.
Downstairs, voices drifted up from the street.
"…that's her place, right?"
Dani's stomach tightened.
She moved to the window, peeking through the curtain. Two figures stood on the sidewalk, phones in hand, glancing up at the building before walking on.
Not threatening.
Just curious.
And curiosity, she was learning, was its own kind of pressure.
The next morning, a stack of business cards waited on the counter near the register, slipped through the mail slot overnight. Advisory firms. Consultants.
One handwritten note simply read:
Call me when you're ready.
Dani swept them into a drawer and slammed it shut.
Parker arrived minutes later.
"You're tense."
"Don't analyze me."
He raised his hands slightly. "Noted."
She paced once, then stopped. "This is exactly what I was afraid of."
"Visibility?"
"Expectation," she replied. "People think access comes with engagement."
"It doesn't."
"They don't know that."
"Then we make it clear."
She shook her head. "Every time I draw a boundary, someone tests it harder."
"That's how boundaries work," he said quietly. "They reveal intent."
She exhaled sharply. "I didn't ask to reveal anyone's intent."
"No," Parker agreed. "You asked to keep your bakery."
The simplicity grounded her.
Later that afternoon, a regular stopped Dani near the door.
"I just wanted to say… I hope nothing changes here."
Dani smiled gently. "Neither do I."
"But if it does," the woman added softly, "I understand."
That was the part that hurt.
Dani watched her leave, then turned to Parker.
"Understanding is how people prepare themselves for loss."
"Yes," he replied. "It's also how they protect themselves."
She looked away. "I don't want them protecting themselves from me."
"Then keep showing up," he said. "Consistency calms fear."
She nodded slowly. "And if it doesn't?"
"Then we reassess," Parker said. "Together—but on your terms."
That qualifier mattered.
As the day wound down and the lights dimmed, Dani realized something unsettling.
Exposure wasn't just about being seen.
It was about being interpreted.
And no matter how carefully she moved, the story was already being written around her.