Two days after the dinner, Rosehill was still talking.
Some called it bold. Others called it unnecessary. But most agreed on one thing—the food was excellent. And for a town that usually moved slow, word traveled fast. People who had ignored Bellamy's Table now asked for reservations. Orders for Talia's pastries doubled. And Elena's phone was filled with interview requests and blog feature offers.
Inside the kitchen, Marco flipped through a thick folder. His sleeves were rolled up again, as always, and he was reading something with a tight look on his face.
Elena walked in with coffee. "You're here early."
He nodded and didn't say much. She placed the cup on the counter and looked at the papers in front of him.
"What's all that?"
Marco pushed the folder toward her. "A development company from the city. They want to invest."
She raised an eyebrow. "In what?"
"They want to expand Bellamy's. Franchise it. Multiple locations."
Talia walked in just as he said it. She paused by the doorway, eyes narrowing. "Franchise?"
Marco nodded again. "They came to the dinner. One of them lives nearby. He liked what we did. Said we have a 'marketable concept.'"
Elena and Talia exchanged a glance.
Marco added, "They're offering funding, full management support, and even staff training. They'd keep the name. But we'd lose control of the recipes and the vibe."
Talia's arms folded. "So we'd sell out."
"Not exactly," Marco said. "We'd still be involved. Just not… in charge."
"I don't like it," Talia said, walking over to the counter. "We built this ourselves. The dinner wasn't about branding. It was about showing who we are."
Elena sat down. "I see both sides. It's a big offer. It could give us resources. Stability."
"Or ruin everything that makes this place special," Talia replied.
Marco ran a hand through his hair. "I haven't said yes. I told them we'd talk."
Elena looked at him. "Do you want to say yes?"
He didn't answer right away.
"I want to cook," he finally said. "And not worry about rent, or suppliers canceling last minute, or patching leaks in the roof with duct tape."
"But that's part of it," Talia said. "That's part of building something that's real."
Elena looked at the folder again. The logo was clean. Corporate. Slick. "Let's not rush. Let's talk to them together. Ask questions."
Marco nodded slowly. "Fine. One meeting. Then we decide."
Later that afternoon, they met at the local café—neutral ground. The investor, a man in his forties named Jeremy Cross, wore a navy blazer and spoke in smooth, practiced sentences. He had a leather folder, a tablet, and a polished smile.
"You three have something special," he said. "Rosehill was the test. And you passed."
Elena kept her tone neutral. "What exactly are you offering?"
"Franchise packages in three cities. We cover construction, marketing, and hiring. You provide your name, some branding elements, and—if possible—a short residency. Teach the new staff. Then we handle the rest."
Marco asked, "What about our recipes?"
"We'd need access to them. But you'll still be credited. You'd get a cut from every location."
Talia spoke up next. "So we lose control."
Jeremy paused. "You'd gain reach. And income. But yes, the tone and environment might change a bit."
"Might?" Talia asked sharply.
Jeremy smiled again, calm. "It's the cost of growth."
After the meeting, the trio walked in silence back to the restaurant.
Elena finally spoke. "It's tempting."
Talia muttered, "It's fake."
Marco didn't say anything at all.
That night, tension hovered over them like a fog. Elena sat in the cottage's small living room, flipping through the contract Jeremy had given them. Talia paced near the fireplace.
"Why are we even considering this?" Talia said.
"Because we're tired," Elena replied. "Because money's tight. Because sometimes the dream isn't enough."
"But selling out isn't the solution."
Elena looked up. "You think I don't get that? You think I like the idea of Bellamy's Table turning into a chain in every mall?"
Talia stopped pacing.
"Then why are you even reading it?" she asked.
"Because Marco is. And we're in this together. Remember?"
Marco stepped in right then. He'd been outside clearing the patio. He looked tired.
"We don't have to agree right now," he said. "We just have to be honest."
"Fine," Talia said. "Then I'm being honest. I don't want this. Not now. Not ever."
Elena rubbed her temples. "And I'm not sure."
Marco sighed. "Then I'll wait until we are."
The next few days were strange. Business picked up, but the tension didn't go away.
Talia stayed late in the bakery kitchen, testing new recipes. She barely spoke unless it was about food.
Elena took long walks through the town, visiting local shops, talking to people. She tried to listen to what they thought—about the dinner, about Bellamy's, about the idea of change.
Marco spent most of his time in the kitchen, focused, quiet, distant.
It wasn't fighting. It wasn't silence.
It was distance.
On the fifth night, after the restaurant closed, Elena gathered them both in the dining room. The table was empty. No candles. No plates. Just three people and too many questions.
"I've made a decision," Elena said. "I don't want the franchise either."
Talia looked surprised. "You don't?"
"I thought I did. I thought money and support would fix everything. But this place isn't just a restaurant. It's part of who we are. Changing it would change us."
Marco looked at her. "And me?"
She met his eyes. "You need to decide what you want. Not what's easiest."
He sat down. "I thought this would take away stress. But all it did was make everything feel heavier."
Talia added, "Then let's throw it out. The whole deal. And focus on this. On us."
Marco exhaled, long and slow. Then he nodded. "Okay. No franchise."
The contract sat on the table. Elena picked it up and, without a word, tore it in half. Then she tore it again.
Marco smiled.
Talia finally relaxed.
Later that night, the three sat on the back patio, sharing a drink. The stars were out. The wind was soft. For once, there was no pressure.
Talia leaned back. "You know, I never thought I'd build a life like this."
Elena smiled. "Me neither."
Marco added, "But I'm glad we did."
No one said much after that. They didn't need to.
They just sat close.
Together.