Page 58 of Faking it with my Bad Boy Crush

Maya

Sunday morning, I woke up to a text from Emily Russell: "Island council moved the Sweetheart Week vendor presentation to this afternoon. Emergency session. Thought you should know."

I stared at the message, my stomach dropping. The vendor presentation wasn't supposed to happen until Tuesday. Moving it up forty-eight hours meant something had changed—and emergency sessions were never good news.

I called Emily immediately. "What's going on?"

"Some council members are concerned about the publicity from Friday's hearing." Emily's voice was careful, apologetic."They're worried that association with the fraud case might reflect badly on Sweetheart Week. They want to review all vendor contracts before finalizing them."

"Translation: they want to reconsider giving me the contract because Ethan exposed fraud and now it's controversial."

"I didn't say that—"

"You didn't have to." I closed my eyes, taking a breath. "What time is the presentation?"

"Three o'clock. Maya, I'm sorry. I pushed back, argued that you've earned this contract through years of excellent work. But the vote was eight to four to move it up and review everything."

After we hung up, I sat in my kitchen, staring at my coffee and processing the implications. The Sweetheart Week vendor contract was worth thirty thousand dollars in revenue—money I'd counted on, money I'd built my financial projections around, money that would fund the expansion plans Ethan and I had mapped out.

Losing it because of association with the fraud case would be devastating. Not just financially, but professionally. It would send a message that fighting back against predatory investors made you controversial, unreliable, someone to avoid.

I pulled out my laptop and opened the business plan Ethan and I had built together. The projections, the growth strategies, the documentation of seven years of success. If the council wanted to review my qualifications, I'd give them qualifications they couldn't ignore.

My phone rang. Ethan, as if he'd sensed I needed him.

"Morning," I answered, trying to keep my voice steady.

"You've seen the news?" He sounded tense.

"What news?"

"Two more articles came out overnight. One from the Seattle Times, one from a national legal journal. Both questioning whether I should face disbarment." He paused. "Maya, thisis getting bigger. More public. More controversial. And that's going to reflect on you."

"I know. The island council just moved up the Sweetheart Week vendor presentation to this afternoon. Emergency session to review all contracts."

There was silence on the other end, then he said, "Because of association with me. With the case."

"Because some council members are worried about controversy." I opened the business plan, scrolling through pages we'd built together. "But I'm not backing down. I earned this contract through seven years of excellent work. They can review my qualifications all they want. I'll show them exactly why Honey & Hearth deserves this."

"Do you want me to come? For support?"

I wanted to say yes. Wanted Ethan there beside me, his quiet confidence and strategic thinking. But I also knew his presence might make things worse—might turn the presentation into a debate about the fraud case instead of a discussion about my business qualifications.

"I need to do this alone," I said finally. "Not because I don't want you there, but because I need to prove I earned this independently. That my bakery's success isn't contingent on association with anyone else."

"I understand." He sounded disappointed but supportive. "Call me after? Let me know how it goes?"

"Of course." I paused. "Ethan? Thank you. For the business plan, for believing in me, for building something I can present with confidence. Whatever happens today, you made it possible."

"Youmade it possible. I just documented what already existed."

After we hung up, I spent the next three hours preparing. Reviewing projections, practicing presentationpoints, organizing documents into a narrative that showed competence, growth, and strategic vision.

At 2:30 PM, I changed into my most professional outfit—dark slacks, a cream silk blouse, my grandmother's gold chain. I didn’t look like a baker; I looked like a serious businesswoman with credentials and accomplishments worth recognizing.

Tessa appeared at my door at 2:45, holding her car keys. "I'm driving you. No arguments."

"I can drive myself—"