Chapter 3 She Was the Ingredient I Forgot I Needed

Riley woke late the next morning, tangled in sheets and uncertainty.

The city buzzed beyond her apartment window-horns, sirens, vendors calling through steam-but her thoughts were still stuck on hot chocolate and crate conversations. Ariana hadn't stayed long. Just enough time to stir something real before slipping into the night like a luxury car on a rainy road. Riley didn't know what it was between them exactly, but it felt too fragile to name. And too alive to ignore.

She was behind opening the shop. The ovens weren't preheated, the register still blinking from a power surge, and the basil in the fridge had wilted into melancholy. She tossed it out, scrubbed her hands, and stretched dough like she needed it to answer questions she couldn't ask.

By noon, a line had formed. Bloggers. Influencers. Foodies hoping to taste "the pizza that seduced Wall Street." Riley kept her head down, her banter dry, her smile polite. But it didn't reach her eyes.

Then the door opened-and the quiet changed.

It wasn't Ariana.

It was a woman in a gray blazer and sleek glasses. Clipboard in hand. Steely posture. She approached the counter with a confidence that smelled like paperwork.

"Ms. Quinn?"

Riley nodded warily. "Depends who's asking."

"I'm with Hawthorne Media Group," the woman said, flashing credentials like a badge. "We're producing a documentary series on urban culinary disruptors. You're being considered."

Riley blinked. "Disruptor?"

"It means we want to film you. Your shop. Possibly your life. Think Netflix meets flavor feminism."

"That sounds... invasive."

The woman smiled tightly. "It sounds inevitable."

Across town, Ariana sat in a sunlit boardroom filled with tension and designer cologne.

Her team was split. Some saw Riley as a brand opportunity. A few saw her as a liability. One particularly chatty executive referred to Riley as "an emotional investment risk"-as if Ariana had purchased stock in something unstable.

"She's trending," her COO said. "That brings visibility."

"She's not a campaign," Ariana replied.

"But she is a conversation."

Ariana left the meeting before it ended. She hated when people tried to measure what couldn't be quantified. Riley wasn't a PR asset or a press problem. She was a person with pink sneakers and a pizza oven-and right now, she was being pulled into Ariana's world with no shield.

Ariana didn't like that.

She texted: "Coffee tonight? Quiet place. Escape."

The reply came an hour later. "Only if you bring sarcasm and cookies."

That evening, Riley arrived at a cozy rooftop café tucked above a bookstore. The skyline flickered in the distance, and the scent of espresso hugged the air.

Ariana sat waiting, in jeans-actual jeans-and a soft white sweater. Riley nearly stopped in her tracks. The Wall Street queen looked like she'd wandered out of a poetry club.

"You blend surprisingly well," Riley teased as she sat.

"I'm trying something radical," Ariana said. "Being still."

Riley sighed, leaning into her chair. "I had a media scout crash the shop today."

"I know," Ariana replied. "They approached me first."

Riley's eyes widened. "And you didn't warn me?"

"I declined the pitch. I wanted to let you choose."

Riley looked out over the city. "Feels like I'm already chosen by everyone else."

Ariana hesitated, then reached across the table. "Riley... if this becomes noise, I'll mute it. If it becomes pressure, I'll shield you."

Riley met her eyes. "You sure you can do that?"

"I'm learning," Ariana said softly.

For a while, they sipped coffee and watched clouds trail across the moon. Neither spoke of headlines or paparazzi. Just moments. Just people.

Then Ariana said, "There's something I didn't mention."

Riley raised an eyebrow.

"I used to live two blocks from your shop. For three months during grad school. That smell? Your basil? It brought it all back."

Riley leaned forward. "That's why you walked in?"

"Maybe," Ariana said. "Or maybe I walked in because I was tired of everything making sense."

Riley smiled. "Nothing here makes sense. That's the charm."

Ariana reached into her bag and slid a folded paper across the table.

"I got this today."

Riley unfolded it: an invitation. Gala. Finance summit. Black tie. And in the bottom corner, written in elegant script: Guest: Riley Quinn.

Her jaw dropped.

"You want me there?"

"I want you with me."

Riley laughed nervously. "Do they serve pizza at galas?"

"They serve awkward conversations and overpriced champagne."

"Sounds dangerous."

Ariana smiled. "You make things feel safer."

Riley looked down at the invite, then up at Ariana.

"I don't own anything fancy," she said.

"I do," Ariana replied. "Consider it borrowed elegance."

"Are you sure this won't become a tabloid circus?"

Ariana reached out, her hand warm and steady.

"If they come, we'll give them a show."

The next morning, Riley stood in front of her mirror, holding up a dark velvet dress Ariana had sent over-still tagged, still intimidating. She'd never worn anything so elegant. Her reflection looked like someone she wasn't sure she recognized.

But the shoes were hers. Pink sneakers. She wasn't giving those up.

She stepped into the dress, tied her apron loosely around her waist, and opened the shop for half a day-just long enough to prep a few doughs and ground herself in the smell of garlic and oregano.

By six, Ariana arrived. Chauffeur waiting. Rain threatening.

"You ready?" Ariana asked.

"No," Riley replied. "But I'm coming anyway."

They arrived at the summit just as the lights rose and the glasses clinked. Ariana navigated the room like royalty, while Riley clung to her confidence like it was laminated.

People stared.

Whispers floated.

But Ariana held Riley's hand like an anchor, and together they glided past judgment.

One executive leaned over and whispered, "She's the pizza girl, right?"

Ariana replied, "She's my date."

The silence was delicious.

Later, as they stood on the balcony overlooking the city, Riley leaned into Ariana and whispered, "Still think this was a good idea?"

Ariana nodded. "You're the only real thing in this room."

Riley smiled.

And somewhere below, in a quiet street lined with pizzerias and poets, their worlds continued to collide-slice by slice, step by step.

Together.