Chapter 4 Hearts in the Headlines

The flash was faint-like lightning behind tinted glass-but Riley saw it. Across the marble floor, tucked discreetly behind a column near the gala's champagne fountain, someone held a sleek camera angled just high enough to catch a moment.

Ariana didn't flinch. She leaned in, adjusted the sleeve of Riley's dress, whispered something that made Riley laugh-then clasped her hand.

Click.

The photographer didn't run. No need. The shot was theirs now.

Neither woman said a word.

They continued through the ballroom as if the camera hadn't captured them mid-laughter, mid-grace, mid-something that hadn't yet been named.

It was their first event together. Public. Lavish. Undeniable.

And Riley had never felt more exposed.

The gala had begun like a storm dressed in silk. Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, and the scent of aged scotch mingled with perfume that cost more than Riley's monthly basil budget. Ariana was elegance incarnate-poised, intentional, magnetic. She greeted industry titans like she'd trained them herself, introduced Riley as "someone who's redefining flavor in Brooklyn," and refused to dilute the truth.

But beneath Riley's borrowed velvet dress and freshly scrubbed pink sneakers, her nerves buzzed. The room shimmered with politics, wealth, and subtle judgment. Whispers rippled wherever she passed. "That's the pizza girl," some murmured. "West's new obsession."

Ariana noticed. She squeezed Riley's hand harder each time.

"It's smoke," she said once, beneath a canopy of fairy lights on the terrace. "Let it pass."

"What if it doesn't?"

"Then we breathe through it."

They had retreated inside for one final toast when the photo was taken.

Not staged. Not rehearsed.

Just real.

By midnight, Riley stood in her apartment, dress draped across a chair, apron back around her waist. She prepped dough for the morning crowd like muscle memory could silence adrenaline.

Across town, Ariana sat in her penthouse wrapped in a robe, sipping chilled tea, staring at the notification on her phone.

Tagged in a photo by NYEveningGala.

She clicked it.

It was them. Beneath the chandelier. Smiling. Connected.

Her thumb hovered over the screen. She didn't share it. Not yet.

She didn't need the world's commentary to validate it.

But she knew it was coming.

The photo dropped at 7:12 a.m.

Posted by an entertainment blog that had covered the gala in real time.

Caption: "Wall Street's Ice Queen Melted by Brooklyn Dough?"

Riley didn't see it until a regular handed her a coffee and said, "You're radiant this morning-front-page radiant."

She glanced at his phone.

Her breath stalled.

It was flattering, in a way. Her eyes sparkled, Ariana's hand gripped hers with delicate pride, and their smiles looked like secrets.

By 8:30, three journalists had emailed for comment.

By 9:00, Riley's dad texted: "Saw the photo. Proud, if confused."

At 9:15, she locked the shop door and pulled the blinds halfway down.

Ariana's morning began with noise.

The executive team at West Holdings had already seen the image-some by breakfast, others through pinged alerts. Her PR director messaged her before her alarm buzzed.

"We need to meet."

She arrived at her office-glossed, coiffed, ready-and sat down to a room of spreadsheets and scrutiny.

"She's trending," said a marketing strategist, clicking to a heat map of engagement. "Public sentiment's mixed, but the exposure is strong."

One analyst chimed in: "We can spin it as a philanthropic collaboration."

"I'm not collaborating," Ariana said.

"So what is this?" asked her CFO.

Ariana stared at the screen. Riley looked soft and solid, even beneath the grandeur of gold chandeliers.

"It's mine," she said.

Meanwhile, Riley wandered the back alley behind Brick & Basil, the noise inside too loud to focus. Her inbox ticked up by the hour-offers from media outlets, branding opportunities, influencer partnerships.

One message stood out.

From: Hawthorne Media Subject: "We'd love to profile the pizza woman with the billionaire's heart."

She read it three times, then deleted it.

Instead, she wrote Ariana:

"They're asking who I am. I think I'm still figuring that out."

Ariana replied almost instantly:

"They don't get to answer that for you."

Later that day, Ariana stepped away from meetings and walked the streets alone.

She found herself at the edge of Montrose Avenue, just outside Brick & Basil. No entourage. No press.

Riley saw her through the window. Opened the door slowly.

"You came," she said, voice low.

"I had to," Ariana replied.

They stood in the quiet glow of the shop, air warm with garlic and dough.

"I thought you might be angry," Riley admitted.

"Why would I be?"

"I wore sneakers to a gala."

Ariana smiled. "You wore yourself."

They moved toward the counter. Riley rolled out a crust, Ariana watched.

"You're scared," Riley said softly.

"Yes," Ariana replied.

"So am I."

"I keep thinking of that moment," Ariana said. "Under the chandelier."

"Where it started," Riley murmured.

Ariana looked up. "No. Where it continued."

That night, Riley watched the photo circulate further-now accompanied by speculative essays, GIFs, fan posts.

Her shop had received a bouquet of red basil with a note: "Love is bold seasoning." No signature.

She didn't reply to any messages.

She baked three pies alone.

She replayed Ariana's words until they melted into her flour.

And she waited.

Until 11:03 p.m.

Ariana posted the photo.

Caption: "She makes me pause. And in the pause, there's clarity."

Riley stared at it for a full minute.

She clicked "like."

And exhaled.