Chapter 6 Love in the Line of Fire

The phone rang five times before Riley picked up.

She was elbows-deep in flour, a smear of pesto on her cheek, oven humming behind her. The lunch rush had been brisk but manageable, though the mood felt off-like the city had turned down the dial on joy and amped up tension.

"Quinn's Pizza Emporium," she answered flatly.

"Bold rebranding," Ariana replied.

Riley smiled without meaning to. "You caught me mid-crust."

"I need to talk. In person."

"What's wrong?"

"Not over the phone."

The line clicked dead.

When Ariana arrived, she wasn't dressed like herself. Her usual polished armor-heels, blazer, controlled elegance-was gone. She wore sneakers and jeans, her hair pulled into a rough ponytail. She looked raw.

"I just walked out of my boardroom," she said as Riley handed her a lemonade. "They want me to take a leave."

Riley froze. "A leave?"

"For reflection. To 'let things cool.'"

"Because of the photo?"

"Because of you, me, everything."

Riley leaned against the counter. "We're not exactly setting fire to buildings."

Ariana exhaled. "You'd be surprised how fragile empires can be."

They moved into the back kitchen, away from customer ears.

"I'm being blamed for shifting investor focus," Ariana said. "They think I'm distracted. Reckless. One article called me 'a billionaire in free fall.'"

"Are you?"

"I feel like it."

Riley didn't speak. She reached for dough and started kneading it with rhythm that grounded her thoughts.

Ariana watched her, then said, "I might lose everything I built."

Riley stopped. "Because you showed up for me?"

"Because I stopped performing."

That night, Riley closed the shop early.

They walked through Brooklyn streets as the sun dipped below the skyline, shadows stretching long and lazy. Ariana's phone buzzed in her pocket, but she didn't check it.

"I don't know how to fight this," she said.

"You already are," Riley replied.

"I was taught to win by strategy, not by heart."

"Then this is your reinvention arc."

Ariana laughed, but it cracked halfway through.

They turned onto a quiet block, past a mural of a woman tossing pizza like it was poetry. Ariana stopped and stared at it.

"What if we vanish from the spotlight?" she asked. "What if we fade?"

"Then maybe we'll finally hear ourselves."

At Riley's apartment, the city noise dulled into a hum. They curled onto the couch, basil-scented candles flickering, a half-baked pie on the stove because Riley had forgotten to set a timer.

"I feel exposed," Ariana admitted.

"Welcome to my world," Riley whispered.

Ariana turned toward her. "And yet... it's the most honest I've ever felt."

Riley smiled, touched her face gently. "Then let's stay honest. Even when it's hard."

They kissed-slowly, quietly, like punctuation to the conversation. Nothing posed. Nothing filtered. Just warmth meeting warmth.

And for a moment, the headlines disappeared.

The next morning, a message arrived.

FROM: Hawthorne Media Group SUBJECT: Feature Request-Riley Quinn and Ariana West: Flavor and Fire

It was an invitation for a televised interview. A public debut. A curated spotlight. A trap disguised as opportunity.

Riley stared at it while sipping cold espresso.

She didn't reply.

Instead, she called Ariana.

"I got a request."

"So did I."

"I think we need to answer one question first."

"What?"

"Are we ovenproof?"

A pause.

Then Ariana said, "Let's find out."

Three days later, they stood beneath hot studio lights.

Stage makeup. Mics clipped to collars. Cameras that didn't blink.

The interviewer, slick and smiling, began gently.

"So, Riley-how does it feel to go from pizzeria to international intrigue?"

"Greasy," she answered, and the crowd laughed.

Ariana grinned beside her.

The questions came fast-about public perception, business fallout, future aspirations. Riley answered with grit and truth. Ariana spoke like a woman freed from scripts.

Then the curveball dropped.

"Some say this relationship is a PR move. A distraction. A calculated rebellion. What do you say to that?"

Riley tensed.

Ariana looked straight into the camera.

"I say it's the first thing I've done in years that's not calculated."

"And is it worth the cost?" the interviewer pressed.

Ariana reached for Riley's hand, squeezed it once.

"Yes," she said. "It's worth everything."

The studio fell quiet.

Then applause broke-small, sincere, unprompted.

Riley didn't cry.

But she almost did.

Outside the studio, the sidewalk swarmed with flashes and questions. Ariana shielded Riley with her coat, guided her past the noise, toward a side alley where quiet still lived.

"You didn't have to say that," Riley said.

"I did."

"You meant it?"

"With everything I am."

They reached the car, but Riley hesitated.

"Let's walk," she said.

And they did.

That evening, Ariana posted a photo of a pizza box. On top: a handwritten note.

"It's not perfect. But it's ours." -Riley

No caption.

The image spread fast. Not just as gossip.

As inspiration.

Meanwhile, West Holdings took a vote.

Ariana's future was on the line.

She sat in her office, windows open, wind rustling papers across her desk.

The board issued a final offer: return to form or step down.

Ariana stared at it. Then signed the resignation line.

She walked out with her bag slung over one shoulder and a faint smile.

She didn't leave power.

She left the performance.

Riley didn't find out until an hour later.

The news hit just before the dinner rush.

She called.

Ariana answered.

"You left?"

"I stepped into something better."

"What now?"

"We build."

"How?"

"Together."

And so they did.

Not as mogul and maker.

But as women who refused to be edited down to palatable headlines.

They rebuilt Brick & Basil with wider counters, louder playlists, a corner shelf filled with donations from customers who'd written them letters.

One note read: "You taught me that love should never be silent."

They framed it.

Above the oven.

Where everything warm begins.