The $50 Million Dust
The bakery was a ruin. Dust motes danced in the moonlight, and the air was thick with the scent of damp yeast and broken dreams. 
According to the Financial Statement I found on the counter, the "Sunshine Bakery" was $2 million in the red.
But Eleanor’s last letter, tucked inside a bag of rye flour, told a different story. "Look where the bread rises, Sophie. The debt is a shadow; the truth is in the foundation."
I spent the night scrubbing the floors until my hands bled. It was near dawn when I noticed a strange pattern in the tiles beneath the heavy industrial flour silo.
The rusted key didn't fit any door in the building—it fit a small, concealed keyhole hidden behind a Liability Insurance plaque on the wall.
As I turned the key, the floor groaned. The massive silo began to slide back on hidden hydraulic rails—a piece of Advanced Engineering that must have cost a fortune to install. Beneath it lay a reinforced steel hatch with a digital keypad. My heart hammered against my ribs as I tried the only numbers that mattered: the date Eleanor and I first baked together.
The hatch hissed open, revealing a spiral staircase leading into a climate-controlled vault that smelled of crisp, new ink and high-grade security.
Inside weren't loaves of bread. The walls were lined with rows of Offshore Trust Documents and stacks of Uncut Emeralds. Eleanor hadn't left me a failing business; she had left me a Private Sovereign Reserve that the St. Claires knew nothing about.
Who is the real "Wolf" watching the bakery?
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