Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
VALENTINA MUNIZ
The bakery was fuller than I’d ever seen it.
Late-afternoon sunlight poured through the windows in warm gold, illuminating old photographs, yellowed newspaper clippings, and personal objects carefully arranged across the tables.
The comforting scent of fresh coffee and newly baked pastries created a strange contrast with the urgency of why we were gathered.
“Put the oldest photos on the center table, please,” I instructed, pointing to a spot already crowded with decades of memories captured in images, letters, and handwritten accounts. “The more recent ones and the official documents stay here with me.”
“I found more things in my grandmother’s attic, Val!” Camila burst in, carrying a large dusty box. “Photos, old letters… I didn’t even know she kept this much.”
I smiled gratefully, took the box, and set it with care beside the others.
Around me, the atmosphere was unity and stubborn determination.
Children played quietly on the floor, blissfully unaware of the seriousness of the moment, while adults exchanged stories about the past—remembering what Tiradentes had been, and what was now threatening its future.
“This photo is from my family’s restaurant opening in 1965,” Júlia said with a melancholy smile, holding an old picture of a large group of people standing in front of a newly built building, all of them grinning. “Fifty years of history, Val. And now…” Her voice wavered. Her eyes shone.
I touched her arm and squeezed gently.
“We’re not letting that happen,” I said firmly, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “Not without fighting until the very last second.”
“That’s right,” Renata added, stepping closer. “They don’t get to bulldoze our stories like they don’t matter.”
I nodded, strengthened by my friends’ conviction. As I moved through the crowded bakery, I studied the items on the tables.
Every photo, every heirloom, every handwritten page held a different story—but they all shared the same emotion:
Pride.
And the determination to protect our town.
“Valentina, I found these old newspapers,” Seu Alberto said, one of the town’s oldest residents, his voice calm and deep. “They talk about when they tried something similar back in the eighties. We stopped it then. Maybe it’ll help you now too.”
I took the yellowed papers with gratitude, feeling the weight of history in my hands.
“Thank you, Seu Alberto. I’m sure this will be useful.”
Conversation moved fast around me—people discussing the best way to build the dossier for the media. We wanted something strong, something undeniable. Something that showed what Dreamland truly meant for our town.
In the middle of the bustle, a man in a dark suit appeared in the doorway—too formal to blend in.
Unease snapped through me immediately.
I walked to him, stepping away from the others, forcing composure.
“Can I help you?”
“Valentina Muniz?” he asked, professional and distant.
“Yes.”
“I’m a court officer,” he said briefly, extending a sealed envelope. “I’m here to serve you an official notice.”
My heart kicked hard. A knot formed in my throat as I accepted the envelope. The officer left immediately.
For a moment, I stood there staring at the paper in my hands as pressure built in my chest.
“Val? Are you okay?” Júlia asked, worry in her voice as she approached.
I blinked fast and forced a weak smile, sliding the envelope into the pocket of my apron.
“I’m fine,” I lied gently. “Don’t worry. Can we keep going?”
Júlia nodded—hesitant—and returned to the group. I inhaled and went back to the center table, continuing to organize the materials.
I had to keep everyone focused. United. Strong.
But as people talked and I helped assemble every detail of the dossier, the envelope felt like lead in my pocket.
And my mind kept circling back to Enrico.
His silence after demanding the DNA test terrified me more than I wanted to admit.
He had pushed for that test with such urgency—such fury—and then…
Nothing.
No calls. No visits. No moves I could see.
Only that grinding silence, day after day, eating away at my nerves.
I shivered and forced my face to stay calm among the people who depended on me.
“Val! This photo is perfect!” Camila exclaimed, holding up an old image of the main square packed with people during a local festival. “We have to feature this. We have to show everyone what’s really at stake.”
I smiled and took the photo, trying once again to push the envelope—and the suffocating thoughts—down.
One thing at a time.
For now, all I could do was keep moving… and wait, heart tight, for what came next.
Hours passed. Slowly, people began to leave, taking with them a renewed sense of hope and determination. I sent them off with smiles and thanks, performing a serenity I did not feel.
“Thank you for everything, Val,” Júlia said softly, holding my hands. “You’ve been incredible.”
I hugged her briefly, my chest tightening with a bittersweet mix of gratitude and doubt.
“We’re in this together,” I said firmly, even if my voice sounded weaker than I wanted.
As soon as she left, I locked the door and leaned my back against the wood with a heavy sigh. The silence that settled over the bakery immediately allowed every thought I’d been forcing down since the court officer arrived to slam back into me.
I went to an empty table, pulled out a chair, and sat hard. I took the envelope from my apron pocket—now it felt like it was burning my hands.
With trembling fingers, I broke the seal and unfolded the paper, heart pounding as my eyes scanned the formal, impersonal language.
I read it once.
Twice.
Three times.
As if I might find an error. As if it couldn’t possibly be real.
But the words were too clear.
My heart felt like it might tear through my ribs.
The bank that had financed my home and my bakery had unilaterally changed the terms of my loan. The new payments were absurd—impossible within the deadlines given.
I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting tears.
“This can’t be happening,” I whispered, a dark cloud of panic closing in.
Everything I had built—every sleepless night, every drop of sweat, blood, and tears—
now threatened from two sides.
And I had no idea how I was supposed to fix any of it.
Before I could even begin to organize my thoughts, my phone buzzed on the table.
I inhaled, clinging to the tiny hope it was something trivial—Júlia, maybe, reminding me of something she forgot.
But when I opened the message, my breath locked in my throat.
Unknown number.
And still I knew exactly who it was.
“Tomorrow, 9 a.m., I’m visiting my daughter. Don’t try to stop me, Valentina. If you even think about making this difficult, losing your bakery will be the least of your problems.”