Page 34 of The Proposal Planner (Ever After #2)

"Sweetheart, I'm not suggesting we give up. I'm suggesting we need a strategy that accounts for what he's doing, not what we wish he was doing."

She's right, of course. My mother has been running a successful business in this town for twenty years, she understands how community dynamics work, how quickly confidence can erode when doubt starts spreading.

But she doesn't understand what I'm capable of when someone threatens what I care about.

My phone rings, most likely Savvy, checking in with an update from her end of the planning. I answer on speaker.

"Please tell me you have good news," I say without preamble.

"Define good news," she replies, her voice tight with frustration. "Because I spent an hour on the phone with our catering coordinator, who suddenly has concerns about our liability insurance and wants to review all our safety protocols before confirming the final headcount."

"Let me guess, someone pointed out potential issues to him?"

"A concerned citizen who stopped by his restaurant this morning.

Polished. Polite. Wanted to make sure everyone involved understood the full scope of responsibility for a public event.

" Savvy's tone could cut glass. "Maddy, this is textbook intimidation.

He's making people afraid of being associated with us. "

I close my eyes, feeling the pressure build. This is how Richard works, not with direct hits, but by shaking the ground under you until everything falls apart.

But he's wrong about this. He thinks it's about money and power. He doesn't see that he's pushing against a town that protects its own. And Mason? He's part of us now.

"Savvy," I say, meeting my mom's eyes, "how many vendors have pulled out?"

"None yet. But I can hear it in their voices. They're nervous. And nervous people back away."

"Then we give them a reason to be excited instead of scared." I start pacing again, my mind spinning through possibilities. "Richard wants to make this about liability and paperwork and bureaucratic complications. We make it about community and hope and everything this festival represents."

"How do we do that?"

"We double down on what we're already doing," I say. "We turn this into the story of a small town fighting back against corporate intimidation. We make Richard Kingston the villain and ourselves the heroes, and we make it so public that backing out becomes harder than staying in."

Mom raises an eyebrow. "That's either brilliant or insane."

"Why not both?" I grin at her, feeling the familiar surge of energy that comes when I stop trying to make the impossible work and start making it inevitable.

"Mom, I need you to help me call every business owner Richard contacted today.

Tell them we're having an emergency community meeting tonight at seven, about protecting River Bend from outside interference. "

"And then what?"

"Then we show them what we're fighting for." I pull out my phone and start typing a text to Mason. "And we make Richard Kingston realize he picked the wrong fight, with the wrong people, at the wrong time."

The next two hours pass in a blur of focused coordination.

I pull up my vendor contact list and start making calls, not panicked damage control, but calm, clear-headed outreach.

Each conversation follows the same pattern: acknowledge their concerns, validate their fears, then reframe the entire situation.

"Mrs. Finch, I understand your worry about the liability issues," I say into my phone while simultaneously typing notes on my laptop.

"That's why we need to meet tonight. Because this isn't about insurance requirements, it's about whether we let outside pressure dictate what happens in our community. "

I hear her swing from defensive to curious as I explain Richard's broader strategy. By the time I hang up, she's not backing out, she's bringing her entire family to the meeting.

One by one, I work through the list. The pattern holds, initial fear transforms into anger once people understand they're being manipulated. By the time I finish, I have commitments from every vendor Richard contacted, plus several he missed.

My phone buzzes with updates from Mason throughout the afternoon.

Mason

Mrs. Patterson wants to interview me about "outside corporate influence on local affairs." I think she smells a story.

Me

Perfect. Give her everything. Make her your ally, not your adversary.

Mason

Mrs. Russell offered to "have words" with Richard if he bothers me again. I may have accidentally acquired a bodyguard.

Me

She's fierce. I love her.

Mason

Three more people have stopped by asking about legal services. Word is spreading that I'm "the lawyer who stands up to bullies."

Me

You are. Own it.

By six-thirty, I'm at the community center, now transformed into our makeshift war room.

Neighbors file in with expressions that range from curious to furious.

Mrs. Patterson enters with her notepad already open, scanning the room with the sharp-eyed focus of someone halfway through writing tomorrow's headline.

The hardware store owner comes in with his wife, both wearing the grim resolve of people ready to take a stand.

Even Mr. Thompson from the fire department shows up, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

And then Mason walks in, rumpled button-down, sleeves rolled, the faintest smudge of ink near his cuff. He catches my eye across the room and nods. It's not flashy, not performative. But I feel the weight of it in my chest. Steady. Certain. On my side.

I take a breath and step forward.

"All right," I say, letting the low murmur settle. "Let's talk about what happened today."

For the next twenty minutes, I lay it out. Richard Kingston's visit. His orchestrated attempt to dismantle the festival from the inside. His pressure tactics. The subtle threats. The not-so-subtle ones. I keep my tone measured, my voice clear. I don't spin it. I don't soften it.

"This isn't about permits or insurance," I say, meeting their eyes one by one. "It's about power. It's about whether we let an outsider, someone with no roots here, no investment in our lives, dictate what this town becomes. If he can't buy us out, he'll push us out. One loophole at a time."

A ripple of reaction spreads across the room

Mrs. Patterson straightens in her seat. "Kingston. He's the one who tried to bulldoze the waterfront a few months back, right? Before the Morrison Center project got off the ground?"

Heads nod. Someone mutters, "Thought we saw the last of him."

"He's not gone," I say. "He's smarter this time. He's not making offers, he's making threats. Trying to wear us down. Undermine us until giving up feels easier than fighting back."

I let that hang in the air, then drive the point home.

"So this isn't about the Morrison Center. It's about control. About rewriting the story of River Bend into a version that's generic and profitable. He failed the first time because we were paying attention. This time, he's slipping in through the cracks, hoping no one notices until it's too late."

Silence.

And then, "He's betting we'll fold," I say. "That we'll back down quietly. That we'll start questioning ourselves."

I scan the room. These are the people who built this town. Who held potlucks when the mill shut down and showed up with rakes and plywood after that freak storm last spring. People who lend each other trucks and casseroles and backup generators.

"He's wrong."

A pause.

"We're River Bend. We don't fold. We rally."

That's when Mrs. Patterson lifts her eyebrow and says, "And what are you proposing we do?"

I square my shoulders. "We fight back. The way we always do. We show up. We pitch in. And we throw a festival so unforgettable they'll still be talking about it at Christmas. One that proves River Bend is alive, and it's not for sale."

Another beat of silence.

Then Mrs. Russell stands, bristling with outrage. "That man came into my shop today and had the gall to suggest my customers were in danger because I sell unregulated preserves. As if I haven't been making peach jam longer than he's been breathing."

She points at Mason. "And he implied he wasn't qualified to help with my will. I told him that Mason Kincaid has done more for this town in three weeks than most people do in three years, and if he had any more concerns, he could take them up with me directly."

Applause erupts. Not polite claps, real applause. Loud. Satisfying. The kind that says enough is enough.

One by one, others speak up.

The florist who told Kingston our emergency vehicle routes are better planned than half the county.

The caterer who offered to walk him through our sanitation protocols.

The hardware store owner who handed him our permit paperwork and offered to fax it to whatever lawyer he trusted, if he thought he could read it without help.

By the time we adjourn, we don't have a festival committee, we have a movement.

People file out buzzing with purpose. Swapping numbers. Volunteering to cover shifts. Reworking checklists. Organizing donations. It's not chaos, it's momentum.

Mason falls into step beside me as we head outside. "That," he says, "was either the best grassroots organizing I've ever seen, or we declared war on one of the most powerful men in New York."

"Why not both?"

He glances at me, more serious now. "You know there's no going back from this, right? Richard doesn't let go of public humiliation. Whatever comes next, it's personal now."

"Good," I say. "Because it always was. He threatened my family. My community. My future. He made it personal the second he decided River Bend didn't matter."

He nods, eyes fixed on mine. "In that case, I should warn you, I've never fought a battle like this before. Not in the court of public opinion."

I smile, standing on my toes to kiss him. "Lucky for you, I have. Stick with me, Counselor. We're going to show Richard Kingston what he's up against."

As we step into the evening, I catch sight of a black sedan idling across the street. No lights. No movement. But I see it.

And I wave.

Then I lace my fingers through Mason's and walk toward my car.

Because tomorrow, the real fight begins.

And River Bend is ready.