Kneading dough on the bakery counter, the sweet scent of sugar and flour filled the air as the chatter continued. "...I told her it was wrong, just like I told you," a soft voice said. "But what's wrong with being open about her feelings?" the other responded, sprinkling a pinch of cinnamon onto a tray. "Everything's not so open and innocent in this town anymore. She's in a connectingazed position with our press, literally and figuratively." The first voice frowned, a hint of stress etched on their face. "We can't have that. If pictures get leaked, it'll be all over the culinary scene. Loss of customers, damage to our reputations..." "Reputations? You mean your precious Parisian pastries, which aren't even made here anymore?" The baker's hands paused mid-knead, causing the second voice to continue, "Exactly. And what's the point of authenticity if we can just outsource the baking anyway?" A silent, calculating glance was exchanged, a debate unnecessarily unfolding in the production area, in the heart of Main Street, in their quaint little bakery home.