Chapter 4: The Weight of Promise

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Violet’s hands trembled as she counted the order in her notebook.

Ten crates. Ten whole crates.

She had sold small jars before, giving them to neighbors or trading them for flour, but this… this was different. A real contract. A real commitment. And failure was not an option.

As she reached her home, the familiar scent of simmering fruit filled the air. Her mother stood over a pot, stirring carefully as the mixture thickened. The small cottage kitchen felt too cramped, too warm, but today, it was their battlefield.

"How did it go?" her mother asked, not looking up.

Violet swallowed. "We got an order. A big one."

The stirring stopped. Her mother turned, wiping her hands on her apron.

"How big?"

"Ten crates. Due next week."

Silence. Then, a deep breath.

"That’s… a lot."

"I know. But we can do it, right?" Violet tried to keep her voice steady, but doubt crawled at the edges of her mind.

Her mother sighed, then nodded. "We’ll need more fruit. More jars. And more hands."

"I can ask Rupert and Annie to help gather fruits from the orchard."

"Good. But there’s another problem."

Violet stiffened. "What?"

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Her mother glanced at the half-empty shelf where their glass jars were stored.

"We don’t have enough jars. Even if we fill them all, we won’t reach ten crates."

That hit Violet like a punch to the gut.

Jars were expensive. Too expensive. They barely had enough savings to buy extra supplies, let alone the glass containers needed for the preserves.

She gritted her teeth. No. There has to be a way.

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The next morning, Violet found herself walking toward the largest building in the village—the Trade Union.

If there was any place she could get supplies, it was here. But there was one problem.

Albert Faulkner.

The man was a legend in the village. Some feared him, some respected him, but all knew that he was the true gatekeeper of the market. Without his approval, no small business would last long.

And now, Violet had to convince him to help.

As she entered, the scent of parchment and ink filled her nose. The room was lined with shelves filled with ledgers and documents, and at the center, behind a grand wooden desk, sat Albert Faulkner himself.

A sharp-eyed man in his fifties, dressed in elegant yet practical clothing, with a silver-trimmed cane resting beside him—not for walking, but for presence. His eyes flickered to her immediately.

"You’re the girl causing a stir in the market," he stated flatly.

Violet steadied herself. "I have a business proposal."

Albert leaned back in his chair, watching her carefully.

"Go on."

Violet took a deep breath. "I need glass jars. A lot of them. But I don’t have the funds to buy them outright."

Albert’s expression remained unreadable.

"And why should I care?"

"Because I can make you money."

That caught his attention. He raised an eyebrow, motioning for her to continue.

"I already have a deal with Tuan Gregory’s tavern. If I can fulfill this first order, I can secure more. But I need jars. If you can supply them, I’ll pay you back with interest after my sales."

Albert tapped his fingers against the desk.

"A loan, then. But with no guarantee of return."

Violet swallowed hard.

"I’ll give you a share of my earnings until the debt is paid."

A long silence stretched between them.

Then, Albert chuckled.

"You’re either very bold or very foolish. Either way, I like it." He reached for a piece of parchment, scribbled something down, and handed it to her.

"Take this to the glassmaker. You’ll get your jars. But don’t disappoint me, girl. I do not make investments that fail."

Violet took the paper with shaking hands.

"I won’t."

As she stepped out of the Trade Union, the weight on her shoulders felt heavier than ever.

But there was no turning back now.

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To be Continue...