Chapter 2 - Papers and Provenance
Julian crossed his arms, leaning back against the mahogany podium. "Well? Should I be concerned? Our legal team is looking over their filings, but if there's a copyright dispute brewing before we even announce your appointment, it could complicate the initial press release."
"There is no dispute," I said, keeping my tone crisp and professional. "They might hold the commercial license for the brick-and-mortar location in the suburbs, but the proprietary recipes, the flavor profiles, and the operational framework belong entirely to the independent consultant who designed them from scratch."
"And that would be you."
"That would be me," I confirmed, pulling a slim leather portfolio from my bag and placing it on the table. "Here are the original documentation filings, dated five years before the restaurant ever opened its doors, along with the formal release I signed when dissolving my association with their corporate entity. They can use the name Miller's Hearth, Julian. But they cannot legally serve three-quarters of the signature menu items they've been pitching to your investors."
Julian flipped through the pages, a slow, appreciative smile spreading across his face. "Brutal. I love it. But it brings me to my second point. If they realize you're partnering with us—especially today, of course—they're going to make a lot of noise. Are you prepared for the fallout?"
Before I could answer, my phone buzzed again in my bag. This time, it wasn't a text. It was a phone call from my mother.
I excused myself, stepping out into the quiet marble corridor just outside the ballroom. When I swiped to answer, my mother’s voice was trembling with a mix of anxiety and anger.
"Samantha, where are you? Beatrice called your father crying. She said you abandoned them on Charles’s seventieth birthday, and Brian is beside himself. He says you're trying to ruin his business out of spite."
The irony was suffocating. For a decade, I had swallowed my ambitions so Brian could look like a culinary visionary in front of his peers.
"Mom, I didn't ruin anything," I said gently, though my grip on the phone was white-knuckled. "I got a divorce because my marriage was a cage. And I have a career now. I don't belong in their kitchen anymore."
"A career?" My mother scoffed softly through the line, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Brian says you're working some menial hotel job just to spite him, and that if you come back right now, he'll forgive you for your little tantrum. Family is family, Samantha. You don't throw away a good man over a disagreement about working late."
"He told you I was working a menial job?" I asked, a bitter laugh escaping my lips.
"He just wants you protected! Now get in a car and come to the house. Charles is cutting the cake in an hour, and everyone is asking where you are."
"Tell them not to hold their breath," I said, and ended the call, blocking the number before the dial tone could even register.
When I turned around, Julian was standing a few feet away, holding two cups of black coffee. He handed one to me, his expression thoughtful.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
"My family thinks I'm scrubbing floors," I murmured, taking a sip of the bitter coffee. "They think my independence is a temporary mental breakdown."
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Julian smiled faintly, his eyes kind. "Then let's make sure your debut proves them wrong. The investors are gathering in ten minutes. Are you ready to show them what real culinary direction looks like?"
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