Chapter 4

A week after the fire, the restaurant stood fully repaired, the scars of the disaster completely painted over.

But the real disaster was happening inside the dining room.

The grand reopening ceremony was packed.

Employees, food suppliers, local media, and food bloggers filled the space.

Right above the entrance, a massive, ridiculously flashy golden banner hung from the ceiling:

Derek Ellis & Talia Cross

Rising from the Fire

Talia stood beneath it, wearing a stunning designer dress paid for by the company account.

She smiled warmly at the cameras, playing the perfect hostess.

"That fire taught us something important," Talia told a group of captivated food bloggers. "Derek and I almost died in those flames. But we rebuilt this place from the ashes together. This restaurant is not just a business. It is our shared soul."

She wore my restaurant like a stolen crown.

At ten minutes to six, Derek stepped onto the small wooden stage.

He tapped the microphone, his chest puffed out with absolute pride. The room quieted down.

"Thank you all for coming," Derek beamed. "Tonight is about survival. And the person who truly stood by me through this nightmare is Talia Cross."

The crowd applauded. Talia looked down modestly, pretending to hold back tears.

Derek raised his voice, making sure every camera was rolling.

"Today, Talia officially becomes a named partner in our future," Derek announced loudly. "My wife, Maren, the financial backer of this project, is arriving right now to hand over the legal ownership documents!"

A few people chuckled.

He had intentionally reduced me to a mere wallet—a delivery girl bringing him the keys to his kingdom so he could hand them to his mistress.

Everyone in the room turned toward the front glass doors, expecting a meek, compliant wife.

Outside, a black SUV pulled up to the curb.

My sister Paige opened the door and helped me step out.

I didn't wear the bright colors Derek had demanded.

I wore a sharp, tailored black coat.

My left leg was locked inside a heavy medical brace, a brutal reminder of what he had left in the fire.

But I didn't look like a victim. I looked like an executioner.

In my hands, I carried the thick manila folder.

Behind me stood my army:

Helen, my ruthless corporate lawyer; Felix, the true culinary brains of the kitchen; the new general manager; and four uniformed private security guards.

I checked my watch. It was 5:59 PM.

I looked at Helen. "Do they still have any operational rights?"

"Not after six o'clock. Every access code, every bank account, and every management right will vanish at the exact strike of the hour."

Inside, Derek tapped the microphone again, growing impatient.

"Now," Derek said, scanning the crowd. "Let us welcome my wife. Bring the papers up, Maren!"

The clock struck six.

Click.

Deep inside the central system, Derek and Talia's digital keys expired.

Their admin accounts locked. The company bank cards in their wallets became worthless plastic.

They did not know it yet.

The heavy glass doors pushed open.

The chattering crowd instantly parted for me, sensing the icy shift in the air.

Derek saw the manila folder in my hands.

A greedy smile spread across his face.

He hopped off the stage and walked toward me, holding out his open hand like a master expecting a dog to drop a toy.

"I knew you wouldn't let me down, Maren," Derek said softly. "Where are the share transfer papers for Talia?"

I stopped a few feet away from him. I didn't hand him the folder.

Instead, Felix, the new general manager, and the security guards stepped through the doors and flanked me like a wall of shields.

Derek stopped in his tracks, his arrogant smile faltering. He looked at the security team, then at Felix in his crisp new chef's coat.

"Maren?" Derek’s voice tightened.

I looked past him, scanning the silent crowd of guests, bloggers, and employees.

Then, I slowly unclasped the manila folder, pulled out the first page stamped with a red legal seal.

"Derek," I said. "You asked for the papers."