Chapter 3

Grant slammed his palm down onto the phone screen, cutting off the preview before I could read another word.

"Stop snooping through my private work, Irene," he snapped, shoving the phone into his jacket pocket.

His face was tense, but his voice stayed laced with cold authority. "Nicole is handling our venture contracts. You understand recipes, not high-level corporate financing. Now get back to the kitchen."

He spun around and stormed out toward the dining room, convinced that I was still the obedient partner who would swallow my pride to keep our business afloat.

He forgot one crucial detail.

Five years ago, I installed the kitchen's digital management systems myself. Resting on the dock beside our pantry shelves was our shared administration tablet -- still actively mirrored to his messaging accounts.

I locked the office door behind me and tapped the screen.

The text thread between Grant and Nicole stretched back eight months.

Nicole: I love the apartment, babe. But how long are you going to let her pretend she owns this restaurant? She's just a cook.

Grant: She holds the original menu patents, Nicole. Without her in that kitchen, the customers won't come back. Let her run the stove while we build the real parent company.

Nicole: And when the expansion funds clear? You promised me we'd finally make us official.

Grant's reply burned into my eyes: Everything is almost ready. Irene is passive. She hates conflict. When the moment comes, she'll take whatever small buyout I offer and think it was her own choice to walk away.

My stomach churned, but not a single tear fell. The pain hit me like sharp glass, followed by total, freezing clarity.

Grant had never made a mistake. He had made a calculation.

I took screenshots of every conversation, every promise, and every text where he admitted to using my culinary credentials to secure loans for Nicole.

I bundled the files with the exported invoices, applied cryptographic timestamps, and forwarded the entire unredacted archive to my personal legal drive.

Then I wiped the tablet's sync history, logged out, and slipped the thumb drive deep into my pocket.

Suddenly, the heavy door handle rattled violently.

A key turned in the lock. The door flew open, and Grant stepped inside, followed closely by Nicole.

Nicole wasn't smiling anymore. Her expression was sharp, cold, and predatory. Tucked beneath her arm was a thick leather document folder.

"We're done waiting, Irene," Grant said, stepping forward to block my exit path. "A private equity group just agreed to fund our national expansion tonight. But their terms require an exclusive transfer of the brand's intellectual property."

Nicole set the document on the desk in front of me, flipping open the cover to reveal a highlighted signature line.

"Grant already signed over his half," Nicole said softly, her lips curving into a triumphant smirk. "Now sign over your name, the trademark, and your recipe rights. If you refuse, Grant pulls our emergency vendor line tonight -- and the suppliers shut this restaurant down by midnight."

Grant held out a heavy black pen, his eyes daring me to defy him.

I looked at the document, then down at the pen in his fingers.

I didn't take it. Instead, my fingers curled around the metal thumb drive hidden inside my pocket, and I met Nicole's gaze with a calm, slow smile.