Chapter 2

Nolan, the CFO, stood before my desk, the access revocation notice in his hand still warm from the printer.

He had been with Carlisle Hospitality for seven years. Normally, he would greet me politely with a "Chef Bennett." Tonight, he couldn't even hold my gaze, keeping it strictly business. "Access to the office and main kitchen will be deactivated in ten minutes. You may take your personal items; company documents must stay."

"Company documents?"

I pulled open the top drawer.

Inside lay several worn black notebooks.

Every initial recipe, failed attempt, adjustment date, and ingredient source was written in my own hand.

The cover of the earliest one was still stained with a smudge of dried tomato sauce—from before Juniper opened, back when I was testing red pepper bisque forty-seven times in a rented shared kitchen.

I looked up at him. "Do these count as company documents too?"

Nolan hesitated.

"Legal will follow up with you regarding recipe ownership."

"You even want to take my recipes?"

"Lila," Owen’s voice came from the doorway, "don't make things difficult for him."

He walked in, already back in his respectable, polite smile.

Outside, the guests were still drinking, the music hadn't stopped, and servers were moving through the dining room with trays.

My engagement party was still going on, only the main subjects had been swapped to him and Seraphina.

Owen closed the door and reached out to touch my shoulder. I stepped back, and his hand caught air.

"I know you’re angry right now," he said. "I intended to talk to you properly tomorrow. Tonight was full of investors, and I didn't want them seeing us fight over a position."

"So you chose to announce in front of everyone that you were handing my restaurant to your ex?"

"Juniper is my investment, too."

"It was my restaurant first."

I put the first notebook into my bag and picked up my tablet from the desk.

As the screen lit up, emails from suppliers I hadn't had time to answer this afternoon popped up.

Every signature line bore my name. Not Carlisle. Not Juniper Group. Lila Bennett.

Three years ago, when Owen offered to invest, I didn't abandon my boundaries for love.

The buyout agreement was clear: the group could participate in restaurant management, but original recipe rights, personal likeness licensing, and client partnerships signed in my name remained with my studio.

Back then, Owen laughed and said he would never use a contract to guard against me.

Now, I was thankful for that past self—the woman who had just received her first investment, feared being swallowed by capital, and reserved a way out.

"You’re taking those?" Owen frowned. "Lila, you can't possibly destroy everything we built together over a little misunderstanding tonight."

The dull ache I had carried all night hardened into something clean and usable.

He always thought Juniper was built by "us."

Yet he wasn't with me at four in the morning picking produce at the wholesale market; he wasn't riding a bike through a blizzard to deliver a last-minute birthday cake; and when the restaurant was on the brink of failing, he certainly wasn't using his personal savings to pay the line cooks.

He wrote a check, so he assumed he owned everything.

"The person destroying Juniper isn't me." I zipped my bag shut. "It’s you, making the choice the moment you pushed a woman who can't even get the signature dish right into the Executive Chef role."

Owen’s face darkened.

"You’re being way too hostile toward Seraphina. She’s had a hard life, and I’m just giving her a chance."

"If you want to give her a chance, open a new restaurant with your own money. You don't need to hand her my name, my team, and my work."

"She needs a platform."

"Then what about me?" I asked. "Who gave me a platform all these years?"

He couldn't answer right away.

I walked past him and pulled my private hard drive from the bottom filing cabinet. Nolan tried to step in, his eyes darting to Owen. Owen said nothing.

He had finally realized that what I was taking wasn't just a few notebooks or a hard drive.

I was taking the foundation he had taken for granted.

Before leaving the office, I placed my kitchen key on the desk.

I had used that key for three years; its edges were darkened by the heat of the ovens.

It had opened the back door, the walk-in cooler, the storage room, and countless early mornings far tougher than today.

Owen stared at it, his tone softening slightly.

"I’ll come see you tomorrow. We’ll cool down and talk through the wedding and the restaurant."

"There’s no need to talk about the wedding."

His throat moved. "Lila, don't be impulsive."

"When you let Seraphina stand on that stage in my chef coat, you made the decision for me."

I left Juniper and didn't look back once.

Back at my apartment, I took off the dress, changed into a comfortable old T-shirt, and opened my laptop at the dining table.

In the wedding planner’s group chat, the designer was still discussing floral colors; the hotel had sent a confirmation letter; and my mother had called five times in a row. Her last voicemail said: "Owen’s family had so many VIP guests tonight. Don't be stubborn—go apologize tomorrow."

I listened, then set my phone face down on the table.

Then I canceled everything, item by item.

The venue deposit, the dress balance, the champagne tower, the photographer, the guest shuttles.

With every confirmation click, the screen displayed a non-refundable fee. The numbers were painful, but I didn't regret it.

Some things only cost more the longer you delay.

At one in the morning, I sent three emails from my studio account.

The first went to Juniper’s legal department, formally revoking all recipe rights, likeness authorizations, and pending partnerships under my name.

The second went to long-term suppliers, stating that any future orders under my name required my personal authorization.

The third went to my accountant, asking her to organize my client records, recipe archives, and copyright registrations from the past three years.

After sending them, I realized my finger was still pressed hard against the trackpad, my knuckles white.

I got up to pour water in the kitchen when my phone lit up.

It was a push notification from Juniper’s official account.

Owen moved faster than I thought.

The newly posted statement read:

Due to physical and mental exhaustion from prolonged high-stress work, Juniper’s founding chef, Lila Bennett, will be taking a temporary step back from daily management. The entire team wishes her a swift recovery.

Attached was a photo secretly taken of me last year after I fainted in the back kitchen.

In it, I was pale, sweat dripping from my forehead.

Owen had carried me to the hospital back then, promising he wouldn't let me work myself into the ground like that again.

Now, that photo was being used as proof that I was "unfit to work."

Just as I was about to screenshot it, another email popped up in my inbox.

The sender was a prominent New York publishing house.

The subject line read:

Confirmation of Publishing Proposal: Seraphina’s Juniper Kitchen.

I opened the attachment.

On page one, the author’s name was Seraphina Vale.

On page two was the complete recipe for my seared scallops.