Chapter 3

I read the publishing proposal attachment from cover to cover.

Seraphina had not only stolen the recipe for the seared scallops, but she had also included my red pepper bisque, smoked duck breast, and winter seasonal desserts in the table of contents.

Each dish was accompanied by a so-called "inspiration story" about how she found inspiration traveling through Europe and healed herself through food during long, lonely years.

My hand rested on the trackpad.

She hadn't even bothered to craft a believable lie.

The first version of that red pepper bisque was something I made when I was twenty-six for a single mother who couldn't pay her rent.

Her daughter was a picky eater and couldn't stomach the hospital's nutritional meals, so I simmered a whole pot using the cheapest red peppers, carrots, and chicken broth.

The next day, the little girl scraped the bowl spotless.

I later put it on the menu under the name "Sunday Supper."

Seraphina renamed it "Parisian Winter Night."

At eight-thirty in the morning, I dialed the publishing company.

The editor who picked up was named Marian, a sharp-talking, no-nonsense woman.

After I introduced myself, she paused for two seconds, then asked, "Can you prove these recipes belong to you?"

"Yes."

"Then send me the evidence. Manuscripts, date logs, archived menus, public interviews—anything that proves your creative process. We'll hold the review."

She didn't offer sympathy, nor did she curse out Seraphina on my behalf.

Instead, I felt a sense of relief.

When adults solve problems, they look at evidence first.

After hanging up, I organized photos of all my recipes from the past three years, early menus, interview links, and scans of my private notebooks into separate folders.

By noon, a reminder popped up on my phone: 2:00 PM, Harbor House Charity Luncheon.

I had committed to this event two months ago.

Harbor House provided temporary shelter and job training for low-income families, hosting a fundraising luncheon every year.

Last year, when they struggled with donations, I volunteered to design the event menu and promised a live cooking demonstration.

My name was still on the poster as of yesterday—Lila Bennett, Founder Chef of Juniper.

I could have skipped it.

Owen and Seraphina would probably love nothing more than to see me hide away, leaving my spot open for them to fill.

But those people were selling tickets, pulling sponsors, and inviting the media using my name.

If I didn't show up, I wouldn't be hurting Owen or Seraphina; I would be hurting Harbor House, who trusted I'd be there.

At 1:45 PM, I walked into the event's backroom carrying my knife kit.

When the staff spotted me, relief washed over their faces, followed quickly by awkward hesitation.

"Chef Bennett," Diane, the event coordinator, hurried over. "I was just about to call you. Juniper contacted us this morning, saying you weren't feeling well and couldn't handle the demo."

"They cancelled on my behalf?"

Diane nodded, lowering her voice. "They said they'd send a new Executive Chef to step in. We were short on time and couldn't risk crossing the Carlisle family."

I looked over at the open kitchen not far away.

Seraphina stood at the station, wearing a white chef coat even more tailored than the one last night.

She was directing the photographer to adjust their angles, with a row of familiar ingredients laid out on the table: scallops, apples, sage, and butter.

Even the setup sequence mirrored my exact habits.

Seeing me, she faked a surprised look before walking over, acting as cozy as if last night had never happened.

"Lila, what are you doing here? Owen said you needed rest. I was worried you'd be sad staying home alone."

I didn't shake her hand.

"This is a Harbor House event. I signed a partnership agreement with Diane."

She offered a soft sigh, her eyes dropping to my knife bag.

"I know it's hard to let go. But you're emotionally unstable right now; staying in front of the cameras won't do you any good. What if you say something hurtful again? Imagine how the press will write about you."

"Is how the media writes about me something you get to decide?"

The gentle façade on Seraphina's face cracked.

"Why make things so ugly? Owen has given you more than enough grace. The restaurant, the wedding, an allowance—you won't lack a thing. Just stay quiet, and everyone can move on."

Looking at her, I suddenly understood why she dared to stand before me like this.

She thought I was fighting for Owen.

She believed that as long as Owen chose her, I had lost.

"You've got one thing wrong," I said. "I never needed him to provide for me."

She pressed her lips into a tight line.

I continued, "As for Juniper, you can wear my uniform, memorize my recipes, and stand at the stove I built. But you can't fool the people who have actually tasted my food."

Seraphina's expression finally darkened.

"You think you're so special?" She took a step closer, her voice dropping so only the two of us could hear. "You just happened to meet Owen a few years before I did, and you were more willing to burn yourself out in a kitchen. Now he wants me. You'd better learn to accept it."

Looking past her shoulder, I saw Diane watching us anxiously while guests began filtering into the venue.

I stopped wasting my breath on her.

"Diane," I turned and called out to the coordinator, "Seraphina can handle today's demo. Since she represents Juniper, let her prove she deserves that title."

Diane froze.

Seraphina stared at me too, clearly caught off guard by my retreat.

I picked up my knife kit and walked toward the exit. As I passed her, I paused.

"As for me," I said, "I'll be hosting a dinner this Saturday that belongs solely to Lila Bennett. No Carlisle capital, no Juniper branding, and no one deciding for me whether I belong in the kitchen."

I didn't raise my voice, but several nearby reporters caught every word.

One of them asked, "Chef Bennett, are you opening a new restaurant of your own?"

I looked straight into the camera, dropping all pretense of saving face for Owen for the very first time.

"I am starting over."

The news spread faster than I expected.

The moment I stepped out of Harbor House, my phone began vibrating relentlessly.

Loyal regulars asked for the dinner location, former suppliers checked if I needed ingredients, and a waitress who used to work at Juniper even texted saying she could help me source a venue.

Standing on the sidewalk, I opened my notebook and wrote down the first dish for Saturday's dinner.

Not seared scallops.

That dish belonged to the old Juniper, and to the woman who used to think endurance could buy love.

I was creating a new menu.

A menu no one had the right to steal from me.

When I returned to my apartment that evening, a black envelope was sitting at my doorstep. The sender was Carlisle Hospitality's legal department.

I tore it open. Inside was a formal cease-and-desist letter.

Juniper claimed that my planned private dinner involved the unauthorized use of trade secrets.

If I continued to promote the event before Saturday, they would seek an emergency injunction and hold me liable for "illegally withholding company records."

On the last page, the authorization bore Owen's signature.

I stared at his name for a long time before setting the document on the dining table.

Then, I opened my laptop and went back to perfecting my new menu.

Did they really think a lawyer's letter could scare me out of the kitchen?