Chapter 3

Within twenty minutes of Eleanor Vance's post, our reservation portal went dead.

Two cancellation emails chimed simultaneously: our contracted beverage distributor and our primary linen vendor, citing "scheduling conflicts."

"They're suffocating us before we even open the doors," Macy said, her fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against her keyboard. "No wine pairings, no linen deliveries, and pre-sales have completely flatlined. No one in this town wants to cross the Foster family."

I stared at the empty expanse of the Seaview lobby. My hand drifted to my pocket, brushing the cold metal of Lucy's phone.

The raw audio was sitting right there.

One press of a button, and I could upload Noah's voice to the local news desk. I could clear my name, crush the boycott, and sell out the dining room in ten minutes.

Soft footsteps sounded on the stone tile. Lucy stood near the service elevator, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest.

"You're losing everything because of me," Lucy whispered, her eyes fixed on Macy's screen.

"Use the recording, Erin. Leak it to the press. Tell them I took the files and you were just helping me hide. At least then people will buy tickets."

I pulled my hand out of my pocket and let it drop to my side.

"The recording belongs to you, Lucy," I said. "When you're ready to stand up and tell your story, the floor is yours. Until then, you are not my marketing strategy."

"But the staff -- "

"We're taking down the ticketing portal," I interrupted, turning to Macy.

Macy blinked. "If we don't sell tickets, how do we buy tomorrow's produce?"

"We change who we invite," I said, pulling a notepad from my apron.

"Pull the vendor logs from the Foster charity galas over the last three years. Find the independent female bakers, the small florists who got squeezed on price, the staff they quietly fired. We invite them."

Macy's eyes widened. "A private guest list?"

"We set one long table down the center of the room," I said. "Family-style platters. We charge seats at baseline cost -- just enough to cover food and wages. No VIP sections. No Foster social circle."

Lucy looked up, the tension in her throat easing slightly. "You really won't use the audio?"

"Not until you tell me to," I promised.

Daniel stepped out from the reception office, holding a plastic keycard. He walked straight up to Lucy.

"Room 412 is off the main camera grid and has an independent stairwell exit," Daniel said, handing it to her. "It's secure. No one goes up there without passing my front desk."

Lucy took the card with a quiet nod and headed for the elevators.

Macy grabbed her phone, her focus snapping back. "If the Foster suppliers are blacklisting us, I'll call the independent family farms on the county line. If we pay cash on delivery, they'll bring us root vegetables and poultry by morning."

"Book them," I said.

For the rest of the day, we prepped.

We broke down heritage chickens, roasted root vegetables, and assembled wooden planks across sawhorses in the center of the lobby.

By ten that night, the seats were fully claimed by women who had run businesses in the shadows of the Foster monopoly for years.

At midnight, a notification pinged on Macy's tablet.

"Erin," Macy called out, her brow furrowed. "A new reservation just came through our private link. Paid in full for two."

I walked over and looked at the screen.

The name on the digital ticket was Evelyn Foster.

A second later, Macy's phone buzzed with an alert from a local society blog: a leaked screenshot of Evelyn's reservation, already trending with the caption:

Foster Matriarch to Confront Disgraced Daughter-in-Law at Rogue Pop-Up.