I never told my husband’s family I owned the Michelin-star restaurant group they were dying to get a reservation at. To them, I was just an “unemployed cook.” At Thanksgiving, my sister-in-law spat my gravy into a napkin and laughed, “This tastes like dog food. Order a pizza.” The table roared with laughter. I wiped my mouth, stood up, and texted my general manager. “Cancel their reservation for tonight,” I said aloud. “And tell security not to let them in.” When her phone buzzed with the cancellation notice, the laughter stopped instantly.

“Elena,” Beatrice said, her voice dripping with sudden, sickening sweetness. “Darling. We were just joking! You know how we are. We have a dry sense of humor! Of course the gravy is delicious. Now that I taste it again… mmm! Exquisite!”

She took a spoon and shoveled a mouthful of cold gravy into her mouth, forcing a smile.

“Chloe,” David hissed. “Apologize.”

Chloe looked at me. She looked at her phone with the banned notification. She looked at the expensive dress she had bought specifically for Lumière.

“I… I didn’t mean it,” Chloe stammered. “I was just… hangry. Can you fix it? Please? My friends are going to be there. If I don’t show up, I’ll look like a loser.”

“You are a loser, Chloe,” I said.

I walked to the sideboard and picked up my purse.

“And I’m not fixing anything. The ban stands. You insulted my craft. You insulted my staff—because I am the staff. And frankly, I don’t want you in my restaurant. You lower the property value.”

Part 5: Pizza and Departure

I took a twenty-dollar bill out of my wallet. I crumpled it up and tossed it onto the table. It landed right in the middle of the turkey carcass.