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.

“Henri,” I said, my voice calm, authoritative, the voice I used when a line cook messed up a scallop. “I need you to access the reservation system for Lumière. Tonight. 8:00 PM.”

“Certainly, Chef. One moment.”

Chloe looked at David. “Is she prank calling someone? This is pathetic.”

“I have it,” Henri said. “The Parker Party? Or… wait, I see a VIP request for the Prescott Family. Table 6. Drinks and Dessert.”

Chloe’s eyes went wide. “How does he know my name?”

“That’s the one,” I said, staring directly at Chloe. “Cancel it.”

“Excuse me?” Henri asked, surprised. “Cancel the Prescott reservation?”

“Cancel it,” I repeated. “And Henri? Flag their profiles in the Obsidian Group database. Blacklist them from Lumière, The Black Pearl, Saffron, and The Gilded Fork. Banned for life.”

“Understood,” Henri said, his tone shifting to professional steel. “Reason for the ban?”

“Abusive behavior toward staff,” I said, looking at the napkin stained with my gravy. “Lack of culinary appreciation. And conduct unbecoming of our establishment.”

“It is done, Chef. Anything else?”