Chapter 6 - The Price of Dignity
Back in the cold silence of my Industrial Boulevard kitchen, Julian Vance’s voice came through my phone with absolute clarity.
"I asked you a question, Miss Holloway," Vance repeated. "Why is your portfolio being used to sell a one-hundred-and-twenty-thousand-dollar investment to a girl who looks like she’s never held an eight-inch chef's knife in her life?"
I leaned against the prep table, swirling the cold coffee in my cup.
"Because, Mr. Vance," I said calmly, "my sister specializes in appearances. I specialize in execution. And my mother believes that appearances are the only thing worth paying for."
On the other end of the line, there was a long pause, followed by a dry, gravelly chuckle.
"I see," Vance said. "So Eleanor and Sienna pushed you into the kitchen like a ghostwriter, took your labor, stamped Sienna’s face on the dust jacket, and locked you out when the cameras started flashing."
"Pretty much," I said. "Except they forgot that a recipe is only half the battle. The finish requires technique."
"The wagyu is inedible," Vance stated bluntly. "The sauce is an embarrassment. And the cake looks like a seismic event occurred in a bakery. The guests are murmuring, the food critics at table six are writing notes in their pocketbooks, and your sister is currently having a panic attack in the banquet corridor."
"That sounds like a management issue for *Sienna Social Dining*," I said coolly.
"I agree," Vance replied. "Which is why I haven't signed the check. But I have one hundred and fifty high-profile guests in this room, Paige. People whose opinions dictate restaurant funding in this city for the next decade. If this night ends in a total farce, it taints the Holloway name permanently—including yours."
"My business is an independent LLC," I said without missing a beat. "My name isn't on that menu. My sister made sure of that."
"Then let's put it on the menu," Vance said.
I paused. "Excuse me?"
"I have the sauce pans held back in the kitchen," Vance said, his business acumen taking over. "The hotel executive chef tells me there’s an unopened chilled container in your catering van. He says whatever is in that container could salvage the entire second seating of ribs if it’s emulsified with sweet cream butter at eighty degrees within the next twenty minutes."
"It could," I admitted. "I designed the demi-glace base to be reconstituted in eight minutes flat."
"Bring it," Vance said. "Come back to the St. Regis."
"No."
Brooke gasped beside me. Vance went quiet on the line.
"No?" Vance repeated, sounding genuinely intrigued. "Young lady, do you know who I am? I don't ask twice."
"With all due respect, Mr. Vance, I don't care who you are," I replied, my voice steady and unwavering. "Thirty minutes ago, my mother stood in that hallway and told me I smelled like garbage. She told me I wasn't welcome because I'm just a hired line cook who would embarrass the family. I spent four thousand seven hundred dollars of my own operating savings to buy the ingredients for that dinner. My sister owes me for the food, my mother owes me for thirty-one hours of labor, and both of them treated me like dirt under their designer shoes."
"How much?" Vance asked simply.
"It’s not just about the money, Mr. Vance. It’s about respect."
"I asked how much to get you back in this kitchen, right now, with your sauce."
I looked over at Brooke. Brooke gave me a fierce, nod of encouragement.
"Five thousand dollars wired directly to my account within five minutes to cover the food costs," I said clearly. "Plus a three-thousand-dollar emergency executive consulting fee. And one more thing."
"Name it," Vance said.
"When I walk into that ballroom," I said, "Sienna steps down from the podium. Eleanor does not speak to me. And you announce to every single person in that room who actually created the food they are eating."
On the other end of the phone, Julian Vance laughed—a loud, booming, appreciative sound that echoed off the hotel walls.
May you like
"Done," Vance said. "Check your account in two minutes. And Paige? Wear your apron. Real chefs don't need silk gowns to command a room."
***
