Part 2: "Leave the food, Paige. You're not invited," my mother snapped, blocking the ballroom after I'd cooked for thirty-one hours. My blistered fingers gripped a silver tray while 150 guests applauded my sister for stealing my recipes. Behind her glittering smile was a $120,000 lie. I walked away without arguing. Three hours later, Mom called seventeen times, begging me to return....

The phone screen lit up with a notification from my banking app:

*Wire Transfer Received: $8,000.00 from Vance Hospitality Group LLC.*

Brooke screamed and grabbed my shoulders, shaking me violently. "Eight grand! Paige, you just charged Julian Vance eight thousand dollars for twenty minutes of work!"

"No," I said, untying my hair and pulling it back into a tight, professional braid. "I charged him for ten years of culinary experience, five hours of butchering, and thirty-one hours of sweat. Grab the cold-storage trunk from the back of the van, Brooke. We’re going back."

"Should I bring the knives?" Brooke grinned.

"Bring the Japanese Damascus steel set," I said. "We have a cake to salvage."

Fifteen minutes later, my battered catering van screeched to a halt at the main guest entrance of the St. Regis—not the service loading dock, but right beneath the grand crystal portico where the valets were parking Bentleys and Porches.

The valet attendant jogged over, looking flustered. "Ma'am, delivery vehicles must use the alley—"

"Step aside," I said, stepping out of the vehicle.

I wasn't the tired, apologetic daughter who had skulked down the hallway an hour ago. I was wearing my pristine, double-breasted white executive chef’s jacket with my name embroidered in dark navy thread: *Paige Holloway, Executive Chef*. Over it, I wore my father’s dark canvas apron, tied firmly around my waist.

Brooke walked behind me, carrying the insulated stainless steel canister containing thirty quarts of rich, gelatin-packed port wine reduction.

We walked straight through the revolving glass doors, past the marble lobby, and marched down the gilded corridor toward the ballroom.

As we approached the grand doors, Eleanor was pacing back and forth on the plush carpet, her hands twisting her pearl necklace so tightly I thought the string would snap. Sienna was leaning against a marble pillar, her face blotchy from crying, mascara streaked down her cheeks.

When Eleanor saw me, relief washed over her face, instantly followed by fury.

"Paige!" Eleanor hissed, marching toward me. "Where have you been?! You had the audacity to demand money from Julian Vance?! Do you know how humiliated Sienna has been tonight?!"

I didn't stop walking. I didn't even slow down.

"Out of my way, Eleanor," I said, my tone ice-cold.

She recoiled, shocked by the use of her first name. "What did you call me?!"

Sienna rushed forward, her golden dress rustling. "Paige, you have to help me! Vance told the investors to wait! He told them if dinner isn't fixed in twenty minutes, he’s pulling the funding and reporting *Sienna Social Dining* to the Chamber of Commerce for business fraud! You have to tell them it was your fault—tell them there was a kitchen miscommunication!"

I stopped and looked down at my little sister.

For the first time in my life, I didn't see the golden child who had outshone me in every family photo. I saw a frightened, talentless girl who had built a paper castle on someone else’s foundation and was now watching it burn.

"You wanted to be an executive chef, Sienna," I said softly, loud enough for the passing hotel staff to hear. "Executive chefs don't cry in hallways when the sauce breaks. They get on the line and fix it. But you can't, can you? Because you don't even know what an emulsion is."

"Paige, please—" Sienna whimpered, reaching out to touch my arm.

"Don't touch me," I said, stepping back. "You stole my work. You tried to build your career on my back while leaving me in the dirt. Now watch how a real chef works."

I pushed open the ballroom kitchen doors and stepped inside.

The banquet kitchen was in utter chaos. The hotel line cooks were shouting, pans were clattering, and the hotel’s executive chef was sweating through his uniform, staring hopelessly at the collapsed tiers of the sugar cake.

"Everyone shut up and listen!" Julian Vance’s voice cut through the noise like a gunshot.

He was standing at the end of the pass, sleeves rolled up, watching the door. When he saw me enter with Brooke, a slow smirk crossed his face.