Chapter 7 - The New Menu
The bell chimed again, louder this time.
Arthur Sterling walked through the door, flanked by two junior attorneys carrying slim leather cases. He was wearing an impeccably tailored trench coat, and his cigar was finally lit, sending a thin, blue ring of aromatic smoke toward the tin ceiling tiles.
He didn't even glance at Brett, who was standing by the counter like a discarded coat rack.
“Mrs. Holloway,” Sterling said, stopping a respectful distance from the prep table. “I see you’re already at work.”
“Dough doesn't wait for venture capitalists, Mr. Sterling,” Audrey replied, wiping her hands on a clean linen cloth. “If you’re here to talk about the investment terms for Opal & Son, my terms are non-negotiable: seventy percent equity stays with the family trust, zero tolerance for corporate mismanagement, and no marketing directors named Sierra.”
Sterling let out a short, barking laugh that sounded surprisingly genuine. He reached into his briefcase, pulled out a thick, leather-bound contract, and slid it across the flour-dusted counter.
“Terms accepted,” Sterling said. “Frankly, after seeing how efficiently you and your son dismantled a three-million-dollar fraud operation in thirty seconds during a black-tie gala, my partners and I wouldn’t dare argue with your margins.”
Brett made a choked, pathetic sound from the corner. “Arthur—you can't do this! That's my company! I own the trademark—”
“Actually, Mr. Holloway,” Sterling said, finally turning his head to look at Brett with cold, corporate indifference, “our legal team spent the last four hours auditing the trademark filings. Every single recipe, logo, and brand name associated with Holloway House was registered under an intellectual property holding trust controlled exclusively by Audrey Finch in 2018. You don’t own the company, Mr. Holloway. You were merely an employee who forgot to pay rent.”
Brett opened his mouth, but no sound came out. The last remaining pillar of his manufactured reality collapsed right there on the worn wooden floorboards of the bakery.
Without another word, Brett turned around, pushed open the front door, and vanished into the cold Chicago morning mist, disappearing down Clark Street like a ghost that had finally run out of stories to tell.
May you like
Micah stepped out from the back pantry, carrying a tray of freshly rolled croissants that looked as uniform and professional as any pastry chef in Paris could produce. He set the tray down on the counter next to his mother, looked at the multi-million-dollar contract sitting on the flour, and gave a slow, approving nod.
“Not bad for a Tuesday,” the boy said.
