Chapter 3

I arrived at Veridian forty minutes early, the way I always did.

The restaurant was quiet in the pre-service calm. Morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the pristine white tablecloths and crystal stemware. Everything in its place. Everything perfect.

I’d left Maya’s apartment at six, showered and dressed in my most professional outfit. Navy sheath dress. Low heels. Hair pulled back in a neat bun. Makeup applied with extra care to hide the puffiness around my eyes.

Nobody would know I’d spent last night crying into a pint of ice cream.

Veridian wasn’t just a restaurant. It was an institution. Two Michelin stars, a waiting list months long, and a reputation built on excellence in both culinary artistry and flawless event execution. The main dining room served sixty covers nightly, each meal a carefully orchestrated performance. But the real money came from our events division, where wealthy clients paid obscene amounts for weddings, corporate galas, and anniversary celebrations in our private spaces.

I was one of three events managers, responsible for transforming client dreams into reality while maintaining the exacting standards Jacques Laurent demanded. Every detail mattered. Every napkin fold, every flower arrangement, every perfectly timed course. One mistake could cost us a client. Multiple mistakes could cost me my job.

I set my bag in my small office off the main dining room and booted up my computer. The Sanderson tasting was at eleven. Before then, I had emails to answer, vendor confirmations to send, and the final walkthrough for the Rodríguez anniversary party scheduled for Friday.

Work. Structure. Control.

The things I could manage when everything else was chaos.

“You’re here early.”

I looked up to find Marcus Chen, the restaurant’s general manager, standing in my doorway. He was a compact man in his fifties with silver hair and an expression of perpetual concern.

“The Sanderson tasting is today,” I said. “I wanted to make sure everything was perfect.”

“About the Sanderson wedding.” Marcus stepped into the office and closed the door behind him. “We need to talk.”

Something cold settled in my stomach. “Is there a problem?”

“Mrs. Sanderson called this morning. At six thirty.” Marcus sat in the chair across from my desk. “She’s canceling the wedding.”

“What? The wedding is in three weeks. Everything is confirmed. The deposit is non-refundable and—”

“She doesn’t care about the deposit.”

I stared at him. The Sanderson wedding was a fifty-person affair with a budget approaching six figures. The kind of event Veridian built its reputation on.

The kind of event that earned me bonuses and glowing reviews.

“Why would she cancel?”

Marcus shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. “She cited concerns about professionalism. Specifically, your professionalism.”

The words hit me like a slap. “My professionalism? I’ve handled every detail of her wedding personally. Every phone call, every tasting, every menu revision. What possible concern could she have?”

“She wouldn’t give specifics on the phone. Said she’d been made aware of some personal issues making her question your ability to execute her vision.” Marcus held up a hand before I could interrupt. “I told her you’re our best events manager. Veridian stands behind your work completely. She wasn’t interested in hearing it.”

My mind raced. Personal issues. The only personal issue I had was—

No.

“Did she say who told her about these supposed personal issues?”

“No. But Diana, I have to ask.” Marcus leaned forward, his expression sympathetic but firm. “Is there anything going on in your personal life right now? Anything affecting your work?”

“Nothing is affecting my work.”

“Because if you need time off, we can arrange—”

“I don’t need time off. I need to understand why a client is making false accusations about my professionalism.” I heard the edge in my voice and forced myself to breathe. “I’ve never been anything but professional with Mrs. Sanderson. I’ve accommodated every request, every change, every last-minute revision. My work is impeccable.”

“I know. I know it is.” Marcus rubbed his temples. “But the optics are bad, Diana. A major client canceling three weeks out, citing concerns about you specifically. Mr. Laurent is furious. He’s already talking about reviewing our events protocols.”

Mr. Laurent. The restaurant owner. A perfectionist who measured success in Michelin stars and social media mentions.

“I’ll call Mrs. Sanderson myself,” I said. “I’ll find out what this is about and fix it.”

“She specifically said she doesn’t want to speak with you. She’s working with Simone now to handle the cancellation details.”

Simone. Simone Beaumont, the other events manager. The one who’d been angling for my position since she was hired two years ago.

“Let me guess. Simone is very sorry about the situation.”

“She’s being professional about it.”

Which meant Simone was thrilled.

Marcus stood. “I’m not saying I don’t believe in you, Diana. Your track record speaks for itself. But we can’t afford another incident like this. Veridian’s reputation depends on client satisfaction. Both in the dining room and in our events services. If there’s anything going on in your personal life, you need to tell me now so we can get ahead of it.”

My phone buzzed on my desk. A text message lit up the screen.

“Heard about the Sanderson wedding. Such a shame when personal drama interferes with professional obligations. Hope you land on your feet. - Genevieve”

The breath left my lungs.

Genevieve.

Mrs. Sanderson was friends with Patricia, Genevieve’s mother. They served on the same charity boards. Attended the same galas. Of course. Of course Genevieve would go there.

“Diana?” Marcus was watching me. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” I forced my expression into something neutral. “I understand your concerns. You have my word this won’t happen again.”

“Good. Because Mr. Laurent wants to see you in his office at ten.”

The cold in my stomach turned to ice. “What for?”

“To discuss the situation. And your future here.” Marcus moved toward the door, then paused. “For what it’s worth, I hope this is a misunderstanding. You’re talented, Diana. Don’t let whatever is happening outside these walls destroy what you’ve built here.”

He left, closing the door softly behind him.

I sat alone in my office, staring at Genevieve’s text message.

Three years ago, when I’d started at Veridian, I’d been desperate to prove myself. To show my father I was capable of success without his name or his money. I’d worked sixty-hour weeks, taken on the clients no one else wanted, learned every aspect of the business until I could execute a flawless event in my sleep.

Veridian had become my identity. The place where Diana Pembroke mattered.

And now Genevieve was taking something from me. Again.

I deleted the text and pulled up Mrs. Sanderson’s file. Three months of correspondence. Menu selections. Floral arrangements. Seating charts. Everything documented, professional, perfect.

There was nothing here to justify the cancellation. Nothing except lies whispered by someone who wanted to hurt me.

I drafted an email to Mrs. Sanderson, carefully worded, apologizing for any misunderstanding and offering to discuss concerns. I read it five times before hitting send.

Then I opened a new browser window and started searching.

Genevieve Pembroke social media

My stepsister’s I*******m appeared, a carefully curated gallery of privilege. Photos from last night’s dinner at some trendy restaurant. A selfie with Leo, his arm around her waist, both of them smiling like they’d won the lottery.

The caption read: When you know, you know. Sometimes the best things come from unexpected places.

One thousand, five hundred likes already.

Comments gushing about how beautiful they looked together. How happy. How right.

My hands shook as I scrolled through the photos. There, three posts down, was one from two days ago. A group shot at some charity luncheon. Mrs. Sanderson stood in the background, champagne glass raised.

Genevieve’s caption: Amazing afternoon supporting arts education with these incredible women. Grateful for mentors who teach us about grace under pressure.

Grace under pressure. A direct shot at my supposed lack thereof.

Someone knocked on my office door.

“Come in.”

Simone Beaumont swept in wearing her usual uniform of black dress and expensive jewelry. She was French, thirty-eight, and had the kind of effortless elegance I’d spent years trying to emulate.

“Diana. I heard about the Sanderson situation. I’m so sorry.”

The sympathy in her voice was paper-thin.

“Thank you, Simone.”

“If there’s anything I should know about the event details, I’m happy to take over. I wouldn’t want any loose ends to reflect poorly on Veridian.” Simone perched on the edge of my desk, invading my space. “Of course, Mrs. Sanderson has already decided to cancel entirely. Such a shame. But these things happen when personal problems bleed into professional life.”

“My personal problems have nothing to do with my work.”

“No? Then why would a valued client suddenly question your professionalism?” Simone tilted her head, false concern dripping from every word. “Between you and me, people are talking. About your broken engagement. About some incident with your stepsister. You know how small our world is, Diana. Reputation is everything.”

“Who’s talking?”

“Everyone.” Simone shrugged delicately. “But don’t worry. I’m sure Mr. Laurent will be understanding when you meet with him. He values loyalty. Even when employees go through difficult personal circumstances.”

She stood, smoothing her dress.

“One piece of advice, from a friend. You might want to consider taking some time off. Let things settle. Come back when you’re in a better headspace.” Simone smiled, the expression not reaching her eyes. “We all need breaks sometimes.”

She left before I could respond.

I sat in my office, surrounded by the evidence of my success. Awards on the wall. Thank-you cards from satisfied clients. A framed photo of the Ashford wedding, my first major solo event.

All of it felt suddenly fragile.

My phone buzzed again. Another text from an unknown number.

“This is just the beginning. You should have been nicer. - G”

My hands clenched into fists.

Genevieve wasn’t done. This wasn’t about Leo or jealousy or even cruelty for its own sake. This was systematic destruction. Genevieve had taken my fiancé, alienated my father, and now she was coming for my career.

The one thing I had left.

At nine forty-five, I walked to Mr. Laurent’s office on the second floor. My heels clicked against the polished hardwood. Each step felt like walking toward an execution.

The door was open. Jacques Laurent sat behind his massive mahogany desk, reading something on his computer screen. He was sixty, intimidating, and had once made a sous chef cry for over-seasoning a reduction.

“Ms. Pembroke. Come in. Close the door.”

I obeyed, settling into the chair across from him. I kept my spine straight, my expression neutral.

“I’m sure Marcus explained the situation,” Laurent said without preamble.

“He did. And I want to assure you—”

“The Sanderson wedding represented significant revenue for Veridian. More importantly, Mrs. Sanderson has influence. Her opinion matters in the circles we serve.” Laurent closed his laptop and fixed me with a cold stare. “I cannot afford to have my events manager become a liability.”

“I understand. But sir, the accusations are baseless. My work has always been—”

“Your work has been excellent. Until now.” He leaned back in his chair. “I received a phone call this morning from Patricia Pembroke. She expressed concern about your current mental state. Said you’d recently experienced a breakdown resulting in violence against your sister.”

My blood ran cold. Patricia. Genevieve’s mother. Of course.

“With respect, sir, my stepmother is lying. What happened was—”

“She said you slapped Genevieve. In front of your fiancé. During some kind of emotional episode.”

“My fiancé was sleeping with my stepsister. I discovered them together and yes, I slapped Genevieve. Once. After she deliberately provoked me.” I fought to keep my voice level. “Whatever Patricia told you is a distorted version of events designed to make me look unstable.”

“So you admit you struck someone.”

“In a moment of extreme emotional distress, yes. But it has nothing to do with my ability to do my job.”

Laurent was quiet for a long moment, studying me. “I built Veridian’s reputation on excellence. On discretion. On the understanding our staff represents the restaurant at all times, in all circumstances. What you do in your personal life reflects on us. Both our culinary division and our events services.”

“I understand. And I promise—”

“I’m issuing a formal reprimand.”

The words landed heavy between us.

“A reprimand?”

“Yes. It will go in your file. Consider this your warning, Ms. Pembroke.” Laurent’s expression was granite. “You are a talented events manager. Your work speaks for itself. But talent means nothing if clients lose confidence in you. Any further complaints, any hint of impropriety, and your employment will be terminated immediately.”

I swallowed hard. “I understand.”

“Do you? Because from where I’m sitting, you seem to be in the middle of some personal crisis. I need to know you can separate your private life from your professional responsibilities.”

“I can. I will.”

“See that you do.” He opened his laptop, dismissing me. “Marcus will monitor your performance closely over the next few weeks. Prove to me this was an isolated incident.”

“Thank you, Mr. Laurent. I won’t let you down.”

He didn’t look up. “That remains to be seen.”

I stood on shaking legs and walked out of the office. The hallway felt too bright, too narrow. I made it to the bathroom before the tears started.

I locked myself in a stall and pressed my hands against my eyes, willing myself not to cry. Not here. Not where someone might hear.

A formal reprimand. In my file. A permanent black mark on a record I’d kept spotless for three years.

My phone buzzed.

Another text from Genevieve. This time, a photo. Me and Leo at last year’s holiday party, smiling at the camera. Genevieve had drawn devil horns on my head.

The caption: Remember when you thought you had it all?

I stared at the photo until it blurred.

This was war. Genevieve had declared war, and I had no weapons. No allies. No defense against someone willing to destroy my reputation with lies.

I thought about calling my father. Confronting him with what Genevieve was doing. But I already knew how that conversation would end. He’d chosen Genevieve. He’d always chosen Genevieve.

I deleted the photo and walked back to my office.

My computer screen showed a calendar full of events I now had to execute perfectly. One mistake and I was done. The Rodriguez anniversary on Friday. The Whitaker corporate dinner next week. The Morrison wedding at the end of the month.

Each one a test I couldn’t afford to fail.

I’d lost Leo. Lost my home. Lost my father’s affection, if I’d ever had it.

And now my career hung by a thread, held hostage by my stepsister’s malicious games.

I sat at my desk and wondered how much more I could lose before there was nothing left.

I didn’t know I was about to find out.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​