Money Is Power

The look of shock on Lydia’s face was palpable. I wanted to see it often, her surprise at someone telling her no. I had a feeling people didn’t refuse her very often. I mean, the smile on her face didn’t disappear. It just froze.

Eddie didn’t react. He leaned back slowly, fingers lacing together on the table. “We haven’t named a price yet.”

“It wouldn’t matter,” I said.

Mr. Hubert shifted behind me. I could feel his unease without looking at him.

Lydia leaned forward then, her voice gentle. “Ren, listen, I truly love this dish,” she began, her eyes drifting toward Eddie. “It reflects so much of what I’ve been feeling. It’s full of warmth, of something that feels like home, and a kind of tenderness – the kind that wraps around you when everything else feels uncertain.” She paused. “When I found out I was pregnant, I was terrified. I didn’t know what I was feeling or what any of it meant. But that dish –” her voice softened. “it was the first thing I tasted that made me feel like everything was going to be okay. Like I wasn’t alone in it.”

She paused again, collecting herself.

“It felt like peace. I needed to stop being afraid and just accept what was coming.” Her voice swayed.

Eddie, sitting beside her, watched her with an expression I didn’t recognize because of how vulnerable and in love he looked.

I’d spent three whole years with this man and I had never seen that look on his face. Not once.

As I watched them, I felt like an outsider watching two people weather something together. But I wasn’t an outsider. I had been his partner. His fiancée.

And somehow, none of it moved me. What a shame.

“Ren, this dish tells so much of my story,” Lydia continued, her eyes steady on mine. “I really feel like I understand what you were trying to say when you created it. And wouldn’t it be something – to sell it to someone who actually felt it the way you meant it?”

She spoke as if that should be enough to convince anyone.

It made a certain kind of sense – if you were going to sell a recipe, it might as well go to someone who understood it.

But I wanted to laugh.

Because that dish was never about peace. It was never about the joy of new beginnings or the warmth of acceptance.

It was the story of the day I decided to abandon the career my parents chose for me because I realized they already abandoned me. Of standing at my kitchen counter at two in the morning with nowhere to put what I was feeling, pressing all of it – the grief, the fury – into the slow heat of a pan until it transformed into something beautiful.

It was the story of losing myself.

And now Lydia Warren, sitting here with her fake tears and her soft voice, was trying to fold my pain into her love story. To take what had broken me and make it mean something for her.

The irony of it all made me laugh. Loudly.

Eddie’s eyes narrowed.

Lydia looked stunned. Then offended. And that offended Eddie.

“Ren,” Eddie growled a warning. “If this recipe was ever listed, it means at some point you considered selling it. Now you’ve changed your mind. That either means you don’t like the buyer – or you don’t like the price.”

He looked straight at me, but my sunglasses gave nothing away.

“A chef of your caliber can command a serious number,” he continued. “With full exclusivity rights, I’d put it at ten million. I believe that is more than fair.”

I laughed even harder.

Ten million. For a recipe.

I knew that number had nothing to do with the dish. He wasn’t paying for the Bolube Gratte. He was paying for her. For the woman carrying his child, sitting beside him with tears drying on her cheeks.

I laughed until my sides hurt.

Lydia looked confused, then quietly furious.

“Ren,” she said, her voice instantly warming up. “That is already an extraordinarily generous offer. I’m planning to feature this dish at the launch of our restaurant – a concept we’re calling The Ember Table. It’s been generating quite a lot of attention already.” She lifted her chin slightly. “I want the Bolube Gratte to be the signature dish. The one people remember.”

She kept talking.

But Mr. Hubert had heard enough.

He stepped forward. “She’s already given you her answer, Mr. Quinn. She doesn’t want to sell it.”

Eddie didn’t move. He stayed exactly where he was, eyes cool, posture easy. Even seated, he had a way of filling a room.

I reached over and touched Mr. Hubert’s arm lightly.

He looked at me.

“It’s alright,” I said. “I’ll sell it.”

Surprise flickered across Mr. Hubert’s face, though he quickly smoothed it over. Lydia’s lips parted. Then she smiled, reaching immediately for Eddie’s arm.

Down, I knew this was something Mr. Hubert had quietly been hoping for. He had called me here for a reason and this outcome – messy as the road to it had been – was probably close to what he’d had in mind.

Still, my easy agreement had caught him off guard. Convincing me in private was something he had actually prepared for.

He studied my expression from the corner of his eye, searching for some clue about what I was actually thinking.

My sunglasses gave him nothing either.

“Let’s get the paperwork started,” I said clearly.

I had no intention of explaining myself with Eddie and Lydia sitting right there. I kept my eyes forward, my voice steady. “Saffron will represent me on this. Everything goes through the standard process.” I glanced at Mr. Hubert once, just long enough to make my meaning clear.

He caught it and nodded briefly to one of his staff, signaling them to begin. There was a flash of emotion crossed Lydia’s face as she looked me over.

“Well,” she said lightly, her tone carrying just enough edge to sting. “that was… quite the change of heart. It seems money does have its power after all.”

I said nothing back. Keeping my face glued straight ahead, I rose from my seat and walked out of the room without another word.