One of the women opened her navy folder.
“This.”
She pushed it toward me.
I didn’t touch it.
I had already seen it.
Instead I asked, “How much did you invest?”
Beatrice snapped, “That’s private.”
The woman answered anyway.
“One hundred and fifty thousand.”
Another voice came from farther down.
“I invested ninety.”
A third said, “Two hundred.”
My stomach tightened.
I stood slowly.
“How many of you invested money with Beatrice or Lucas?”
At first, nobody raised a hand.
Then one.
Then three.
Then twelve.
Then nearly every woman at the table.
Thirty-four hands.
I heard Gavin swear softly behind the bar.
“How much?” I asked.
Beatrice slammed her palm against the table.
“Enough.”
I looked at her.
“No, Beatrice. Not nearly.”
Her face changed.
The charming mother-in-law disappeared.
“Don’t embarrass yourself.”
I almost laughed.
“Myself?”
“You have no idea how business works at this level.”
That sentence did something to me.
Maybe because I remembered sixteen-year-old me scrubbing burned grease from pans.
Maybe because I remembered sleeping four hours a night while opening Lumina.
Maybe because Beatrice had spent years telling people I merely cooked in a restaurant her son supposedly bought me.
I unbuttoned my chef’s jacket.
Underneath, I wore a simple black blouse.
Then I placed the jacket across the chair so the embroidery faced her.
“Explain it to me.”
Her jaw tightened.
“What?”
“Business.”
The dining room had become so quiet I could hear silverware in the kitchen.
“You’ve told these women Lucas owns Lumina.”
“He is your husband.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“In California, marriage means shared assets.”
“Sometimes.”
Her expression sharpened.
I opened the folder I had asked Gavin to bring from my office.
The first document landed on the table.
“My corporation was formed fourteen months before Lucas and I married.”
Second page.
“Original capital contribution: mine.”
Third.
“Restaurant lease: mine.”
Fourth.
“Trademark registration: mine.”
Fifth.
“Premarital agreement, section seven.”
I pushed it toward her.
Any independently owned business and all appreciation thereof remained separate property.
Beatrice didn’t touch the page.
I looked around the table.
“Lucas Mercer owns zero percent of Lumina.”
Someone inhaled sharply.
I continued.
“Beatrice Mercer owns zero percent.”
Her face drained of color.
“And Lumina Coastal Hospitality Group has absolutely no legal relationship with this restaurant.”
Now the room erupted.
“What?”
“You said—”
“What do you mean?”
“My money—”
Beatrice raised both hands.
“Everybody calm down.”
I looked at the silver-haired woman who had asked about me earlier.
“How much did you invest?”
“Three hundred thousand.”
My throat tightened.
“What is your name?”
“Evelyn Hart.”
“Ms. Hart, I am sorry. But no money invested with Beatrice Mercer or Lucas Mercer ever reached Lumina.”
Beatrice laughed.
It was too loud.
