Chapter 2 - The Envelope They Hid
Grace stared at the envelope in her mother's hand.
Her father's handwriting was unmistakable.
Grace.
Nothing else.
No surname.
No date.
Just her name.
“Give it to me,” Grace said.
Evelyn tightened her fingers around it.
Adrian stepped between them.
“This has nothing to do with Vale.”
Dominic remained near the doorway.
“I agree.”
Adrian looked relieved.
Then Dominic added, “It has everything to do with Grace.”
Grace held out her hand.
“Mom.”
Evelyn's eyes filled.
That almost made Grace angrier.
“Please don't cry now.”
Her mother flinched.
Grace kept her hand extended.
“You had years.”
Evelyn gave her the envelope.
The paper was yellowed slightly at the edges.
It had been opened.
Grace noticed that immediately.
“Who opened this?”
Nobody answered.
She looked at Adrian.
“Who opened it?”
“Dad's attorney.”
“Then why is it here?”
“Because it wasn't legally binding.”
Grace removed the letter.
Three pages.
Her father's handwriting covered the first two.
The third contained columns of figures.
Grace began reading.
My Gracie,
If you're reading this, then either I finally found the courage to tell your brother what he doesn't want to hear, or I ran out of time.
Grace stopped.
Her throat tightened.
Dominic said nothing.
She continued.
Your brother understands money.
Vanessa understands attention.
You understand the bakery.
That is why I made a mistake.
I assumed the person who loved the work most would never leave it, so I protected everyone except you.
Grace pressed her lips together.
She remembered her father in the hospital.
Thin.
Gray.
Still asking whether the croissants had proofed properly.
She read on.
The bakery survived because of your recipes and your labor. I have documented the products you created and the accounts directly attributable to them. I instructed Martin Hale to establish a royalty agreement in your name.
Grace looked up.
“Royalty agreement?”
Adrian stared at the floor.
Dominic's eyes narrowed.
Grace continued reading.
Beginning January 1 following my death, Grace is to receive twelve percent of gross wholesale revenue from products created from her formulas, separate from salary and inheritance.
Her hands began trembling.
Their father had died six years ago.
Grace had never received royalties.
Not once.
She looked at Adrian.
“How much?”
He said nothing.
“How much money?”
Vanessa stepped in.
“It isn't what you think.”
“Then tell me what to think.”
“The agreement wasn't properly executed.”
“Was it signed?”
Silence.
“Was it signed?”
Evelyn whispered, “Yes.”
Grace closed her eyes.
Dominic's voice came quietly.
“Do you have counsel?”
Grace opened her eyes.
“No.”
“You do now.”
Adrian snapped, “Stay out of this.”
Dominic looked almost amused.
“You asked my company for eighteen million dollars. You made your internal operations my business.”
Eighteen million.
Grace nearly laughed.
Her family had been negotiating an eighteen-million-dollar investment while telling her the bakery could not afford to increase her salary.
Her salary.
Seventy-four thousand dollars.
After ten years.
Last Christmas, Adrian had purchased a second home in Connecticut.
Vanessa drove a new Range Rover.
Grace rented a two-bedroom apartment above a laundromat.
Something changed inside her.
Not greed.
Clarity.
“Where is Martin Hale?”
Evelyn answered.
“Retired.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Grace—”
“Where?”
“Westchester.”
Dominic's assistant was already typing.
Grace looked at him.
He gave a small nod.
“We'll find him.”
Adrian laughed bitterly.
“Wonderful. So now you're helping her sue her own family?”
Grace folded the letter carefully.
“No.”
Everyone looked at her.
“I haven't decided what I'm doing.”
Adrian relaxed slightly.
Grace continued.
“But I'm done letting you decide for me.”
She left.
Dominic followed.
Outside, Manhattan moved as if Grace's life had not just split open.
Taxis.
Delivery trucks.
People carrying coffee.
A cyclist shouting at a cab driver.
Grace stood on the sidewalk and realized she had nowhere to go.
She normally worked until seven.
Sometimes nine.
Her entire daily routine had vanished in twenty minutes.
Dominic's black SUV waited at the curb.
He opened the rear door.
Grace looked at him.
“I don't know you.”
“Good instinct.”
“You're asking me to get into your car.”
“Also true.”
“Why?”
“Because my office is twelve blocks away and you need a lawyer.”
“I can't afford your lawyers.”
“I didn't say you should hire mine.”
Grace studied him.
“Why are you helping me?”
Dominic's expression changed.
For the first time, the feared millionaire looked almost uncomfortable.
“Because someone helped me once.”
Grace waited.
He didn't elaborate.
She got into the car.
Twenty minutes later she was sitting in a glass conference room forty floors above Manhattan.
Dominic had changed into a dark suit.
Grace almost smiled at the absurdity.
“You own shirts.”
“I've been told.”
It was the first joke either of them made.
A woman entered.
Early fifties.
Silver-streaked black hair.
Navy suit.
Sharp eyes.
“Naomi Brooks,” she said. “Independent attorney. Dominic called me because I enjoy ruining wealthy families' afternoons.”
Grace blinked.
Naomi smiled.
“That's a joke.”
Dominic said, “Barely.”
They reviewed the letter.
Then invoices.
Then corporate filings Dominic's team already possessed from the proposed investment.
Naomi's expression grew more serious with every page.
“Grace, did you sign an intellectual-property assignment when you became an employee?”
“I don't remember.”
“Did you ever receive ownership shares?”
“No.”
“Profit distributions?”
“No.”
“Bonuses tied to wholesale growth?”
“Christmas bonus. Usually five hundred dollars.”
Naomi stopped writing.
Dominic looked toward the window.
Grace suddenly felt embarrassed.
Not because five hundred dollars was small.
Because she had always been grateful for it.
Naomi asked, “Did you develop these recipes before or after formal employment?”
“Some before.”
“Do you have notebooks?”
“Yes.”
“Dated?”
“Most.”
“Where?”
Grace froze.
“At the bakery.”
Dominic immediately looked at her.
“Can they access them?”
“Yes.”
Naomi stood.
“Get them.”
Grace grabbed her purse.
Dominic stood too.
Naomi pointed at him.
“You stay.”
He frowned.
“Why?”
“Because arriving with Dominic Vale turns retrieval into warfare. Grace needs evidence, not theater.”
Grace liked Naomi instantly.
Forty minutes later, Grace returned to Whitaker & Rose.
The front door was locked.
At three in the afternoon.
That never happened.
She used her key.
It didn't work.
They had changed the lock.
Grace knocked.
Nothing.
Then she walked around to the service entrance.
That lock had not yet been changed.
She entered.
The kitchen lights were off.
Her station had been cleared.
Grace hurried toward the office.
Her recipe cabinet stood open.
Empty.
“No.”
She pulled out drawer after drawer.
Nothing.
Ten years of notebooks were gone.
She heard footsteps.
Adrian appeared.
“You shouldn't be here.”
“Where are my notebooks?”
“Company property.”
“They're mine.”
“You wrote them while employed here.”
“Some are from culinary school.”
“You'll have to prove that.”
Grace stared at her brother.
She finally understood.
He wasn't panicking.
He had planned this.
The termination.
The investment.
The missing notebooks.
Perhaps even the timing.
“Why today?”
Adrian's face tightened.
“What?”
“Why fire me today if Dominic's meeting was tomorrow?”
He said nothing.
Grace stepped closer.
“You knew he wanted me.”
“No.”
“You knew the thirty-seven percent.”
“That doesn't mean—”
“You knew.”
Adrian looked away.
Grace's stomach turned.
“He asked for me before today.”
Silence.
“How many times?”
Adrian said nothing.
Grace whispered, “How many?”
“Three.”
Grace felt as if he had struck her.
Dominic Vale had asked for her three times.
And Adrian had hidden it.
“Why?”
“Because we were selling the company.”
The answer came from behind Grace.
Vanessa.
She stood in the doorway.
Grace turned.
Vanessa looked exhausted now.
No polished smile.
No smugness.
“We weren't asking Dominic for an investment,” Vanessa said.
“We were selling him controlling interest.”
Grace stared at her.
“And if he learned the products depended on me—”
“The valuation would depend on you.”
Adrian snapped, “Stop talking.”
Vanessa ignored him.
“He wanted a key-person clause.”
Grace didn't understand.
“What does that mean?”
“He wouldn't buy unless you were contractually required to stay.”
Grace laughed once.
A broken sound.
“So you fired me?”
Adrian stepped forward.
“I had replacement chefs. I needed to prove the company wasn't dependent on one person.”
“You mean me.”
“Yes.”
At least he finally said it.
Grace looked at the empty cabinet.
“My notebooks.”
Adrian's expression hardened.
“They're safe.”
“Give them back.”
“No.”
Grace took out her phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling Naomi.”
Adrian reached for the phone.
Grace stepped backward.
Then another voice came from the hall.
“Don't touch her.”
Dominic.
He stood at the service entrance.
Naomi beside him.
Adrian went pale.
Naomi held up a document.
“Temporary preservation notice. Anything belonging to Grace, or potentially relevant to her father's estate, stays untouched.”
Adrian laughed nervously.
“You can't just walk in here.”
Naomi smiled.
“Correct.”
She pointed behind her.
Two people entered.
One was a process server.
The other was an elderly man carrying a battered leather briefcase.
Grace recognized him from her father's funeral.
Martin Hale.
Her father's attorney.
Martin looked directly at Grace.
“I've been trying to reach you.”
Grace's heart pounded.
“Why?”
Martin opened his briefcase.
“Because the letter your mother gave you wasn't the only document your father left.”
Adrian's face went white.
Martin removed a sealed folder.
May you like
Then he looked at Grace.
“There was a second will.”
