“You’re the chef. I’m the guy who convinces people to give us money.”
Laughter.
Then a photograph of the original incorporation celebration.
Audrey beside Brett.
Holding a document.
The caption Micah had added read:
AUDREY FINCH HOLLOWAY — CO-FOUNDER
The ballroom became very quiet.
Brett’s printed program had called him the singular vision.
Micah’s video called Audrey what the original documents did.
Co-founder.
Then the final slide appeared.
A close photograph of Opal.
Gold wheat brooch on her dress.
Beneath it:
SOME THINGS SHOULD NEVER BE TAKEN FROM THE WOMEN WHO BUILT THEM.
Audrey stopped breathing.
“Micah.”
He looked suddenly less brave.
“Too much?”
Before she could answer, applause began.
Not polite applause.
Real.
Someone stood.
Then another.
Employees from the first restaurant.
Old vendors.
A sous-chef Audrey hired nine years earlier.
Within seconds, half the ballroom was standing.
Not for Brett.
For her.
Audrey covered her face.
Across the room, Sierra looked like she wanted the floor to open.
And Brett—
Brett stared directly at his son.
For the first time that night, he looked afraid.
Not because Micah had embarrassed him.
Because if a twelve-year-old had found those old files—
Audrey might find the new ones.
And Brett knew exactly what he had hidden there.
—
