Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
NADIA
Sunday afternoon at Malakai's old bunker of a home had been enlightening and terrifying in equal measure.
Malakai had spread printouts across the table. "Elevate Events has used this playbook in three other markets. Boulder, Durango, Bend. Same pattern every time."
"Staff poaching," Chase added, tapping one of the documents. "Social media whisper campaigns. Anonymous health complaints. Then the buyout offer."
"And if the target doesn't sell?" I'd asked.
"Two folded. One's still fighting but barely hanging on." Malakai looked at me. "They're counting on you being too scared or too broke to fight back."
"What they're not counting on," Cole said, his voice carrying calm authority, "is that you've got us."
The plan was straightforward. Malakai would keep digging for legal angles, while Cole unearthed the illegal variety. The Lucky Break team and their partners would flood social media with positive reviews, drowning out the vague health concerns. We'd document everything.
Malakai and Chase would install security cameras at my commercial kitchen. Late that same night, after I'd gone home, they handled it. By Monday morning, I had four cameras covering every angle of my workspace.
"Warehouse surplus," Malakai said when I tried to pay him. "Consider it an investment in good food."
Monday and Tuesday were wall-to-wall prep work and watching the social media campaign unfold.
Amelia from the Donovan Warehouse posted about her friend's wedding shower, catered by me.
Tyler's wife raved about my pasta. Even Sofia got in on it, posting a photo of us working together with a caption about "teaching the next generation of Italian cooking. "
The Facebook post with the health concerns got buried under an avalanche of genuine praise.
By Wednesday morning, I was feeling almost optimistic. I knew Elevate's moves now. I knew their timeline, their tactics, the pressure points they liked to hit. Knowing the playbook didn't make me immune to it, but it meant I could see what was coming.
What I hadn't seen coming was Maryanne Law.
She'd been my first client.
Not my first inquiry, not my first almost. My actual first. She'd called three weeks after I opened Coogan's Catering, when I had one van, two staff members I was paying out of my savings, and enough self-doubt to fill the small kitchen space I'd leased.
She'd wanted finger food for an open home on Pelican Street. Nothing fancy, she'd said. Something that made the place feel welcoming. I'd shown up with three platters and enough nervous energy to power the entire block, and afterward she'd pressed my card into the hands of every one of her clients.
That was four years ago. Since then, Law's Real Estate had grown from open home platters to full catering for their clifftop auction events, the type where the properties sold for more than I'd earn in a lifetime and the champagne budget alone covered my staff for a week.
When Maryanne called on Tuesday afternoon, I assumed it was about the Henderson property. A six-bedroom clifftop home with an infinity pool, scheduled for auction in three weeks. We'd been in preliminary discussions about the menu for a month.
"Can you come in tomorrow morning?" she asked. "Ten o'clock if you can manage it."
"Of course. Is everything okay with the Henderson booking?"
She didn't respond immediately, and that spoke volumes. "Let's talk tomorrow."
I drove to Law's Real Estate the next morning, telling myself it was nothing. A menu change, maybe. A date shift. Maryanne was thorough, and she liked to do things face to face. It didn't have to mean anything.
I turned into the parking lot and saw the Tesla.
Black, long, parked in the visitor bay closest to the entrance. A dark silver logo on the door. The stylized E. Elevate.
I sat in my van, both hands on the wheel, my mind elsewhere.
Then I got out, because that's what you did. You got out, and you walked in, and you handled it.
Maryanne's office was at the back of the building, past the open plan desks where her agents worked. She stood when she saw me coming, and the look on her face told me everything before she said a word.
Not guilty exactly. Pained. She'd been sitting with the news long enough to know there was no way back.
"Nadia." She came around her desk and hugged me, which she'd never done before. That told me more than the Tesla had.
"Tell me," I said.
She did. Carefully, thoroughly, as though she'd been rehearsing it.
Law's Real Estate had expanded significantly over the past two years.
Three new offices, a partnership with a national property group, events across four counties.
The scale of what they needed had outgrown what a single local caterer could provide.
Elevate Events had approached them six weeks ago. The contract they'd offered covered all Law's Real Estate events across their entire network. The pricing was structured in a way that Law's couldn't match on a piecemeal basis with individual vendors.
"The new partners decided," Maryanne said. "Not me. I want you to know that."
"I know." I knew. I could see it in every line of her face.
"I fought for you. I told them what you'd built, what you'd done for us from the beginning. But the numbers—" She stopped. "I'm sorry. I am genuinely sorry."
"I know that, too."
We sat for a minute, having said everything we needed to say.
"The Henderson auction," I said.
"Elevate will handle it. They're transitioning all current bookings." She reached across the desk and covered my hand with hers briefly. "I'll refer you everywhere I personally can. You have my word on that."
"Thank you, Maryanne."
I stood. Shook her hand. Walked back through the open plan office with my shoulders straight and my face arranged into something professional and calm.
I made it to the parking lot.
The Tesla was still there. Leaning against the driver's door, arms folded, expression pleasantly neutral, was a woman I recognized and didn't at the same time.
Mid-forties, expensive haircut, the posture that came from years of walking into rooms and knowing she was the most prepared person there. Though how she walked anywhere in those heels was anyone’s guess. They’d have crippled me in five minutes flat.
The other thing that threw me was that the Elevate website had her looking ten years younger and considerably less predatory, proving filters could only do so much.
She smiled when she saw me. "Ms. Becker. I've been hoping we'd get to meet."
"Ms. Morrison." I didn't bother pretending I didn’t know who she was.
Something flickered in her expression. She'd expected surprise, and I hadn't given her any. "You've done your research."
"I know who's been circling my business for the past month." I stopped a few feet from her. Not close enough to suggest I wanted a conversation, not far enough to suggest I was rattled. "I also know what you're doing and how you've done it in other markets."
"We're offering local businesses the chance to be part of something larger." She said it with practiced ease, as though she'd delivered that line many times. "It doesn't have to be adversarial."
"You've pressured my suppliers. You've spread rumors about health violations. You've poached my staff."
I kept my voice even. "Which part of that isn't adversarial?"
She tilted her head. "We're very interested in Coogan's Catering specifically. You've built something impressive. Our offer reflects that."
"I've seen your offer."
"The revised terms are considerably more generous."
"I'm sure they are." I looked at her, jaw clenched. At this woman who'd been running the same play in town after town and was now standing in a parking lot telling me she was impressed. "I'm not interested."
Something gave in her expression. Not exactly a surprise. A recalibration.
"Ms. Becker—"
"I need to get back to work." I turned toward my van. "I have a business to run."
I felt her watching me cross the parking lot. I didn't look back.
Inside the van, I sat unable to move. Maryanne's face in my mind. Four years of finger food platters and clifftop auctions and genuine warmth, and it had ended in an office with a rehearsed apology. A move straight out of Elevate's playbook, and Maryanne hadn't even known she was in it.
I started the engine.
There was a meeting to organize, a corporation to fight, and a family depending on me not falling apart in a parking lot.
I pulled out onto the street and didn't let myself look in the rearview mirror.
Twenty-four hours. That's what I had before the Coogan's Break Business Roundtable dinner, fifty local business owners in a room, and me catering the event. The perfect opportunity to show everyone that the rumors were garbage.
With my staff having clocked off, I was doing what I did at the end of every working day: a final clean-up. A habit from the military, one that had never let me down.
Only when that was done to my satisfaction did I run through the work schedule for the following day. I was putting a satisfying tick next to the last item on my to-do list when someone knocked on my door. Not the friendly rat-ta-tat of a delivery driver. This was sharp. Demanding.
I checked the new security feed on my tablet. Two people, a man and a woman, dressed professionally. I couldn't see their faces, whether by accident or design. The only thing the woman couldn’t hide was her shoes.
"Ms. Becker." Samantha Morrison's smile didn't reach her eyes. "We thought we'd visit in person to discuss things further."
"I’ve already told you. I'm not interested."
"This is Justin Walters, Elevate's regional operations director," she said, as though I hadn't just told her she should shove her offer.
Tall and polished, Justin was a corporate shark who probably had an MBA and no soul. "We were hoping for a few minutes of your time."
"I don't have time right now. I'm working on an event." Not exactly true, but not a lie either. It was simply the first thing that came to mind.
"All the more reason to discuss our offer." Justin's voice was smooth. Practiced. "We could take all this stress off your plate. Imagine not worrying about staffing issues or health department rumors."
The way he said it made my skin crawl. Like he knew exactly where those rumors came from.
"I said I'm not interested."
I moved to close the door, but Justin’s hand shot out. Worse still, he put his weight against it, forcing me back.
"Ms. Becker, we're trying to be reasonable here," Samantha said, walking into my kitchen like she already owned it. "But you should know, small businesses are fragile. One bad health inspection, a few staff members leaving, and suddenly you're not only losing income. You're losing everything."
"Is that a threat?"
"No, it's a reality check," said Justin, pulling out his phone and taking a flurry of photos of the kitchen. "We're prepared to make another offer. But it expires on Friday. After that, we'll be pursuing other partnerships in the region."
"Other partnerships?" I kept my voice steady despite the rage building.
Samantha, by contrast, appeared relaxed.
More concerning, she looked triumphant. "There are other caterers in Coogan's Break.
Not as established as you, but flexible.
Eager." Her smile turned sharp. "Our experience has shown us that corporate clients prefer working with operations that have national backing. "
They were going after my clients. Directly. Openly.
"Get off my property." My voice came out cold. Military cold.
"We're trying to have a professional conversation..." Justin trailed off. He'd seen something in my expression and thought better of continuing. Whatever it was, it had him heading for the door, with me watching him every step of the way.
"And I told you to get off my property. Leave, or I'll call the cops and report you for trespassing."
"There's no need to be hostile," said Samantha. I turned to glare at her, and she held up her hands in mock surrender. "We're businesspeople, the same as you. We want to find a mutually beneficial solution."
"The solution is that you leave. Now." I put my hand out and herded her toward the door, careful not to actually touch her.
The pair exchanged a look that had my instincts screaming.
"We'll be in touch," said Samantha. "Think about what we discussed. Clock's ticking, Ms. Becker."
They turned and walked away. I took great delight in slamming the door with a satisfying crash, then watched through the security feed as they climbed into a sleek black SUV and drove off. Not before Justin had taken one last photo of my kitchen door.
Damn it. They'd been inside my workspace. Taking photos. Making threats.
I needed to call Daemon. Needed to ... wait.
Something felt wrong.