I looked at the scarf.
Then at my assistant.
“Can you send this back?”
She raised an eyebrow.
“With a note?”
I pulled a card from my desk.
Five words.
Let's keep this professional.
I signed my name.
That afternoon another package arrived.
Wine.
Very expensive wine.
The irony almost deserved points.
I sent that back too.
Lauren had finally learned that my restaurant company wasn't one restaurant.
Bennett Hospitality Group had started with one.
Mine.
Not Ethan's.
Not my father's.
Not some investor handing me a blank check because I had married correctly.
I had opened my first place at twenty-six after six years of learning every job in the business people usually ignored.
Host.
Server.
Bartender.
Assistant manager.
Purchasing.
Operations.
I learned wine from a sommelier who made me pronounce Burgundy villages until my mouth hurt.
I learned kitchen economics from an executive chef who once made me calculate food cost on onions because I had ordered too many.
I learned payroll by screwing it up once and never allowing myself to screw it up again.
My first restaurant barely survived year one.
By year three, it was profitable enough to fund part of location two.
Then came three and four.
Then a flagship.
Then private dining.
Then the hospitality group.
Now we had locations across the city and two expansion markets moving through development.
Chicago.
Austin.
And the capital raise Lauren had discovered was intended to accelerate both without giving away more control than I was willing to lose.
That evening, Ethan leaned against my office door.
“How many gifts?”
“Two.”
“Flowers?”
“Not yet.”
“Disappointing.”
I slid a folder toward him.
“You have no sympathy.”
“I have extensive sympathy.”
“You laughed when I told you about the wine.”
“I laughed after you said you were fine.”
“Technicality.”
He sat across from me.
Then his expression changed.
“Ryan called.”
That got my attention.
“About?”
“Lauren.”
I leaned back.
“What did he say?”
“He apologized for Friday. Very carefully.”
“Did he know what happened?”
“Not during dinner. He does now.”
I pictured Ryan's face.
Practical men disliked chaos.
Lauren had become chaos.
“He worried we're going to reject their firm because of her?”
“Yes.”
“Are we?”
Ethan shrugged.
“I like two of the people on their investment committee. Their performance is competitive.”
I nodded.
“I agree.”
“So unless their culture is secretly built around throwing cabernet at prospective clients, I'm not ruling them out.”
I smiled.
“Good.”
He looked at me more closely.
“You're sure?”
“Yes.”
This was the distinction Lauren did not understand.
Personal anger and business judgment could occupy the same room without becoming the same thing.
I did not trust Lauren.
That mattered if Lauren personally handled our account.
It didn't automatically mean every analyst, portfolio manager and tax strategist at Hawthorne was incompetent.
Ethan understood that.
Lauren, unfortunately, decided my refusal to accept a scarf was proof that I was planning her execution.
Two days later, Ryan Cole asked to meet me.
He came to the restaurant company's office rather than asking me to come to his.
That told me enough.
“Maya, I want to address something directly.”
“Please.”
He sat opposite me.
“I understand Lauren behaved badly Friday.”
I waited.
“We take client conduct seriously.”
Interesting phrase.
Not employee conduct.
Client conduct.
He was protecting the firm.
Fair enough.
“I haven't made a complaint,” I said.
“I know.”
“Has Ethan?”
“No.”
“Then why are we having this conversation?”
Ryan hesitated.
Because Lauren was panicking.
He didn't need to say it.
“I've told Lauren to make sure your interactions remain completely professional.”
“Good advice.”
He studied me.
“May I ask a direct question?”