Lessons from the Saucepan
The aroma of simmering tomato sauce and fresh basil always transported me back to Sunday afternoons spent with my father. I’d be standing on a step stool right beside him, as he instructed me to season by intuition rather than strict measurement. “Cooking is love, Sophia,” he’d often say, stirring the pot with the very wooden spoon his grandmother brought from Italy. “You put your heart in the food, and people taste it. They know.”
Now, fifteen years after those cherished lessons and three years following his sudden passing, I stood in the kitchen of Meridi’s Restaurant, his enduring legacy and the focus of my entire life. I was watching my sous chef finish plating the evening’s special. The rich scent of garlic and wine reduction mingled in the air with the low buzz of happy conversation; every table in the dining room was occupied—yet again.
It hadn’t always been this successful. When Dad died abruptly from a heart attack during lunch service, Meridi’s was struggling. It was a well-loved, local Italian spot, certainly, but it was barely turning a profit, relying on long-time regulars who remembered when Antonio Meridi first opened the doors twenty-five years ago.
I was twenty-five then, having recently graduated from culinary school and assisting Dad with management while he ran the kitchen line. His death almost broke me, but it also gave me a clear resolve: I would save his restaurant or wear myself out trying.
Three years passed in a blur of sixteen-hour days; I streamlined the menu while meticulously preserving Dad’s signature recipes, built key relationships with food critics and social media influencers, and slowly, carefully propelled Meridi’s into the twenty-first century while holding onto the deep soul that made it special.
Then, six months ago, came the definitive review in the Chicago Tribune: “Meridi’s: The City’s Best-Kept Italian Secret.” The writer praised our handmade pasta, our excellent wine list, and the way our osso buco fell effortlessly off the bone. They mentioned, almost incidentally, that we had cleared nearly half a million dollars in profit the previous year.
After that review, everything exploded. Reservations were booked weeks in advance. Food bloggers filled social media feeds with photos of our dishes. Other successful restaurateurs dropped by to understand the source of our success.
Finally, success. Dad would have been so proud.
My phone vibrated on the counter. A text message from Gerald: Family meeting. My house. One hour. Be there.
I stared at the message, feeling a shock of ice water in my veins. Gerald never initiated contact with me. In the seven years since he married my mother, he had barely acknowledged my existence, except to make passive-aggressive comments about “Linda’s daughter from her previous situation.”
Gerald Hawthorne. Real estate agent, casual golfer, and a dedicated opportunist. The man who had swooped in eighteen months after Dad’s death, when Mom was still deeply grieving, and smoothly charmed his way into her life with assurances of financial security and stability.
I had despised him instantly. Not because he wasn’t Dad—no one could replace Antonio Meridi—but because he was so clearly exploiting her vulnerability. The way he spoke about Dad’s “little restaurant” with barely concealed contempt. The way he had repeatedly suggested Mom sell her ownership share, “take the money and enjoy life,” rather than be “tied to a struggling business.”
Mom owned forty-nine percent of Meridi’s. Dad had left the fifty-one percent controlling share to me, with specific instructions in his will: “So no one can take this from you, baby girl. Not creditors, not partners, not anyone. This is yours.”
I texted back: Can’t. Friday night service starts in two hours.
His immediate response: This is about the restaurant. Be here.
My hands were trembling as I passed my phone to Marco, my sous chef. “I have to leave. You’ve got this?”
“Always,” he said, a frown creasing his face. “Is everything alright?”
“I don’t know yet.”
The Setup
I drove to the house I grew up in, the modest three-bedroom in Oak Park where Dad had taught me to make marinara from scratch, where Mom hosted huge Sunday dinners with effortless grace, and where every corner held memories of a much happier time.
Gerald’s silver Lexus sat in the driveway like a deliberate statement. Since marrying Mom, he had systematically erased Dad’s presence from the house. The leather armchair where Dad read the paper every morning—gone, replaced by a cold, modern sofa. The photos of him that lined the hallway—relocated to a single shelf in the spare room. The prestigious awards from the Restaurant Association—packed away in the basement.
Mom answered the door, and my heart sank. She had been crying; her eyes were red and swollen, and she was twisting a tissue to shreds.
“Mom, what’s happened? Are you okay?”
“Sophia, honey…” She couldn’t finish the sentence.
Gerald appeared behind her, and my hatred solidified into something sharp and cold. He was smiling. A sickening, confident smile, as if he were about to announce fantastic news.
“Sophia, come in,” he said with forced warmth. “We have something important to discuss about your father’s restaurant.”
Not “our family’s restaurant” or even just “the restaurant.” Your father’s. As if it were a minor burden, an annoyance, something utterly disconnected from him.
The living room had been rearranged yet again. More of Dad’s belongings were missing. I remained standing despite Gerald’s gesture toward the couch.
“Let’s get straight to the point,” Gerald said, pulling a leather folder from his briefcase with an unnecessary, dramatic flourish. “I’ve sold Meridi’s.”
The words were nonsensical, like he had spoken in an unfamiliar language. “You what?“
“Sold the restaurant. I found an excellent buyer willing to pay well above market value. Three million dollars. Can you believe it? For that little place?”
“That ‘little place,’” I said slowly, my voice surprisingly steady, “is my father’s legacy. And you can’t sell it because you don’t own it.”
Gerald’s smile widened, and in that instant, I recognized the trap I had walked into. “Actually, I do own it. When your mother and I married, her assets became marital property. Including her forty-nine percent share of the restaurant.”
“Her minority share,” I corrected, my mind racing through legal clauses. “I own fifty-one percent. The controlling interest. Dad structured it that way specifically so—”
“So you could play restaurant without adult supervision?” Gerald interrupted, the condescending smile still firmly fixed. “Yes, your father was very protective. But you’re forgetting one important thing.”
He pulled another document from the folder. “Your mother gave me a power of attorney last year when she had her surgery. Comprehensive power of attorney, covering all her affairs. Medical, legal, financial. Everything.”
I looked at my mother, who was silently weeping in the corner. “Mom. Tell me you didn’t.”
“It was supposed to be just for the surgery,” she whispered. “For medical decisions. I was going under anesthesia, and I needed someone to—”
“I suggested,” Gerald interrupted smoothly, “that a comprehensive POA would be more prudent. Cover all possibilities. And as Linda’s legal representative, I’ve agreed to sell her shares. Combined with a petition to the court questioning your competency to manage a business of this scale—”
“My competency?” My voice was sharp, a genuine reflection of my anger. “I have an MBA. I’ve managed Meridi’s for three years. I just turned us profitable for the first time in a decade.”
“You played restaurant while the adults weren’t paying attention,” he sneered, his mask slipping entirely. “But three million dollars is serious money. Time to let professionals handle things.”
“Who is buying it?” I asked, although I dreaded the inevitable answer.
“James Morrison. He owns Morrison’s Sports Grille—you know, that successful chain with fifteen locations. He’s going to convert Meridi’s into one of his establishments. He already has the plans drawn up. Big-screen TVs, wings, nachos, the works. He thinks the location is perfect.”
I felt a wave of nausea. Dad’s restaurant, the place he had proposed to Mom over handmade ravioli, where three generations of Chicago families had marked milestones, was to be transformed into another generic sports bar serving frozen wings and cheap beer.
“The buyer is coming here tomorrow at noon to sign the final papers,” Gerald continued, clearly basking in his perceived victory. “I’d advise you to start clearing your personal items from the office. Though I’m sure Mr. Morrison would be happy to interview you for a management position. Your experience would be… relevant.”
I stood there, feeling the room tilt beneath me. Mom was crying harder, but she didn’t contradict a single word Gerald said. She just stood there, letting him dismantle everything Dad had created.
“Sophia, please,” Mom finally managed. “Gerald explained that this was best for everyone. The money from the sale—we could invest it, create a steady income stream. You wouldn’t have to work such long hours. We could—”
“We?” I asked quietly. “Or he could buy that vacation home in Scottsdale he’s been talking about? The one with the golf course view?”
Gerald’s eyes flashed with naked anger. “Your attitude has always been your biggest problem, Sophia. You’ve never appreciated that I’m trying to help your mother secure her future.”
“By stealing my father’s legacy.”
“By teaching you that nostalgia doesn’t pay the bills. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have preparations to make for tomorrow’s signing. You should go back to work. While you still can.”
The Counter-Offer
I drove back to Meridi’s in a haze of disbelief and fury. Friday night service was in full swing, the dining room packed with happy customers who were oblivious that they were eating in a restaurant that had just been sold out from under me. Marco gave me worried glances from the kitchen pass, but I shook my head, waving him off.
In my office, I collapsed into Dad’s old leather chair and stared at his framed photo on the wall. Antonio Meridi, 1965-2018. Fifty-three years old when his heart gave out, likely due to the constant stress of keeping the restaurant solvent.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I whispered to the picture. “I couldn’t protect it. I tried, but I couldn’t—”
Then I noticed it. A folder on my desk, partly hidden under this week’s invoices. The logo in the corner read “Richardson Hospitality Group” in elegant script.
They had been courting me for six months, ever since that Tribune review. Marcus Richardson, the founder, had started with a single upscale restaurant and built an empire of high-end establishments across the Midwest. He made his initial offer in person, showing up at Meridi’s one evening after closing.
“I don’t want to change a thing,” he’d told me over coffee at the bar. “Meridi’s is perfect as it is. I just want to help it grow. Maybe open second locations, expand the brand. But the original stays exactly the same—same recipes, same staff, same soul.”
I had said no. Meridi’s was not for sale. It was Dad’s place, his enduring dream, and I intended to protect it forever.
But if Gerald was going to sell it anyway…
My hands were shaking as I opened the folder and found Richardson’s latest offer, dated just three weeks ago. I hadn’t even opened it then, so certain was I that Meridi’s would never be on the market.
Three and a half million dollars.
I reread the number, terrified I was misreading it. Richardson was offering five hundred thousand dollars more than Gerald’s buyer.
I checked the clock. Nine-thirty PM. Did successful, busy restaurateurs answer their phones at nine-thirty on a Friday night?
There was only one way to find out.
He answered on the second ring. “Marcus Richardson.”
“Mr. Richardson, this is Sophia Meridi. I know it’s late, but—”
“Ms. Meridi,” his voice immediately warmed. “Not late at all. I’m actually at one of my locations. What can I do for you?”
“Your offer to purchase Meridi’s. Is it still on the table?”
A pause. “Absolutely. Though I have to admit, I’m surprised. You’ve been very clear about not selling.”
“Things change. How quickly could you execute this?”
“How quickly do you need?”
“I need the sale completed by tomorrow morning. Ten AM at the absolute latest.”
Another pause, even longer this time. “Ms. Meridi, are you facing some kind of difficulty?”
“You could say that. My stepfather is attempting to sell the restaurant without my consent. He’s found a buyer who intends to turn it into a sports bar. The contract signing is scheduled for tomorrow at noon.”
“I see.” Richardson’s voice took on a hard edge. “And you’re offering me the chance to buy it out from under him?”
“I’m offering you the opportunity to purchase Meridi’s from its actual owner. Me. I hold the fifty-one percent controlling interest. I do not need anyone’s permission to sell.”
“But he thinks you do.”
“He’s about to be taught otherwise.”
Richardson laughed, a sound of genuine, powerful delight. “Ms. Meridi, I think I’m going to truly enjoy doing business with you. I will have my lawyers draft the papers tonight. Can you meet me at eight AM?”
“Where?”
“My lawyer’s office. I’ll text you the address. And Ms. Meridi? Thank you for finally giving me this opportunity. I promise you won’t regret it.”
After we hung up, I sat in Dad’s chair and allowed myself one fleeting moment of vindictive satisfaction. Then I went back to work. There was a restaurant to run, and tomorrow, there would be a stepfather to utterly defeat.
The Final Signature
I barely slept. Instead, I spent the hours reading through Richardson’s detailed proposal, ensuring I understood every single clause. He wasn’t just buying the physical property—he was purchasing the vision, the legacy, the soul of what Dad had built.
The contract included terms that filled me with relief:
- All current employees would keep their jobs with salary increases.
- The menu would remain unchanged except for approved additions.
- I would remain on as General Manager with a substantial raise.
- Any expansion locations would maintain the “Meridi’s” name and concept.
- A percentage of profits would fund culinary scholarships in Antonio Meridi’s name.
It was everything I could have possibly hoped for. Everything Gerald’s deal was not.
At eight AM, I walked into the law offices of Brennan & Associates. Marcus Richardson was already there, dressed casually in jeans and a button-down shirt, looking nothing like the multimillionaire he was.
“Ms. Meridi,” he said, standing to shake my hand firmly. “Shall we save your father’s restaurant?”
The paperwork took two meticulous hours. Richardson’s legal team had worked through the entire night, and they were exceptionally thorough. By ten-fifteen AM, I held a certified check for three and a half million dollars, and Marcus Richardson officially owned Meridi’s Restaurant, subject to more protective covenants than I had thought possible to include in a purchase agreement.
“Thank you,” I said, my voice thick with emotion. “You have no idea what this means.”
“Actually, I think I do,” Richardson replied, his eyes sincere. “My father owned a small bakery in the neighborhood where I grew up. When he passed away, my stepmother sold it to a developer who turned it into a parking garage. I was seventeen. I have never forgotten how that felt—watching your parent’s dream get bulldozed for a profit. If I can prevent that from happening to someone else, I am going to do it.”
I looked at this man, who had just spent millions of dollars partly out of principle, and I finally understood why his restaurants were so successful. He cared about the right things.
“Now,” Richardson said, checking his watch with a knowing look, “don’t you have an appointment to keep?”
The Unmasking
I arrived at my childhood home at eleven forty-five. Gerald had converted the dining room into a makeshift conference room, complete with a leather portfolio and expensive pen set that screamed “successful businessman” to anyone who wasn’t paying close attention.
He wore his best suit—the navy one with the subtle pinstripe he thought made him look important. Mom sat quietly in the corner, looking smaller and more defeated than I had ever seen her.
“Sophia,” Gerald frowned upon seeing me. “What are you doing here?”
“Wouldn’t miss this for anything.”
“This is a private business transaction. You are not needed—”
“A private business transaction about my father’s restaurant. I think I’ll stay.”
Before he could argue further, the doorbell rang. Gerald’s expression shifted to a smug look of satisfaction as he answered it, returning with James Morrison—a man in his fifties with a stretched polo shirt over a substantial gut and the look of someone who measured life solely by profit margins.
“Jim, great to see you,” Gerald said warmly, as if they were old friends instead of purely transactional associates. “Coffee? Water?”
“Just water,” Morrison grunted, settling heavily into a chair. “Let’s get this done. I’ve got contractors lined up to start demo on Monday.”
Demo. They planned to demolish Dad’s kitchen, his carefully curated dining room, everything he had painstakingly built. My rage crystallized into something cold and razor-sharp.
“Of course,” Gerald said smoothly, spreading contracts across the table. “As we discussed, three million for the property, business, and all assets—”
“Hold on,” Morrison interrupted, pulling out his phone with a deep frown. “My accountant just sent me something.” He scrolled, his frown deepening into a scowl. “This can’t be right.”
“What’s wrong?” Gerald’s confident expression faltered slightly.
“This shows that Meridi’s was sold yesterday to Richardson Hospitality Group. For three point five million.” Morrison’s voice was suddenly hard and dangerous. “You want to tell me what kind of game you’re playing here, Gerald?”
The color drained from Gerald’s face entirely. “That’s impossible. There’s been a mistake. Some kind of filing error—”
“No mistake,” I said pleasantly, inserting myself into the conversation. “I sold Meridi’s yesterday afternoon to Marcus Richardson. The sale was finalized at ten-seventeen this morning. I have the paperwork right here if you’d like to see it.”
I pulled the documents from my bag and spread them on the table. Gerald stared at them as if they were written in an unknown ancient script.
“You… you can’t…” he stammered, his composure crumbling.
“Can’t what? Sell my own property?” I smiled sweetly, the satisfaction finally washing over me. “I own fifty-one percent of Meridi’s. Controlling interest. I don’t need permission from anyone to sell.”
“But the power of attorney! Your mother’s shares!”
“Which represent forty-nine percent. A minority stake. You’re welcome to sell those to Mr. Morrison if he’s interested in owning a minority position in a restaurant he can’t control, can’t modify, and can’t profit from without majority shareholder approval.”
Morrison’s face had gone from confused to absolutely furious, turning an alarming shade of deep purple. “What the hell kind of scam are you running, Gerald?”
“It’s not a scam! She tricked—this isn’t—” Gerald spun toward my mother, who had been silent throughout the entire exchange. “Linda! Tell her she can’t do this!”
Mom looked at me, then at Gerald, then at the contracts spread on the table. For the first time in years, I saw a defiant spark of the woman who had stood beside Dad, building their dream from nothing. “I think,” she said quietly, “my daughter just outsmarted you, Gerald.”
“This is fraud!” Gerald shouted, his composure completely shattered. “I’ll sue! I’ll take you to court! I’ll—”
“Sue me for what?” I asked calmly. “For selling property I legally own? You’re welcome to try. I’m sure the judge will be fascinated to hear about how you attempted to sell a restaurant you don’t own using a power of attorney that doesn’t grant you the right to make that transaction.”
“You took a deposit from me,” Morrison growled at Gerald, advancing slightly toward him. “Fifty thousand dollars. Non-refundable, you said. Except when the seller commits fraud. Which is exactly what this is.”
“Fifty thousand dollars?” Mom’s voice was now deadly cold. “Gerald, you took money for something you couldn’t even legally sell?”
“It was just earnest money! Standard business practice! The plan was perfect until she—” He pointed at me with a trembling finger. “—you ruined everything! You ungrateful little—”
“No,” I interrupted, my voice cutting through his rising hysteria. “You ruined everything the day you decided you could steal my father’s legacy and profit from it. I just refused to let you.”
Morrison was already heading for the door. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer, Gerald. Fraud, misrepresentation, and whatever else we can think of. I had contractors lined up, permits filed, plans drawn. You’re going to pay for every penny of my losses.”
The door slammed shut behind him with enough force to rattle the windows.
“You took fifty thousand dollars,” Mom repeated, her voice terrifyingly quiet. “For a restaurant you legally couldn’t sell.”
“I was going to be able to sell it! The plan was sound! It would have worked perfectly if she hadn’t—” Gerald’s face was mottled red and white, veins bulging on his forehead. “You selfish, ungrateful—”
“Careful,” I said softly. “You’re talking about your wife’s daughter. In her house. Which, I notice, is also from her first marriage.”
Gerald’s mouth snapped shut. Mom was staring at him like she was seeing his true self for the very first time.
I picked up my bag and headed for the door, pausing to look back at my mother. “Dad always said you judge people by how they treat those who can’t fight back. Gerald thought I couldn’t fight back. He was wrong.”
“Sophia, wait.” Mom’s voice stopped me. “The restaurant staff—what’s going to happen to them?”
“Marcus Richardson is keeping everyone. Same jobs, better pay, and he’s even offering profit-sharing. He’s promised to preserve everything that makes Meridi’s special. Dad’s recipes, the atmosphere, the soul of the place. It will live on. Just not under our family’s direct ownership anymore.”
I looked at Gerald one last time. “You wanted to turn Dad’s dream into a sports bar for profit. You got exactly what you deserved.”
A New Legacy
That very night, Meridi’s hosted an impromptu celebration. Marcus Richardson joined us, bringing celebratory champagne and assuring the staff that nothing would change except for the better. The employees, once they fully grasped what had almost happened and how close they came to losing their jobs, toasted me repeatedly until I had to cut them off so they could actually complete the dinner service.
“Your father would be proud,” said Tony, our head chef who had worked alongside Dad for twenty years. “Not just of saving the restaurant, but of how you did it. With class and brains, just like he taught you.”
The next few weeks were turbulent. Gerald hired a lawyer who sent baseless threats until Marcus Richardson’s legal team buried them under an avalanche of counter-motions. Morrison sued Gerald for fraud and successfully won a judgment that would take him years to settle. Mom filed for divorce after discovering that the fifty thousand dollars he took from Morrison wasn’t the first “deposit” he had accepted for things he didn’t legally own.
It turned out I wasn’t his first intended victim, just his first spectacular failure.
Six months later, I opened my own establishment using my share of the Meridi’s sale proceeds: Sophia’s, a modern Italian restaurant with innovative twists on classic dishes, located just five blocks from Dad’s restaurant. Marcus Richardson was my first customer, bringing a bottle of champagne and a framed photo of Dad to hang in my new office.
“Your father’s legacy lives on in two places now,” he said, raising his glass in a toast. “The restaurant he built and the daughter he raised.”
Mom visits Sophia’s every Sunday now, sitting at the bar while I work, telling me stories about Dad that I’d never heard. About their early struggles, about his fierce determination to make the restaurant succeed, about how he would wake up at four AM just to make fresh pasta because he truly believed it made a difference.
“I’m sorry,” she said one evening, watching me plate a special for a table of regulars. “For the power of attorney, for believing Gerald, for almost letting him destroy everything your father built.”
“You were grieving,” I said, adjusting the garnish. “Gerald exploited that vulnerability. Predators always target the most vulnerable. But we saved what mattered, Mom. That’s what counts.”
She smiled, looking more like herself than she had in years. “You saved it. By being smarter than everyone in that room combined. Your father would be so proud.”
I think about that often, when I’m deep in the weeds of a busy dinner service, training new cooks, or developing a new dish, or simply standing in my own kitchen doing the work I love. How Dad always said the secret ingredient in any dish was love, and the secret to business was integrity and intelligence.
Turns out, I inherited all three.
A Legacy Secure
Meridi’s is now flourishing under Marcus Richardson’s ownership. He’s successfully expanded, opening a second location in Lincoln Park and a third in Evanston, with each one diligently maintaining the recipes and quality standards Dad established. My contract gives me approval over any menu changes, and Richardson is meticulous about consulting me on everything from hiring decisions to the interior design of the new spots.
I visit the original Meridi’s at least once a week, often sitting at the bar where Dad used to test new dishes on our regular customers. I watch Tony and the kitchen staff work with the same demanding dedication Dad instilled. Nothing truly important has changed. The soul of the place remains perfectly intact.
Sophia’s has carved out its own distinct identity now—more experimental, more contemporary, but still deeply rooted in the Italian culinary traditions Dad taught me. We’ve earned our own glowing reviews and cultivated a loyal following. Last month, we were honored with a James Beard Award nomination.
Mom volunteers at Sophia’s regularly, managing the host stand or assisting with administrative tasks. She has visibly rediscovered parts of herself she’d lost, first in the deep grief after Dad’s death, and later in the manipulative fog Gerald cast over her.
“I should have seen it sooner,” she confessed once, during a quiet afternoon while we were doing prep work. “The way he tried to erase your father from the house, from my life. The way he looked at the restaurant like it was nothing more than an asset to be liquidated.”
“He was very good at manipulation,” I replied, chopping herbs for that evening’s special. “That’s what predators do. They find your weakness and exploit it.”
“But you didn’t let him.”
“I had something he didn’t count on. I had Dad’s lessons. About integrity, about fighting fiercely for what matters, about never letting anyone take what’s yours.”
A Just Dessert
Gerald, I hear, is now struggling to sell real estate in Phoenix. Word travels quickly in business communities, and once people learned about his attempted fraud and legal woes, most clients wisely decided they preferred working with someone more honest. He still recounts his version of the story to anyone who will listen, claiming I stole what was rightfully his through legal trickery.
I hope he tells that story forever. It’s the closest he’ll ever come to admitting the truth. I did ruin his plans. Completely, thoroughly, and with immense satisfaction.
Last Sunday, Mom and I were enjoying brunch at the bar at Meridi’s when a young woman approached us nervously. She looked to be about twenty-five, dressed in the crisp chef’s whites of a nearby restaurant.
“Ms. Meridi? I’m so sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to say thank you.”
“For what?” I asked, confused.
“I received the Antonio Meridi Culinary Scholarship last year. It covered my final year of culinary school. I’m working as a line cook now, and I’m learning so much every day. Your father’s scholarship truly changed my life.”
After she left, Mom started crying quietly. “I didn’t know Marcus had set up a scholarship fund.”
“It was in the contract,” I said. “Part of the deal. A percentage of all profits goes to fund culinary scholarships in Dad’s name. Marcus said it was important to invest in the next generation.”
“Your father would absolutely love that,” Mom said, wiping her eyes. “He always believed the best legacy isn’t what you build, but who you help build their own dreams.”
I reflected on that later, closing up my own restaurant after a busy Sunday service. I thought about Dad’s legacy living on in multiple, powerful ways now—in the original restaurant that still proudly bears his name, in the scholarship students who are learning their craft, in the daughter who learned how to fight for what truly mattered, and in the secure college fund for the granddaughter he’d never meet, safely invested from my share of the Meridi’s sale.
Gerald thought he could steal all of that for a quick payday. He thought I was nothing more than a naive girl playing restaurant, easy to dismiss and push aside.
He learned better.
I’m Sophia Meridi. I’m twenty-eight years old. I own one of Chicago’s most promising new restaurants, and I successfully preserved my father’s legacy when a predator tried to destroy it.
I cook with love and fight with intelligence, because Dad taught me both were essential.
And if anyone else ever tries to take what’s mine, they’ll learn the same crucial lesson Gerald did: underestimating Antonio Meridi’s daughter is the last mistake you’ll ever make in business.
The secret ingredient in revenge, as it turns out, is the same as in cooking: careful preparation, perfect timing, and knowing exactly when to turn up the heat.
Dad would be proud.
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