The conference room at Langley Foods HQ was nothing short of corporate theater. High ceilings, glass walls, the scent of old money and vanilla air freshener hanging in the air like ghosts of powdered aristocracy. At the end of the table, beneath a chandelier worth more than Charlotte's car, sat Victoria Langley, legs crossed, perfectly powdered, sipping an oat milk latte like it contained the secrets of global domination.
Charlotte walked in wearing tailored confidence and a smirk so sharp it could slice through Victoria's Chanel cardigan. She didn't come to play. She came to witness. Observe. Maybe laugh. Definitely keep receipts.
"Charlotte," Victoria purred, rising just enough to be polite and condescending. "Or should I say,
Chef Evans? I've watched your little culinary redemption arc with great interest."
