“No.”
“You’re lying.”
“I worked with hundreds of cooks.”
“He worked here twenty-one years ago.”
“So?”
“He created burnt onion short rib.”
Warren became very still.
Nia continued:
“Cornbread custard.”
Silence.
She stepped closer.
“Do those sound familiar?”
Warren looked toward the door.
Then back.
“Your father was talented.”
The admission hit harder than denial.
Nia’s throat tightened.
“So you knew him.”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“That was a lifetime ago.”
“What happened?”
Warren exhaled.
“Your father had ideas.”
“Everybody had ideas.”
“Laurent controlled the menu.”
“He took things.”
“From everyone.”
“Did you take Dad’s?”
Warren’s face hardened.
“Be very careful with accusations.”
“Did you?”
“I presented dishes.”
“Whose?”
“The kitchen’s.”
“That sounds familiar.”
Warren leaned closer.
“Your father had the same problem you do.”
“What?”
“He thought inspiration meant ownership.”
Nia stared.
Warren continued:
“He was angry.”
“Paranoid.”
“Laurent was impossible.”
“We all survived him differently.”
“Your father decided every resemblance to something he cooked was theft.”
“He left.”
“He was not destroyed.”
“He built a life.”
“Stop turning him into a martyr.”
Nia’s hands shook.
“Did you use his food?”
Warren answered after a long pause.
“Yes.”
Her breath caught.
“So did everyone.”
He continued.
“We used each other’s food.”
“That was kitchens then.”
“No credit.”
“No intellectual-property meetings.”
“No creator lines in spreadsheets.”
“You cooked.”
“Chef chose.”
“Menu changed.”
“That was the system.”
Nia whispered:
“Convenient system.”
“For me?”
“Yes.”
Warren smiled bitterly.
“You think I didn’t lose things too?”
“You think Laurent never put his name on my food?”
“He did.”
“So what did you do?”
“I became the chef.”
There it was.
The entire philosophy.
Not fix the system.
Climb high enough to benefit from it.
Nia looked toward him.
“And now you’re doing it to me.”
Warren’s eyes sharpened.
“No.”
“You’re on payroll.”
“Your creator credit exists.”
“You’re cooking.”
“I gave one interview.”
“You’re making this bigger because you need your father’s story to repeat.”
Nia stared.
Then quietly said:
“No.”
“What?”
“I need it not to.”
She left.
That night she called Arthur.
Not to complain.
To ask for a meeting.
Arthur listened.
Did not interrupt.
Then asked:
“What do you want?”
Nia had expected outrage.