Chapter 6 - The Recipe for Revenge
The fire consumed Sterling’s legal notice, but the threat lingered in the air like smoke.
By Tuesday afternoon, Grace knew she couldn't hide behind Logan’s protection forever. If Colin and his lawyers wanted to claim her recipes were corporate property, they were attacking the very foundation of her identity. Those formulas weren't just business assets; they were her legacy, passed down from Mrs. Sutton, refined through years of sleepless nights, flour-dusted aprons, and quiet dedication.
"They're going to try to shut us down," Grace said, staring out the frosted kitchen window at the frozen Hudson.
Logan was sitting at the wooden table, sharpening a hunting knife with steady, rhythmic strokes on a whetstone. The sound filled the quiet room—scritch, scritch, scritch.
"Let them try," Logan said without looking up. "Grey Haven isn't Manhattan, Grace. Corporations don't own the river, and they don't own the people who live along it. If Avery wants a fight, he'll find out what happens when you corner a wolf in the winter."
Grace turned to look at him. The flickering light from the hearth caught the sharp angles of his face, the dark shadow of his beard, and the fierce, protective loyalty burning in his eyes.
"You don't even know what's in those notebooks, Logan," Grace whispered.
"I know what's in them," Logan said, laying the knife down with a soft click. He stood up, towering over her, closing the distance between them until she could feel the heat radiating off his broad chest. "They contain the only thing that brought light back into this house. You think I'm going to let some slick-haired corporate executive steal that from my children?"
Before Grace could reply, the heavy oak front door banged open downstairs, followed by the sound of shouting.
It wasn't Sterling. It was Martha, panting heavily, her boots caked in snow as she hurried down the hall into the kitchen.
"Logan! Grace! You need to turn on the radio right now," Martha gasped, gripping the edge of the island for support.
Logan’s eyes narrowed. "What happened?"
"It's not just a legal threat anymore," Martha said, her face pale. "Avery’s flagship store in Manhattan just launched a massive PR campaign this morning. They're releasing a new line of artisanal winter pastries—called the 'Hudson Valley Heritage Collection.' And they're using your name, Grace. They're claiming you stole their proprietary recipes from the company vault before fleeing upstate, and they're offering a reward for information on your whereabouts."
Grace felt the room tilt.
Colin wasn't just trying to intimidate her into silence. He was executing a preemptive strike—destroying her reputation before she could build a new life, branding her as a thief in front of the entire culinary world.
Toby and Leo, who had just walked into the kitchen, stopped dead in their tracks, staring at Grace with wide, frightened eyes.
"Is that true, Grace?" Toby asked, his voice cracking with defensive anger. "Did you steal from them?"
Grace looked down at her flour-dusted hands. The urge to shrink away, to pack her bags and run farther north, rose in her throat like acid. It was the exact same feeling she had experienced when Colin looked at her dress and decided she was an embarrassment.
You're too ordinary. You don't fit.
Logan saw the shadow cross her face. Without a word, he stepped past her, walked over to the old radio on the shelf, and flicked the dial until a staticky news broadcast filled the room:
“...Avery Bakeries spokesperson confirmed today that former head pastry chef Grace Miller fled the metropolitan area with confidential recipe ledgers valued at over five hundred thousand dollars. Authorities are investigating potential interstate theft...”
Logan reached out and snapped the radio off, plunging the room back into heavy silence.
He walked back to Grace, stopped right in front of her, and placed his large, warm hands gently on her shoulders. His touch anchored her, pulling her back from the edge of panic.
"Listen to me," Logan said, his voice deep, steady, and uncompromising. "They can lie on the radio. They can print whatever corporate garbage they want in the papers. But they don't know how to bake your bread, Grace. And they sure as hell don't own your soul."
May you like
Grace looked up into his dark, unyielding eyes. Slowly, the trembling in her hands stopped. The fear curdled into something much sharper, much more potent.
"They want my recipes?" Grace whispered, a dangerous, defiant spark igniting in her chest. "Fine. Let's show them what real baking looks like."
