Chapter 2

During the first week after signing the divorce term sheet, I continued overseeing the kitchen as usual.

Outside the walk-in freezer, I held my phone against my shoulder while my lawyer, Simone Carter, spoke in her calm, efficient voice.

"Beatrice, now that the preliminary terms are signed, do not get into a fight with him before the final agreement is executed."

Simone spoke quickly. "Spencer's downward spiral into an affair is probably his way of rebelling against his 'perfect wife.' He still feels guilty about you. The less you fight him, the more we can squeeze out of him in the final asset settlement."

"Don't worry, Simone." I stared at my cold reflection in the stainless-steel door. "I played the perfect machine for six years. I can handle another thirty days of transition."

I hung up, put on my chef's toque, and pushed back through the door into the kitchen.

L'Étoile was the crown jewel of Spencer's restaurant empire, a three-Michelin-starred restaurant.

Its rules were stricter than a Wall Street investment bank's: every prep surface was wiped down with medical-grade alcohol three times a day, every server's bow tie had to be perfectly centered, and the walk-in freezer temperature was permanently locked at 34 degrees Fahrenheit.

I had just reached the pass to conduct the final quality check when sous-chef Marcus came over, looking grim.

"Chef, Mr. Grant is in the VIP room." He lowered his voice. "He's brought a... guest who doesn't exactly know the rules."

I said nothing. I used tweezers to straighten the final gold-leaf petal on the plate, wiped my hands, and walked into the dining room.

Spencer sat at the head of the table. Right beside him was a girl who looked barely into her twenties.

A distressed leather jacket. Ripped jeans. A pair of Vans smeared with mud and grease. Red hair pulled into a careless, messy ponytail.

This was Riley Quinn.

I stood a few steps away and watched quietly.

She was laughing without a care in the world, waving a silver butter knife through the air as she loudly told the story of how she'd outsmarted a health inspector on the streets of Brooklyn.

Her shrill laughter made several longtime diners outside the room frown.

She was exactly like me six years ago, carrying the unmistakable smell of street food and city grime.

Back then, if I'd walked into the kitchen wearing canvas shoes with mud on them, Spencer would have ordered me to take them off on the spot, accusing me of "contaminating his sterile counters."

But now, faced with Riley's downright disruptive behavior in a top-tier private dining room, he indulged her completely.

I stepped forward with my professional composure.

"Mr. Grant, are you enjoying tonight's tasting menu?"

The smile at the corner of Spencer's mouth faded slightly. He pointed toward the table.

"Beatrice, Riley thinks this caviar and sea urchin mousse is... a little bland."

Riley turned toward me and looked me up and down, openly challenging me.

"You're Beatrice?"

She shrugged. "Spencer is always bragging about how incredible your cooking is, but to me it tastes like expensive plastic. There's no soul in it."

Then, without hesitation, she reached out and deliberately ruined the perfect plating, dragging her index finger through the premium Beluga caviar.

"Food should make you want to get up and dance. You know what I mean?"

She shamelessly stuck the caviar-covered finger into her mouth, smacked her lips, and made a face.

"Honestly, this stuff doesn't have half the kick of the secret hot sauce at my stand."

The sommelier's hand jerked, and the red wine nearly spilled over the rim of the glass.

At L'Étoile, that little performance was the equivalent of publicly slapping the chef in the face.

Looking at the fingerprints and grease left across the plate, I had no desire to explain the extraction process or the market price of Beluga caviar.

She didn't understand.

And Spencer didn't care.

"Take it away." I calmly gestured to the server.

"Wait." Spencer interrupted, frowning. His tone carried the unmistakable edge of a lecture.

"Beatrice, you can't always be so rigid. Riley's palate is instinctive. It represents the most basic, honest reaction a diner can have. You need to learn to be flexible. Add a little... passion to the food."

Passion.

Turning a three-Michelin-starred restaurant into a greasy street-food stand was what he called passion.

"Understood, Mr. Grant. I'll have the kitchen remake the main course with extra salt." I answered calmly and turned to leave.

"Beatrice."

Spencer suddenly stood and called after me. He habitually stepped closer, his voice softening.

"You look awful... Is your stomach acting up again?" The concern in his eyes was genuine.

He remembered the stomach problems I'd developed from years of tasting food in the kitchen, and he instinctively reached out to straighten my collar.

I was about to step back when Riley's phone suddenly rang.

"What? The supplier delivered the wrong beef bones? I'm coming right now!" She grabbed her canvas bag and shouted impatiently. "Spencer, there's a problem with my truck. We need to go."

One second earlier, Spencer had been worried about my stomach. Now his entire body tensed.

"Is it serious? The truck's downstairs. I'll come with you."

He grabbed his coat from the back of the chair and swept Riley into the crook of his arm.

"Beatrice, take some Nexium. Let the kitchen handle things for now." He threw the words over his shoulder as he left. "I'm going with her. I'll be back at the restaurant later."

He didn't wait for me to respond. He strode away, and as he passed, his elbow accidentally knocked into a server's cart.

A freshly made espresso clattered to the floor.

Scalding coffee mixed with shards of porcelain and splashed across my shoes. The heat cut straight through the leather, sending a sharp burn across the top of my foot.

He didn't even look back.

I stood quietly in the wrecked private dining room.

Maybe his instinctive concern for me was real.

But whenever Riley faced even the smallest problem, he could drop everything for her and leave me standing amid the mess and the pain.