Chapter 3

By the third week after filing for divorce, Spencer seemed to have found a way to balance his old love and his new one, at least in his own mind.

During the day, he was the decisive head of his restaurant empire. At night, he ran off to Brooklyn to experience what he called "real street life" with Riley.

And I remained the flawless chef at L'Étoile.

Until that balance finally collapsed on a Friday night.

The restaurant welcomed an exceptionally difficult guest—the New York Times' chief food critic, Auguste.

In New York, a single column from him could determine whether a Michelin restaurant lived or died.

To pave the way for Riley, Spencer had the absurd idea of letting her help modify that night's tasting menu, calling it "a groundbreaking collision of high-end dining and street food."

I stared at the pan-seared foie gras with black truffle that had been completely transformed at the pass, my brows knitting together.

Riley insisted on drenching premium foie gras in the secret Mexican hot sauce from her food truck.

"Absolutely not." I rejected it outright in the kitchen. "The coarse spices in that commercial hot sauce will completely destroy the truffle's aroma and the texture of the foie gras."

Spencer, however, wasn't impressed.

"Beatrice, you're too conservative. Auguste has always criticized L'Étoile for lacking originality. This is our chance to break the rules."

Riley leaned against the stainless-steel counter and folded her arms provocatively.

"Exactly, Chef. You haven't even tried it. How do you know it won't work? I sell hundreds of portions of this sauce every day at my stand."

I looked at the two of them and didn't waste another word. I untied my apron and tossed it to sous-chef Marcus.

"If you're determined to do this, the pass is yours tonight. My stomach hurts. I'm leaving."

Ignoring Spencer's stunned expression, I walked straight out of the restaurant.

I knew Auguste too well. He was a viciously exacting devotee of classical French cuisine.

That dish was doomed from the start.

Sure enough, at ten that night, my phone began vibrating nonstop.

"Beatrice! Get back to the restaurant right now!" Spencer's voice was almost a roar, panic impossible to hide.

"Auguste is furious! He says that foie gras was an assault on his palate! He's mildly allergic to one of the cheap spices in the hot sauce, and now he wants to see the chef!"

I sat on my apartment sofa, looking out at the city lights.

"I can't tonight. And Riley was the one who plated the dish. You should have her explain it."

"What does she know about French culinary etiquette? She just got into an argument with Auguste when she tried to defend herself!"

Spencer sounded frantic.

"Please. If he publishes even a mediocre review tomorrow, the group's valuation will plummet!"

I listened quietly to the chaos on the other end.

I knew my chance had arrived to make him pay.

"I can come back. I'll cook a flawless classical French meal myself and fix this for you." My voice was cold.

"Thank God. Come—"

"But," I cut him off, "those three new bistros the group is opening in SoHo. As additional compensation for the divorce, I want an outright five percent equity stake in them."

Silence fell over the phone.

Spencer was clearly stunned by how precisely I'd chosen my moment to strike.

"That's impossible! Five percent? That's millions in cash flow!"

"You can refuse. I'll turn off my phone and go to sleep. Tomorrow morning, we can read The New York Times' front page together."

I didn't budge.

"You..." Spencer ground his teeth, but reason eventually won out. "Fine! I'll have the lawyers draft the paperwork tomorrow. Get here now!"

Half an hour later, I pushed open the kitchen doors.

With an impeccably pure traditional French consommé and a perfectly timed service, I finally managed to tamp down the fury that was about to explode.

The crisis was over, and the kitchen fell silent.

Riley stood beside the walk-in freezer, eyes red. She had clearly just been given a brutal dressing-down by Spencer.

Spencer wearily rubbed his brow and walked over to me, an unusually guilty look in his eyes.

"Beatrice... thank you. We couldn't have gotten through tonight without you."

He paused, then picked up an elegant pastry box from the prep counter beside him.

"I passed your favorite dessert shop while I was out cleaning things up. I picked up a berry pavlova." He pushed the box toward me. "You worked hard tonight. Have something sweet."

I looked down at the familiar packaging.

Whenever I worked late testing dishes, he used to go out of his way to buy one for me.

I had just lifted my hand to take it when—

"Beep! Beep!"

A car horn shrieked from the alley behind the restaurant.

Riley suddenly grabbed her bag, stubbornly wiped her eyes, and headed outside without looking back.

"My Uber's here. Spencer, you stay here and enjoy some quality time with your perfect wife!"

Spencer's expression changed instantly.

He hesitated for barely half a second between Riley's retreating figure and me, then his instinct to chase after her won.

"Beatrice, eat it. She's shaken up tonight. I need to check on her."

He didn't even wait for me to respond. He shoved the box into my hands and rushed into the night.

I stood beside the cold stainless-steel prep counter and opened the box with one hand.

It had been sitting out too long. The delicate meringue had already gone soggy and collapsed. Melted whipped cream mixed with dark-red berry juice into a sticky, shapeless mess.

I didn't get angry. I didn't cry.

Purely out of a chef's instinct, I picked up a spoon, scraped off a little, and tasted it.

It was cloyingly sweet, soft, and falling apart.

Just like this six-year marriage, now reduced to nothing but a settlement.