Chapter 4

Day thirty.

The day we were to sign the final divorce agreement.

We sat in Simone's conference room, ready to complete the final formalities. There was no small talk.

Spencer sat across the long table. He looked exhausted from days of running on fumes, but his posture was still arrogant.

Simone opened the file and read out the final asset list: the Upper East Side penthouse, a Porsche, and the five percent stake in the SoHo bistros I'd carved out of his hands.

At the end of it, Spencer's brows drew together.

"Beatrice, do you really have to take it this far?"

"That's what the law requires. We have to divide things properly." I didn't even look up as I turned to the final page.

"Fine. But putting the marriage aside, you're still the head chef at L'Étoile."

Spencer leaned back, trying to project generosity and magnanimity.

"I won't shortchange you. If you agree, your salary can go up whenever you want. The restaurant needs you, and I... I've gotten used to having you running the kitchen."

He thought the only thing he was settling today was an insignificant marriage.

He thought that if he offered enough, the "perfect machine" that had earned him Michelin stars and endless cash flow would remain chained to his wagon forever.

I signed the final page, then looked up at him.

"Thank you for your generosity, Spencer. But once I sign, it's effective. Tomorrow morning, I'll formally submit my resignation to HR."

Spencer froze for a moment, then his face darkened.

"Resignation? Where will you go after leaving here? There's no other restaurant in all of New York that can give you a better platform than L'Étoile."

"That's my problem."

I slid the signed papers toward him.

Spencer gave a cold snort, clearly offended that his authority had been challenged.

But he glanced at his watch as if he were running late, then picked up the pen and signed in a hurried scrawl.

"Take all the time you need, Beatrice." He stood, buttoned his suit jacket, and looked down at me.

"Take as long as you want. Once you've had your little break and realized how brutal the real business world is, the doors to my kitchen will still be open."

He paused at the conference-room door.

"Oh, by the way, Riley is officially moving into the Hamptons house tomorrow. Those old kitchen tools and handwritten recipes you left in the basement... Should I have my assistant send a moving company over to deliver them to you?"

"No need. Do whatever you want with them."

Spencer shrugged and left, closing the door behind him.

Only Simone and I remained in the conference room.

Handwritten recipes.

Six years ago, in that freezing apartment in Queens with no working heat, I'd used those same "worthless" old kitchen tools to make the first pot of lobster bisque that would later amaze New York.

That cold winter night, Spencer had tasted it and hugged me, thrilled.

"Beatrice, remember this recipe. There's nothing else like it. It's going to make us all of Manhattan."

Back then, he said "us."

Until L'Étoile earned its third Michelin star, and everything became "his" restaurant, "his" business empire.

He packaged my life's work into expensive menus, then swept the original recipes—and the wife who had fought beside him in that cramped kitchen when he was still building his empire—into a basement where no one could see them.

I pulled myself back to the present and looked at the table.

"Beatrice?"

Simone adjusted her frameless glasses and opened another highly confidential folder.

"Are you sure you want to activate it now? Once the notice goes out, his entire group could be brought to a standstill."

I walked to the floor-to-ceiling window and looked down at the indifferent, glittering streets of Manhattan.

For six years, Spencer had believed he was the one in control. He believed the status and platform he gave me were what made me successful.

He never understood that a woman who had clawed her way up from the bottom of a kitchen would never hand her lifeline to someone else.

Three years ago, the moment he first tried to interfere with my supply chain and force inferior industrial truffle oil into my kitchen, I'd already drawn the line.

The three signature dishes that formed the heart of L'Étoile's three-Michelin-star reputation, along with six proprietary sauces, were all held as trade secrets by a shell company I owned outright.

The group only had the right to use them under an exclusive licensing agreement with strict termination provisions.

And the agreement was crystal clear: the license terminated the moment the divorce became effective.

"Activate it, Simone." I turned around, my voice hard.

"First, notify the direct-supply farms that only recognize my personal signature. Cut off all premium ingredient shipments to L'Étoile."

"Second, send a cease-and-desist notice to the group's legal department. Starting with tonight's dinner service, they no longer have the right to sell any of my recipes."

"As you wish." Simone hit Enter.

The email was sent.

Spencer thought he'd only signed a divorce agreement.

He thought all he'd lost was an obedient wife and a well-used tool.

He had no idea I'd just drained the lifeblood from his entire empire.