Chapter 1

"Let's call off the engagement." Jonathan Goodwin's voice was ice-cold, as if he were announcing something that had nothing to do with him. He glanced at the dinner table and added, "Your cooking has gotten boring. I'm over it."

Three years of devotion, and all I got was a casual "I'm over it."

I became the laughingstock of every elite circle in the city.

I didn't cry. I calmly slipped off that gaudy engagement ring, set it on the table in front of him, and walked out.

He was "over it"? What a joke. His first love had come back, and that was all there was to it. Fine by me. I was done playing house.

That night, I dusted off my long-neglected food blog and posted for the first time in months. In the video, a rich, golden lobster bisque simmered and bubbled, so gorgeous that one could almost smell it through the screen.

The caption read: [Out with the trash. Time to treat myself.]

No one expected it, but the real story was just getting started.

*****

Jonathan's voice cut through the low hum of the restaurant. "Let's call off the engagement."

That face, the one the media loved to call "effortlessly charming," held nothing but cold indifference now.

He leaned back against the velvet booth with an unlit cigarette pinched between his fingers, and his gaze drifted over me like he was sizing up a piece of outdated furniture.

He added, "Your cooking has gotten boring. I'm over it."

My fingers tightened around my knife and fork, and my nails dug into my palm with a sharp sting.

I had spent three years in this engagement, trading my manicured hands for kitchen burns. I went from a girl who couldn't tell cilantro from parsley to someone who could replicate Michelin-starred dishes from memory.

I thought if I could win over his stomach, I could win over his heart.

And all I got back was "I'm over it."

His circle of so-called friends snickered around the table, their laughter buzzing like flies.

"Come on, Jon, that's a little harsh. Sophia's cooking isn't bad, it's just a little too homestyle."

"You know how it is. A guy wants something exciting. Vivian's different. She's an artist, she's got that certain flair."

Vivian Lane. His first love, the one who had just come back from overseas.

So that was what this was really about.

He was over it? What an excuse for being a cheating piece of work. He couldn't wait to clear the way for his precious Vivian now that she was back.

And he had the nerve to say my cooking lacked creativity? This man couldn't tell truffle oil from olive oil. He deserved nothing more than frozen pizza and gas-station hot dogs.

My mind was screaming, but my face stayed perfectly still.

I looked up and met Jonathan's eyes. They held a flicker of impatience and a quiet sense of superiority, as he had already rehearsed this moment.

He probably expected me to fall apart like every other woman who'd been dumped before, crying, screaming, throwing a full-blown tantrum.

Too bad for him. I wasn't that woman.

I set my knife and fork down slowly, and the crisp clink of silverware cut through the noise around us. The whispers stopped.

Then I raised my left hand. With every pair of eyes on me, I slid the diamond ring off my finger, one deliberate motion at a time. He had put it there three years ago during his over-the-top public proposal.

Now it felt like nothing more than an expensive joke.

I set the ring down beside the white plate, and the diamond caught the chandelier light for a brief moment, cold and sharp.

I looked at him and called him by his full name for the first time, my voice calm and distant. "Jonathan. I hope you never run out of 'fresh experiences.'"

I stood up and smoothed my dress, then turned without another glance at him or the stunned faces of his friends. My heels clicked against the marble floor as I walked out of that disgusting place, one steady step at a time.

Every click against the marble sounded like a goodbye to every stupid year I had wasted.

A voice inside me was practically singing. Good riddance. I was done playing the dutiful girlfriend.

Starting today, I was a free woman, and I was going to eat my way through every Michelin-starred restaurant in the city. I would never have to cater to Jonathan's boring palate again.

Back at the villa I had once called home, the air still carried the scent of the chicken soup I had spent the whole afternoon simmering.

I used to think that was what happiness smelled like, but now it felt like nothing more than a joke.

I didn't shed a single tear. All I felt was hungry.

Starving myself for a man who didn't deserve it was the worst deal I had ever made.

I walked into the kitchen, which was bigger than my bedroom, and opened the fridge. It was packed with the finest ingredients money could buy, from Wagyu beef to blue lobster, all of it stocked to impress Jonathan.

What a waste that would have been. But now, every last bit of it belonged to me.

I took a deep breath and pulled a heavy Dutch oven from the back of the fridge.

I had spent days tracking down these premium ingredients through a friend—lobster tails, king crab legs, dry-aged ribeye, and fresh scallops. They were supposed to be a surprise for our engagement anniversary dinner.

Now, I was keeping that surprise for myself.

I rolled up my sleeves and got to work. I prepped the meat, reduced the stock, seared the seafood, and braised everything low and slow. Every step was precise and deliberate.

The kitchen filled with a rich, intoxicating aroma. It wasn't the bland, simple meals Jonathan preferred. This was the bold, unapologetic scent of a feast fit for royalty.

Hours later, a golden, impossibly fragrant surf and turf stew emerged from the oven.

I didn't bother with fancy plates. I ladled it into one big bowl, sat down alone at the empty dining table, and dug in without a shred of guilt.

The buttery lobster melted on my tongue, the seared scallops burst with sweetness, and the ribeye fell apart at the touch of my fork.

Every flavor exploded across my palate, and the rich broth warmed me from the inside out, chasing away the last trace of cold that had settled in my chest.

This was what living felt like. Starving myself on salads for a man who didn't deserve it? I must have been out of my mind.

After I finished every last drop, I pulled out my phone and logged into the food account I had abandoned three years ago when the relationship started. It was named "Home Kitchen Diaries."

I set up the lighting and filmed a short video of the stew that looked almost sinfully good. The golden broth bubbled, and steam curled through the frame, and every second of it screamed "expensive" and "delicious."

I typed out a caption. [Cutting out the trash and choosing me.]

Then I hit post.

When it was all done, I turned off my phone, drew myself a hot bath, and slept like a baby.

I had no idea that while I slept, that little video of mine had already set the internet on fire.