Chapter 1
"None of this would exist tonight without our visionary, our new managing partner -- Nicole Vance."
The spotlight sliced across the room. It completely bypassed me, founder and the executive chef standing by the kitchen doors with flour still dusting my wrists, and landed directly on his ex-girlfriend.
Nicole stepped onto the stage in a shimmering emerald silk gown. Grant reached out, his hand settling naturally on the curve of her lower back, smiling at her as if they had built an empire together.
This was the five-year anniversary gala for L'Hiver.
For five years, I had poured my soul into this kitchen. I had survived eighty-hour workweeks, burned my forearms over roasting pans, and developed every signature recipe that turned a failing diner into a culinary landmark.
Grant had handled our reservations and marketing. But tonight, he was handing the microphone to the woman who had walked out on him seven years ago.
"When Grant asked me to come back and breathe fresh life into this restaurant," Nicole spoke into the mic, pressing a manicured hand to her chest, "I knew we had to save this dream together."
The investors applauded. Food critics raised their glasses. Across the dining room, our head sous chef looked at me with horrified disbelief.
My pulse hammered against my ribs, but my hands remained entirely steady. I laid my tasting spoon down on the stainless steel counter, untied my apron, and smoothed the collar of my chef jacket.
When a prominent food critic turned to glance at me with unmasked pity, I met her gaze, lifted my glass of water, and smiled faintly.
"Enjoy the braised short ribs," I told her in a clear voice. "I spent fourteen hours perfecting that sauce."
Ten minutes later, in the dim corridor behind the kitchen, Grant caught my wrist.
"What was that cold look out there, Irene?" he hissed, keeping his voice low. "Nicole has over half a million followers online. Investors want a glamorous lifestyle brand, not someone smelling of garlic and grease. I am doing this for our future."
"Our future?" I asked, looking down at his jacket lapel. A faint smudge of peach lip gloss stained the dark wool.
Grant didn't flinch.
Instead, he pulled back, his tone turning icy and practical. "Be realistic for once. If you cause a scene tonight, sponsors walk away. Go back to the kitchen, prep the dessert tasting trays, and let Nicole handle the front of house."
He turned on his heel and walked back into the crowd.
I stood alone in the hallway, feeling the weight of the master keycard in my pocket. If Nicole was the new face of my restaurant, I needed to see exactly what she was costing me.