Chapter 2

My office was pitch-black, illuminated only by the cold blue glow of my laptop screen.

It took me less than four minutes to find where our money had been going.

Every month for the past year, our restaurant's operating reserve had been steadily drained by unauthorized corporate disbursements.

Grant managed our bookkeeping, but I was the legal founder who created the administrative master account. He thought labeling the transactions under "Brand Strategy Outreach" and "Consulting Retainers" would hide them from a chef buried under nightly kitchen tickets.

He was wrong.

I clicked open the digital invoices attached to each withdrawal.

A lease for a luxury high-rise apartment downtown, billed as a "creative workspace."

First-class flights to private wellness retreats, marked as "culinary market research."

Designer clothes, jewelry, and high-end salon charges, all signed off on our restaurant's corporate credit line.

Every single expense had been authorized directly for Nicole Vance.

My fingers didn't tremble, but my chest felt hollowed out by ice.

While I had been trimming our grocery budgets and working double shifts during the slow winter season to keep our prep line employed, my husband was funding his ex-girlfriend's luxury lifestyle with my labor.

I didn't break down or weep. I reached into my apron, pulled out an encrypted thumb drive, and began exporting every line item, digital receipt, and timestamped approval signed by Grant.

The progress bar crept forward. Sixty percent. Eighty percent.

The heavy brass handle rattled, and the office door clicked open.

Grant stepped inside, loosening his tie. His eyes narrowed the second he saw the glowing monitor.

"What are you doing in the dark?" he asked sharply. "Nicole's livestream is starting. She needs you out at the chef's station to present the final dessert course."

I kept my hand resting over the thumb drive, waiting for the soft confirmation chime to finish before I spoke.

"Nicole needs me to serve her?" I asked.

Grant sighed heavily, crossing his arms in exasperation. "Irene, stop letting your petty insecurity ruin this night. Nicole is bringing massive attention to this restaurant. If you refuse to cook for her stream, reviewers will say you're stubborn and difficult. You will destroy our brand."

I quietly closed the laptop, slipping the thumb drive deep into my pocket.

"Our brand, Grant?" I asked, looking straight into his eyes. "Funny how it's only 'ours' when you need someone sweating over the stove, but hers the second the cameras turn on."

Grant's jaw tightened, caught off-guard by the coldness in my voice.

Before he could fire back, his phone vibrated violently against the dark mahogany wood between us.

The screen lit up with an incoming message notification.

The preview banner read: "Babe, where are you? The press is asking about our announcement. You promised tonight was our fresh start."