Chapter 1

The countdown for the City Food Festival livestream echoed through the prep tent just as a pop of boiling oil seared the back of my hand.

I didn't flinch.

I just kept pouring the last spoonful of my signature spicy cream sauce over the brisket tacos while Theo's voice crackled over the PA system.

I wiped the grease from my wrist, ignoring the sharp, stinging burn, and looked up at the massive digital monitor looming over the festival grounds.

Theo stood on the main stage, his practiced, charismatic smile catching the stadium lights.

Beside him wasn't me, but Kara Bell—a food vlogger we had hired a month ago just to run our social media presence.

"Everyone, I want you to meet the true soul of our brand," Theo announced into the microphone, his hand resting easily on Kara's shoulder.

Kara beamed, waving at the cheering crowd.

She held up a plate of the very brisket tacos I had spent three sleepless weeks perfecting in our cramped apartment kitchen.

As she laughed at something Theo whispered to her, he casually reached out and wiped a smudge of sauce off her sleeve—a smooth, unconscious gesture.

It was the exact same small, protective habit he used to have with me back when we were still scraping by in our first shared kitchen.

Before that realization could settle, my older brother stepped into the camera frame.

Marcus gripped the microphone, his chest puffed out with the aggressive confidence of a man who had spent years leaving the heavy lifting of the line to me.

"And to celebrate our new menu, we are taking the truck on a three-month cross-country tour! We leave tomorrow!"

The crowd erupted.

Inside the sweltering prep tent, the air froze in my lungs.

A tour.

A three-month tour they had planned, booked, and announced without saying a single word to the chef whose food they were selling.

The permanent brick-and-mortar kitchen we were supposed to open next month—the space they promised me in exchange for six years of endless, unpaid hours behind this mobile fryer—was dissolving in real-time on a sixty-foot LED screen.

The flap of the prep tent whipped open.

Marcus marched in, his face flushed, speaking as if he hadn't just broadcasted my replacement to the entire city.

He slapped a heavily stapled clipboard onto my stainless-steel cutting board.

"Alright, Sienna, we need a massive prep push before midnight," Marcus said, tapping the top sheet of paper.

"I've outlined your remote R&D schedule for the next twelve weeks."

"You'll stay in the city, work out of the commissary kitchen, and overnight the vacuum-sealed sauces to our stops."

"We need at least two new seasonal drops by the time we hit Austin."

He didn't ask if I could do it.

He didn't even phrase it as a discussion.

It was simply the schedule I had been assigned.

Theo ducked into the tent right behind him, breathless from the stage.

He caught the look on my face and immediately dropped his voice into a low, placating tone.

"Sienna, I know it's sudden," Theo murmured, stepping close enough to block my view of the other line cooks working the fryers behind me.

"But this exposure is exactly what the brand needs."

"Kara has the on-camera energy we've been missing."

"It's just business."

My hand reached into my apron pocket, my fingers brushing against a folded piece of thick cardstock.

It was the tasting reservation slip for our wedding venue, scheduled for next Tuesday.

Just last night, Theo had tapped it against the coffee table and reminded me, "Don't let me forget Tuesday."

Now, he was looking at me with that same easy smile.

"We'll pause the wedding prep for now," Theo sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Just until the tour is over."

"Three months, Sienna."

"We'll talk about the wedding after the tour wraps up."

"Just hold down the fort here."

That was the offer.

Sit in a windowless commercial kitchen, churning out recipes for Kara to parade on camera, while he delayed our wedding so he could take my truck on a joyride.

I was supposed to stay on the hook, ensuring they didn't lose their supply of the food that made them famous.

Six years of loyalty.

Six years of hiding in the smoke and grease while Theo took the meetings and Marcus managed the books.

I was supposed to absorb the loss because we were family, because we were engaged, and because every recipe I'd ever written was tied to that truck—all under the absolute assumption that I would never dream of saying no.

The sting of the oil burn on my hand throbbed, sharp and grounding.

I looked at the clipboard, then at the man I was supposed to marry, and finally at my brother.

Marcus glanced at the order screen over my shoulder.

"We've got two hundred tickets waiting in the queue right now."

"Get moving."

I looked at the screen, then back at Kara on the monitor outside, holding my plate of tacos as the public face of our brand.

I reached out, but I didn't pick up the prep list.

I reached past it and turned the heavy brass knob on my personal section of the commercial stove.

Click.

The blue flames on my station died instantly.

The sudden silence in our corner of the tent made the nearest line cooks pause and glance over.

Marcus frowned, pointing at the darkened burners.

"What are you doing? We have two hundred tickets pending!"

"Then your new creative force should know what to do," I said.

I slid the clipboard back across the metal counter until it hit Marcus's chest.

"I'm not doing remote R&D."

"I'm not overnighting sauces."

"And the next recipe I write won't be on your truck."

Theo's smile slipped.

"Sienna, be reasonable."

"You can't just walk out on the brand in the middle of our biggest night."

"It's not our brand anymore, Theo," I replied, pulling my stained apron over my head.

"You just made sure of that on national television."

I let the apron drop onto the counter, right next to the discarded wedding tasting slip.

I didn't wait for another excuse.

I turned and pushed my way through the heavy canvas flap of the tent, the cool night air hitting my face as I stepped out into the chaotic festival grounds.

Marcus chased after me, his heavy boots crunching on the gravel.

"Sienna, stop!" he barked, his voice carrying the sharp edge of an order.

"You think you can just walk away?"

I kept walking, refusing to look back, but his next words hit me squarely between the shoulder blades, stopping me dead in my tracks.

"Go ahead and walk," Marcus called out, his voice dropping into that cold, managerial register that meant he was locking things down.

"But the commissary lease is in my name, and the truck keys stay with us."

"You're not taking a single piece of equipment out of that lot."

I stopped.

The burn on my hand throbbed against the chill night air, the festival music thumping dully in the distance.

I didn't turn around to give him a parting line.

I just kept walking toward the street.

I had said no.

But standing there in the dark, I already knew the cost of it was going to be much higher than I thought.