Parisian chef

I spent my entire life loving Mark, the man who became my guardian after my parents died. For his return from a three-month trip, I cooked the perfect dinner, certain he would finally see me as a woman.

Instead, he invited me to a celebratory dinner the next night, where he introduced me to his stunning fiancée. The celebration was for their engagement.

"Isabelle, this is Clara," he said, his voice glowing with a love he had never shown me. "The one who’s been like a little sister to me all these years."

They spent the evening discussing their wedding plans, their shared joy a surreal torture. My years of devotion felt like a joke.

He was so lost in his happiness that he never noticed my silence, the way my hope curdled into a thick, choking humiliation. I was invisible.

But back in the apartment he paid for, an acceptance letter was waiting for me: a full scholarship to a design institute in Paris.

When he found me packing the next day, demanding to know what was going on, I placed my key on the table. And I walked out of his life forever.

Chapter 1

The scent of rosemary and garlic clung to the air in my small apartment, a fragrant shield against the damp chill of a Veridia autumn. I adjusted the sprig of thyme on the roasted chicken, my fingers trembling slightly. Everything had to be perfect.

*Just perfect. For him.*

My world had revolved around Mark for as long as I could remember. He was the sun, and I was a small, hopeful planet caught in his orbit. Our parents had been best friends, and we grew up in each other’s pockets. When my parents died in a car crash when I was eighteen, his family had taken me in. They’d given me a home, an education, and a safety net. Mark, older by five years, had become my guardian, my protector, my everything. And I, with all the foolish devotion of a girl who’d lost everyone else, had fallen irrevocably in love with him.

Tonight was the night. He was finally back from a three-month business trip in Asia. Three months of hollow silence in this apartment he paid for, three months of counting down the days.

My inner monologue was a frantic hum of hope and anxiety. *He’ll see how much effort I’ve put in. He’ll see the woman I’ve become, not just the little sister he’s always looked after. He’ll finally see me.*

I smoothed down the front of my simple blue dress, the fabric soft but inexpensive against my skin. I couldn’t afford the kind of clothes he was used to seeing on women, but I’d hoped the color brought out my eyes. I glanced around the living room. The lighting was low and warm, the table was set for two with the good plates I’d bought last year, and a single candle flickered in the center, its flame dancing with my own nervous energy. The air tasted of anticipation, thick and sweet like the wine I’d let breathe on the counter.

The sound of a key in the lock made my heart leap into my throat. I quickly wiped my damp palms on a dish towel, my breath catching.

Mark stepped inside, bringing a gust of cold, rain-scented air with him. He looked tired, but as handsome as ever. His dark hair was slightly damp, and his tailored overcoat dripped onto the welcome mat. He was tall, broad-shouldered, a figure of effortless authority.

“Clara,” he said, his voice a low baritone that I’d replayed in my head a thousand times. He offered a small, weary smile. His eyes, a cool, distant grey, scanned the room, taking in the candle, the set table, the aroma of the dinner.

“Welcome home, Mark,” I managed, my voice sounding breathy and weak. *Say something more. Don’t just stand there like a child.*

“You cooked,” he observed, shrugging off his coat. The movement was economical, precise. He hung it on the hook by the door, his back to me. There was no hug, no warm greeting. Just a statement of fact.

My hope flickered, just like the candle flame. “I wanted to do something special for your return.”

He finally turned to face me fully, and his gaze softened slightly, but it was the kind of look one gives a well-meaning puppy. A fond, but ultimately patronizing, affection. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Clara. It smells wonderful.”

He sat at the table, loosening his tie. His jaw was tight, a small muscle ticking near his ear. He was already somewhere else, his mind still on spreadsheets and profit margins. I served the chicken, my hands steady now, a strange calm settling over my disappointment. This was familiar territory. Me, trying desperately to bridge a gap he didn't even seem to notice was there.

We ate, the silence punctuated by the clinking of silverware against porcelain. I asked about his trip. He spoke of meetings in Singapore, of factory negotiations, of market expansion. His words were all business, devoid of personal anecdote or emotion. He didn’t ask how I was. He didn’t ask what I’d been doing for the past three months.