The Chef's Reckoning

The Chef's Reckoning

Xiao Ye

5.0
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My name is Ethan; I used to be a Michelin-starred chef, but now I' m the trophy husband to Victoria, a real estate mogul who keeps me on a humiliating $200 allowance in our luxurious Hollywood Hills mansion that feels like nothing more than a gilded cage. When a severe car accident badly injured my dominant hand, requiring $5,000 for urgent, career-saving surgery, Victoria' s voice on the phone was cold, accusing me of "leeching" and attempting to find "new ways to grab her money" before she abruptly hung up, dismissing my pain as a mere annoyance. That callous denial cost me everything, leaving me with permanent nerve damage that utterly crushed any hope of ever cooking professionally again. Yet, she simultaneously showered her platonic "childhood friend" Liam with extravagant tokens of affection, like a $75,000 vintage watch, flaunting his "BestieGoals" on Instagram. Later, still suffering at the hospital with my throbbing hand, I learned she was hosting a massive drone party at our house, spelling out "Welcome Home Liam!" while I waited for a ride that simply never came. The anger and hurt I used to feel, the desperation for her attention, all evaporated, replaced by a chilling numbness, a profound, almost eerie detachment. What else could I say, sitting across from her at breakfast, as she scrolled through Liam's posts with a small smile, never once looking at me, never once acknowledging the depth of her complete disregard? So, when she eventually scoffed, "Aren' t you even a little bit jealous?", I met her gaze, truly seeing her for the first time, and replied with absolute, unnerving calm, "No, Victoria, why would I be?" That night, I ripped off my wedding ring, gave it to a cab driver, and made a call that promised a new life, a new kitchen, and new freedom, far from her suffocating golden trap.

Introduction

My name is Ethan; I used to be a Michelin-starred chef, but now I' m the trophy husband to Victoria, a real estate mogul who keeps me on a humiliating $200 allowance in our luxurious Hollywood Hills mansion that feels like nothing more than a gilded cage.

When a severe car accident badly injured my dominant hand, requiring $5,000 for urgent, career-saving surgery, Victoria' s voice on the phone was cold, accusing me of "leeching" and attempting to find "new ways to grab her money" before she abruptly hung up, dismissing my pain as a mere annoyance.

That callous denial cost me everything, leaving me with permanent nerve damage that utterly crushed any hope of ever cooking professionally again. Yet, she simultaneously showered her platonic "childhood friend" Liam with extravagant tokens of affection, like a $75,000 vintage watch, flaunting his "BestieGoals" on Instagram. Later, still suffering at the hospital with my throbbing hand, I learned she was hosting a massive drone party at our house, spelling out "Welcome Home Liam!" while I waited for a ride that simply never came.

The anger and hurt I used to feel, the desperation for her attention, all evaporated, replaced by a chilling numbness, a profound, almost eerie detachment. What else could I say, sitting across from her at breakfast, as she scrolled through Liam's posts with a small smile, never once looking at me, never once acknowledging the depth of her complete disregard?

So, when she eventually scoffed, "Aren' t you even a little bit jealous?", I met her gaze, truly seeing her for the first time, and replied with absolute, unnerving calm, "No, Victoria, why would I be?" That night, I ripped off my wedding ring, gave it to a cab driver, and made a call that promised a new life, a new kitchen, and new freedom, far from her suffocating golden trap.

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The Prank That Shattered Love

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The world came back in a rush of white. White ceiling, white sheets, the sterile smell of antiseptic. My head throbbed. I was in a hospital. My fiancé, Cameron, rushed to my bedside, his face creased with worry. I decided to play a prank, pretending I had amnesia. "Who... who are you?" I whispered. His relief evaporated, replaced by a calculating look. He showed me a picture of another woman, Hannah Nichols, an intern at his family's company. "She's the woman I love," he said, his voice flat. "But you and I are getting married. Our families have an agreement. A business merger. It's too important to fail." My mind reeled. The man I loved was telling me our entire relationship was a lie. I felt a surge of fury. "Then call it off," I snapped. He grabbed my wrist, panic in his eyes. "If this merger falls through, my family is ruined. Hannah... she's very fragile. The stress would destroy her." My life, my love, my future-it was all just collateral damage in his pathetic, selfish drama. I was nothing more than a business deal. The witty, proud Alicia England, heiress to a tech empire, reduced to a bargaining chip. Later, I heard him on the phone, his voice soft and tender. "Don't worry, Hannah. It's all under control. She has amnesia. She doesn't remember a thing. Love me? Of course, she loves me. She's been obsessed with me since we were kids. It' s almost pathetic." My heart shattered. He thought I was a broken, forgetful fool he could manipulate. He was about to find out how wrong he was.

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The sterile white of the operating room blurred, then sharpened, as Skye Sterling felt the cold clawing its way up her body. The heart monitor flatlined, a steady, high-pitched whine announcing her end. Her uterus had been removed, a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding, but the blood wouldn't clot. It just kept flowing, warm and sticky, pooling beneath her. Through heavy eyes, she saw a trembling nurse holding a phone on speaker. "Mr. Kensington," the nurse's voice cracked, "your wife... she's critical." A pause, then a sweet, poisonous giggle. Seraphina Miller. "Liam is in the shower," Seraphina's voice purred. "Stop calling, Skye. It's pathetic. Faking a medical emergency on our anniversary? Even for you, that's low." Then, Liam's bored voice: "If she dies, call the funeral home. I have a meeting in the morning." Click. The line went dead. A second later, so did Skye. The darkness that followed was absolute, suffocating, a black ocean crushing her lungs. She screamed into the void, a silent, agonizing wail of regret for loving a man who saw her as a nuisance, for dying without ever truly living. Until she died, she didn't understand. Why was her life so tragically wasted? Why did her husband, the man she loved, abandon her so cruelly? The injustice of it all burned hotter than the fever in her body. Then, the air rushed back in. Skye gasped, her body convulsing violently on the mattress. Her eyes flew open, wide and terrified, staring blindly into the darkness. Her trembling hand reached for her phone. May 12th. Five years ago. She was back.

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