From Asylum to Empire: Her Sweet Revenge

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're legally free. And you still own your intellectual property.

My recipes. The soul of our success. The one thi

foreign on my tongue. It was a cold, legal term, bu

It's all still yours. And it's worth a fortune. An

began to bloom. A chance. A

ce was steady now, a new purpose

e you disappear. Make them believe you' re gone for

as terrifying. But the alternative... a life t

ust want to disappear. I want them to pay. For Shannon. For everythin

ll make sure they pay the ultimate p

mmered, a drumbeat of anticipat

ss. "How's the new dish coming along, Francesca? Harlow is quite excit

y voice carefully neutral. "But An

s. You know how the media is. We need to project a unified front, even if it's separate.

smile playing on my lips. Liar.

in sight. I cooked, I experimented, I perfected the dish for Har

ughter floating from Antonio's office, or the clinking of Harlow's c

defeated. I let them see a woman on the edge, a shado

he would parade past the kitchen, her hand resting possessively on

oom. The large portrait of her and Antonio now domina

red, her eyes gleaming with malicious pleasure. "It needs to b

ppy, newly single chef, creating dishes for the public f

Antonio tell you? The divorce was finalized months ago. You're not h

onio's mistress. A very pregnant mistress. The divorce may be final, but the pub

You have no idea what Antonio is capable of. He protects his investments. And I a

nd hungry media. I stood backstage, a phantom among the bustling crew, my heart a cold, steady

ming, her hand on her swollen stomach. "My beautiful partner, Harlow, is truly the inspi

ion. Lies, all of it. A performance for the cameras, for the franchi

gaze lingering for a moment. He smiled, a practiced, ch

remembered his low whispers, his promises of forever. How

the words a silent bullet in my mind. "Everyth

ickered. The live feed of the gala vanished, replaced by

rough the crowd.

bootie lay forgotten on a bedside table. The date flashed on screen: the very night Shannon died. The

of shouts and whispers. Cameras f

face contorted in a grotesque mask of shoc

attention to her, cradling her as she collapsed. "Harlow,

h fury. "Francesca! You bitch! You did this!" She pointed

now burning with accusation. "She's unstable! A psychopath!

pushed Harlow gently into the arms of a waiting assistant and stormed t

ustice?" He grabbed my arm, his grip bruising, and dragged me towards the edge of the elevated stage, a sheer dr

faces. The pain in my arm was excruciating, but it was nothing compared to the cold, dead c

an eternity. Each second was a slow, agonizing torment, a rehearsal for