The Soufflé of Sweet Revenge

end, Collin. For our fifth anniversary, I baked his favorite soufflé

his rival chef, Frankie. He was laughing as he mocked me to a crowd. "Emm

a "make-up gift." It was a cheap silver neckl

en I'm allerg

out me. I wasn't his partner; I was just a dr

n texted, demanding to know what "stupid designer bag

trust me, he's eve

pte

Lan

d out of my lungs, as I stared at my phone screen on what was supposed to be our five-year anniversary. I

t with our best china, the candles casting dancing shadows, and the scent of my carefully baked raspberry

magine our life together. I had even bought a new dress, something special, hoping to rekindle the spark th

ach minute felt like a heavy stone dropping into a bottomless well. My phone, usually a

s contact, but I didn't dial. What was the point? This wasn't new. His disappearances had become as predictab

ven Collin, with his endless self-absorption, usually

nkie Patton. My heart sank even before I saw the image. Frankie, the flashier, tre

me in years. They were standing in front of a sprawling catering display, surrounded by glittering lights and champagne flutes. The caption read: "Another flawle

a punch to the gut. They weren't

, a video autoplayed. It was a short clip of Collin, his face flushed with wine, telling a story to a gr

work tonight? So sad, our anniversary. But don't worry, I'll bring you home some scraps!" The crowd a

me. It wasn't just a betrayal. It was an annihilation of every sacrifice I had made, every qui

he little lies, the forgotten dates, the late-night texts he'd hide-they all clicked into place, forming a horrifyingly clear pictu

of it felt like a monument to my own foolishness. I had made myself small, invisible, so as not

ot an

out a message to Collin. "It's over. Don't bother

said, my voice surprisingly fla

catering gig? Don't be dramatic. I'll be home later, we'll talk. This isn't how we do things." He still thought it

d. He thought I was just throwing a tantrum. But this tim

Frankie, his hand resting intimately on her thigh, was still making jokes. "Honestly, Emma's probably at home crying into her pathetic little soufflé," he slu

era. "Poor Emma," she purred, "always so predictable. Some

ingering, possessive kiss. Not the fleeting peck he'd give me

hed back to our first date, his charming smile, the way he' d talked about his dream

ip of the tongue. He' d apologized profusely, bought me flowers, cooked me dinner. Now I saw it for what it was: a glimpse into his tr

is struggling restaurant, all the quiet nights I spent alone while he was "working late." I' d even ignored my o

e passionate kisses for Frankie. I was merely a dress rehearsal for the main event. Every "I love you,"

but firm. "There are some men who see you, truly see your talent and your soul. And there are others who only see what you

ds echoed li

e revisit that business proposal from Dawson Herrera? he' d suggeste

ty Group. He had admired my father's work for decades. And once, years ago, he'd tasted one of my early pastries at a charity event. He hadn

ance. But the thought of it, of putting my life back on a

'll come crawling back. You always do. Just tell me what you want, Emma. Another st

. He still though

erishes me, and who doesn't use me as a stepping stone. And I'm getting one. I'm engaged. And trust me, he's everything you're not." I

It was over. Truly