THREE

Delilah’s POV

I waited for the passengers in front of me to gather their things and shuffle down the narrow aisle before I stood, grabbing my carry-on bag with hands that trembled more than I wanted to admit. I walked out of the plane and into the airport, my eyes scanning the crowd, overwhelmed by the sea of strangers.

I stepped aside, pressing myself against a wall just to get out of the way. I took a shaky breath and tried to calm the rising storm inside me.

"Okay," I whispered to myself. "One thing at a time. Just get through today."

I walked toward the exit, my heart pounding. I didn’t even know where I was going to sleep tonight. I’d searched for cheap hotels before I left, but I hadn’t booked anything. I didn’t want to make it real back then. But it was real now. Very real.

A poster caught my eye when I passed a wall of bulletin boards near the arrivals gate. It was bright gold, glossy, and impossible to miss. A picture of a beautifully plated dish—a tower of food too pretty to eat—sat beneath bold black letters: "EXCLUSIVE OPPORTUNITY: PRIVATE CHEFS WANTED. HIGH-END CLIENTELE. LUXURY RESIDENCES. CALL NOW." At the bottom was a number.

I stared at it, my heart suddenly racing for a different reason. Cooking was the one thing that made sense to me. It was the only way I could think of even making money at this point.

I pulled out my phone and dialed the number with shaking fingers. I didn’t let myself overthink it. I couldn’t afford to. There was no way I was going to let this opportunity pass me by. I pressed the phone to my ear and stepped outside into the cool air, hoping this wasn’t some scam. I needed this to be real.

The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.

Then someone picked up.

“Hello, thank you for calling Luxe Chefs Placement Agency. This is Hannah speaking. How can I help you?”

I froze for a second. My mouth felt dry. “Hi… um, I just saw your poster at the airport. About hiring private chefs?”

“Yes,” the woman said kindly. “Are you a professional chef?”

“I… I have experience,” I stammered. “I’ve worked in kitchens for years. I studied culinary arts. I’m not certified as a private chef, but I am a fast learner. I just moved here. I really need work.”

There was a pause. “Can you send me your resume? And maybe some sample photos of your dishes, if you have any?”

I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me. “Yes, I can do that.”

“Alright. Send everything to the email listed on the poster. If your experience fits what we’re looking for, we can schedule an interview within the next twenty-four hours. Sound good?”

“Yes,” I said quickly. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome," She said curtly and hung up. After she hung up, I stood there for a minute, staring at the phone. It wasn’t a job offer yet. It wasn’t a miracle. But it was something. It was a thread of hope, and right now, that was everything.

I closed my eyes and let out a long, shaky breath. I still didn’t know where I was going to sleep tonight. But I would figure that out later. Right now, I needed a rebrand.

I didn’t want to look like Justin's dainty and proper wife anymore, and I didn’t want to see her in the mirror.

She was soft. Fragile. Blind.

I was done being her.

I walked until I spotted a hair salon between a tattoo parlor and a pawn shop. Neon lights buzzed in the window: Midnight Mane. The name alone felt right.

Inside, the scent of dye-filled the air. A woman with a shaved side fade, and a neck full of tattoos looked up from the counter. “Welcome, what can I do for you, love?” she asked kindly.

I didn’t even blink. “I want to bleach my hair. All of it. Cut it, too.”

She raised a brow, a grin tugging at her lip. “You sure? You’ve got pretty hair.”

“I don’t want pretty,” I said. “I want different.”

An hour later, the woman in the mirror barely looked like me. My long, curly hair had been chopped into a blunt shoulder-length bob that made my neck look longer and drew every attention to my face. My dull black hair had been dyed strawberry blonde.

I liked this new look.

The city lights flickered like stars as I stepped out of the salon, newly blonde and completely unrecognizable—even to myself. I wandered the unfamiliar streets until I found a rundown hotel that didn’t look like it checked IDs or asked questions.

I stepped into the hotel, and the musty smell hit me like a punch to the gut. I wrinkled my nose, my eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. The receptionist, a gruff-looking man with a thick beard, looked up from his phone and raised an eyebrow. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah, I'd like a room for the night, please," I said, digging into my pocket for the last of the cash I had to spare for accommodation.

He nodded, his expression unreadable, and handed me a key. "Room 304. The elevator's down the hall."

"Thank you," I mumbled. I took the key and made my way to the elevator, heading to room 304. The room was small, with a single bed and a worn-out carpet, but it was clean, and that was all that mattered. I dropped my bag on the bed and collapsed onto the mattress, sighing deeply.

I'd left everything behind – my old life, my old self – and started fresh, but it was scary, and I wasn't sure if I'd made the right decision. I thought about Julian, my former husband, and wondered if he'd even notice I was gone. My heart hurt a little, and I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes.

I pushed the thoughts aside and focused on the present. I'd thrown away my old SIM card and gotten a new one, hoping to start fresh and leave my past behind. But a part of me still wished that Julia would miraculously find my number and try to reach out. I ate a bland takeout dinner on the bed, scrolled through my phone, and tried not to cry again. But the silence? It was loud. There were no texts, calls, or even a wrong number.