Chapter 3

The betrayal felt like bitter acid running through my veins—eating away everything I had left inside. My cheeks burned from humiliation. My body shivered, not just from the cold, but from the sheer, raw ache of it all.

He used me.

She laughed.

They just grinned.

And I had loved them both, in my own stupid, naïve way.

Two days passed.

I didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep. I stayed in my small room, curled up on the floor with a blanket that smelled like old detergent and lemon zest, playing every conversation we ever had in my head like a cruel movie on loop.

Rewriting it. Rereading it. Trying to understand why.

Then, on the second night, my phone buzzed. I thought for a fleeting second it would be him—apologizing, or at least pretending to care. I hoped, stupidly, for even the smallest flicker of decency.

But all I got was a message: “Thanks for helping me graduate. You're good at what you do. You’ll make a great assistant chef someday. But seriously, you are stupid and naive! Not my type at all. Bye!”

That was it. No closure. No sorry. Just a brutal punctuation to a beautifully fake and hurtful sentence.

It hit me like a slap. Like the final nail in a coffin I didn’t even know I had been building for the past year.

He didn’t see me. Not as a partner. Not as a lover. Not even as a person. To him, I was just a tool. A free ticket to graduation. A temporary distraction while he toyed with my sister in the shadows. I stared at the screen for a long time. The words didn’t blur. They didn’t disappear. They stared right back at me—sharp, clinical, void of emotion.

I never responded. I deleted the thread. I blocked the number. But the silence between us? It screamed louder than any message ever could. I didn’t yell.  I didn’t cry again. I just sat there, numb.

But deep down—something answered. It wasn’t rage. Not yet.

It was a seed. Small. Quiet. Sharp. And like every perfect dish… I knew it needed time. Time to marinate. Time to become rich, bold, unforgettable.

Because revenge— When cooked just right— Is always best served with elegance. And a touch of lemon. But fate wasn't done messing with me just yet.

Because, when I turned twenty-one, I finally tasted the thing I had been starving for all my life—freedom.

Diploma in hand, chef knives freshly sharpened, and not a single McLaren in sight. I walked out of that suffocating house with nothing but a suitcase, a used metro card, and my Culinary Arts certificate folded like a badge of honor in my worn-out tote bag. I didn’t look back. Not at the house, not at the twisted smiles, and certainly not at Norma.

I landed a job at a modest but respectable restaurant downtown—La Vostra, a rustic bistro that served overpriced artisan pasta and swore every tomato was hand-kissed by Italian sun gods.

Sure, the kitchen was hot as hell, the head chef cursed in three languages, and I sliced my finger on day one, but I didn’t care. I was a sous chef. I had a white coat. I had a paycheck. I had a tiny one-bedroom apartment above a laundromat that smelled like fabric softener and hope.

It wasn’t much—but it was mine.

For the first time, I could breathe without waiting for someone to accuse me of stealing air.

I thought, Finally. My life is turning around.

No more bullying. No more fake sisters. No more being screamed at for burning toast.

Just me, my knives, and garlic butter on the stove.

But of course, the universe said: Not so fast, sweetheart.

One slow Tuesday evening, just after we finished prepping the lamb ragù and the saffron risotto, the front-of-house manager called back into the kitchen with a strained voice.

“Krystal... you’ve got VIP guests. They specifically asked for you.”

I blinked. Me? VIPs? I took off my apron, wiped my hands, adjusted my bun, and walked out into the dining area like a professional. And then I saw them.

Norma and Ivy McLaren. Draped in designer coats, faces painted in passive-aggressive elegance, sipping wine they probably couldn’t pronounce just for the flex.

I stopped mid-step.

There was Ivy, scrolling through her phone like the world owed her attention. And Norma—my so-called “mother”—tapping the edge of her crystal glass with a fork, that signature smirk already curling her lips like she smelled something unpleasant.

I wanted to turn around. I wanted to run. But I was a professional now. And professionals don’t back down.

So I squared my shoulders, walked up to their table, and said, “Good evening, welcome to La Vostra. What can I get started for you?”

Norma gave me the slow, soul-crushing once-over. “Well, well, well… Look who’s wearing a chef’s coat like it means something.”

I bit back my words. “Would you like to start with the burrata or the charred octopus, ma’am?”

“Ivy doesn’t do dairy,” Norma said, waving me off like a fly. “She’s modeling now, didn’t you know?”

I ignored the jab. “Then may I recommend the scallops with lemon beurre blanc?”

That was my mistake. Because the moment I turned to leave and enter their order, the games began. They sent their food back three times. First, it was too cold. Then, too salty. Then, not what they ordered—despite the fact that I had written it down word for word.

Norma raised her voice. Ivy pouted. Other guests turned to look.

Then came the scene:  Norma stood from her chair, holding a shrimp with the tips of her fingers like it was poisoned.  “This is inedible! I wouldn’t feed this to my driver’s poodle. And to think—this is who you hired?”

Cue the manager—Tony, a balding man who panicked when rich people raised their voices. He rushed to the table like someone had died.

“She has an attitude,” Norma added with a fake gasp. “Such poor service. No wonder she was always the embarrassment of our family.”

Tony pulled me aside. “Krystal, I can’t… I mean, this is a classy place. VIPs talk. We can’t afford this kind of bad press.”

I stared at him, disbelieving. “You’re taking their side? They’re clearly trying to provoke me.”

He shrugged like a coward. “I need to think of the restaurant. I’m sorry. You’re… let go.”

Just like that. No second chance. No explanation. No defense. Just fired.

I stood there, in my flour-streaked coat, my hands still smelling of garlic and lemon zest, while Norma smirked from across the room like she’d just won a trophy.

Ivy snapped a picture of her plate. Not the food—me in the background. Like I was some kitchen tragedy worth mocking.

I left through the back door, not because I was ashamed—but because if I didn’t, I might’ve thrown a cast-iron pan at someone’s Botox. I walked home that night in silence, carrying my knives in a canvas roll, my pride in tatters, and my dreams bruised and bleeding.

I was broken.