Do You Recognize Your Fiancée?

As I made my way through the hallway, I paused by the small refreshment station near the wall and poured myself a cup of coffee. Not long after, Mr. Hubert caught up to me.

“Adrienne,” he said softly.

I turned and gave him a small nod. “Mr. Hubert.”

His face shifted, unreadable at first. “I think it’s time you stopped being so formal with me. Drop the Mr. Hubert and just call me George. You and I don’t have that much difference in age. And our relationship is way past this.”

I smiled. “I’m sorry. It’s just… I guess I’ll call you George from now on.”

He returned my smile and poured himself a cup of coffee. “The coffee here doesn’t taste as good as you used to make it, you know. No one can match your flavor, no one. And I’m saying this because I’ve test many different people.” He paused, meeting my eyes with curiosity. “so, why?”

I knew what he was asking about. I knew absolutely what he meant by that question, but the only answer I offered was a knowing smile.

A searching look settled on his face as I finally spoke. “Didn’t you hear her? Lydia’s planning to feature the dish at The Ember Table.”

Puzzlement flickered in his gaze, but he nodded, sharing what he knew. “From what I understand, The Ember Table isn’t just a restaurant launch – they’re tying it to the regional culinary showcase. Lydia won’t be competing. She’ll be more of a celebrated guest and judge, there to generate attention.”

That deepened my smile. A glint of amusement lit my eyes. I set my coffee gently aside and leaned forward. “Tell me, Mr. Hubert – George – doesn’t this whole thing strike you as just a little entertaining?”

His confusion deepened, but he listened.

I explained everything in a calm tone. “Eddie and I have already ended our engagement. He called it off because of her. He wants to marry Lydia Warren. And now she’s using my dish – my recipe – as her grand entrance into the culinary world.” I paused. “Sooner or later, people are going to find out that Ren made it. That I made it. Funny, isn’t it?”

I watched as realization dawned on Mr. Hubert’s face and a small, secretive smile touched my lips. “I’m looking forward to their faces when the truth comes out.”

I could almost feel the curiosity that tugged at him. “So this is your way of getting even?”

Rather than answer right away, I wrapped both hands around my coffee cup. When I finally spoke, my voice was soft but clear. “No. Not at all.”

All I had ever wanted was a clean break. “My only wish was to sever all ties, start fresh, and focus on what I love,” I said, my gaze drifting toward the window where the trees outside swayed in the evening wind. “But they’ve insisted on playing games. If that’s the case, I might as well play along.”

A thoughtful silence settled between us. Mr. Hubert’s expression grew more complicated with every word.

Once, our families had moved in the same circles – the kind of circles where everyone knew everyone and nobody said what they actually meant. Mr. Hubert – George’s father – had been my father’s closest business partner before everything changed. He had watched me grow up with his son.

And now here we were.

He turned away slightly, making sure I couldn’t read his expression. Then he broke the silence. “Sometimes walking away is the best outcome.”

A quiet look of relief settled in my eyes as I faced him. “I appreciate your honesty. And everything else.”

Mr. Hubert answered with a knowing smile. “It works out for both of us.” Those words rang true.

Saffron had been built on the back of that competition win three years ago. My recipe. My name – even if nobody knew it was mine. The restaurant had grown into something neither of us had fully anticipated, and Mr. Hubert had quietly benefited from every bit of it.

He had his own reasons for wanting Ren back in the public eye.

Our conversation drifted on a little longer. He promised to keep the details of my broken engagement away from whatever press surrounded The Ember Table deal, and then he excused himself to return to a waiting call.

The details of my joining the upcoming culinary competition – officially, publicly, as Ren – we would discuss another time.

For a while I stayed behind, both hands still wrapped around my cup, watching the wind move through the leaves outside. Time slipped by quietly as I thought about everything. The pregnancy I was carrying. My resolve to terminate it.

I stiffened as I heard footsteps behind me. I would recognize those steps anywhere. Eddie’s presence had always had a way of arriving before he did. It was ironic that he couldn’t recognize me because of a flimsy mask and glasses.

I slipped my mask back on and turned slightly away, hoping to shield myself.

“Was this a joke to you? Or are you just that easy?” his voice made the hair on my skin ripple with electricity. He continued, not waiting for my response. “You have a real gift. Anyone who has tasted your food knows that. The Bolube Gratte isn’t just a recipe – it’s something else entirely.” He paused. “Why make it difficult and then give in? She’s trying to build something meaningful around it.”

Something stirred inside me when I heard his words.

With deliberate slowness, I turned to face him.

There was a subtle crease between his brows as he watched me. A small question found its way to my lips before I could stop it. “You think I have talent?” I searched his face, my voice barely above a whisper.

An uncertain look flickered in his eyes. “Obviously,” said Eddie.

No one could argue with that. And yet a soft laugh escaped me.

Talent. Was that what he really saw?

Memories surfaced in my head without permission. The night I told him I had won the regional invitational flashed in my head. I had called him, breathless and happy, expecting – I didn’t even know what I was expecting. Something. Anything.

But all he had said, quite coldly, was, “A cooking competition, Adrienne. Of all things. I need you to think about whether this is really the image we want going into the engagement. You in a cooking competition. I’m not sure my family will appreciate such an image.”

I had laughed it off at the time. I had stupidly convinced myself he meant well. Told myself that loving someone meant accepting the parts of them that didn’t fully see you yet.

How wrong I was.

Eddie’s attention returned to me now. There was something about me that seemed to unsettle him. I held my breath as he studied the line of my jaw, the way I held my coffee cup. Did I look familiar now? My heart raced.

Then his gaze moved over the rest of me – the structured jacket, the wide brimmed hat, the dark glasses, my new hair style – and whatever had stirred in him seemed to settle back down. Or maybe not.