Chapter 1

Ethan Rowe and I had been together online for years. We talked every night, sharing pictures of meals and plans for a future we thought we both wanted. The first time he told me he was broke, I flew from Paris to Seattle before the call ended.

“They took my mother’s house,” he said. His voice sounded small and lost. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

I’d spent three years studying under Chef André Moreau. I’d been close to earning the Silver Ladle, the award André had promised to pass to his best apprentice. I put the gold-handled chef’s knife he’d given me back in its case and booked the next flight.

When I landed, Ethan was waiting in a rain jacket with a cardboard box of his things. He looked exhausted. I believed every word he said.

“We’ll get the house back,” I told him. “I’ll help.”

We rented a fish stall at Pike Street Market and a cramped apartment nearby. I bought the freshest seafood I could afford, learned the regulars’ names, and worked from before sunrise until the market closed. Ethan said he’d handle the paperwork and find a new job.

Three years passed. I saved just under three hundred thousand dollars. It wasn’t enough to buy the house outright, but it would make a good down payment. Ethan had told me that when he got it back, we’d get married.

The morning I planned to transfer the money, I stopped at a bank branch near the market. A man in line was watching a livestream on his phone. The sound was loud enough for the whole room to hear.

“Ethan, when are you coming back?” a man asked on the video. “You’ve been playing fishmonger long enough.”

Ethan laughed. “I’m not done with her yet.”

The man chuckled. “Three years. You really just playing around?”

“Of course. I’m not marrying a fish girl.”

The video showed a wet cutting board, a hose, and the knife I used every day. My hands had been in that frame for years. I knew the way Ethan tapped a rhythm on a keyboard. I knew the breath he took before he lied.

He was spending my savings on the property he already owned.

The bank teller called my name. I looked down at the transfer form and crossed out the account number I’d written.

“Do you still want to send the money?” she asked.

“No.”

I walked out of the bank and called the landlord. “I’m not renewing the stall lease.”

Then I blocked Ethan’s number.