Chapter 2

Penniless, I wandered aimlessly through the bustling downtown streets.

Vivian's luxury estate faded into the distance. It was no longer my home.

Freedom came at the cost of having completely empty pockets.

Passing a high-end French bistro, I paused before its massive display window. A popular culinary network was playing on a giant flat screen inside.

The smug face staring out from the broadcast belonged to my former apprentice.

He was grandstanding for the cameras, presenting a breathtaking, crystalline seafood dish.

His theatrical flair and arrogant grin were nauseating.

"This dish, which I call the Blooming Lotus, was inspired by my former mentor," he announced, pausing for dramatic effect while pulling a look of mock regret.

"Unfortunately, he threw away his talent for dirty money and high society. He clipped his own wings and walked away from the kitchen.

"He was the most naturally gifted chef I ever knew—and the most pathetically spineless man I have ever seen."

I clenched my fists on the sidewalk.

The Blooming Lotus.

I'd developed it for my mentor's birthday.

Whispers broke out among the passersby who recognized me.

"Hey, look! Isn't that Vivian's trophy husband?"

"It is him! The guy they just roasted on TV! Sold his soul for a wealthy heiress, didn't he?"

"Looks decent on the outside, but he's just a worthless leech living off a woman."

Dozens of judgmental glares bore into me.

I vividly remembered the disdainful words Vivian used to describe my craft three years ago.

"Sean, I don't want my husband smelling like grease and smoke all day.

"It's tacky, low-class, and utterly embarrassing."

To protect her fragile, ridiculous pride, I had locked away the handmade knives that had accompanied me for a decade.

I had abandoned my only dream.

My phone suddenly buzzed.

The caller ID showed it was my mentor, Chef Arthur.

My heart hitched, and I hastily accepted the call.

His voice came through weak and raspy.

"Sean... come back, son."

"Your hands were made to hold a chef's knife, not to pour tea and be at someone else's beck and call."

Before he could finish, a violent, hacking cough overtook him. The agony in his gasps squeezed my chest raw.

I rushed straight to the hospital.

"It's advanced gastric cancer. It has already metastasized," the doctor told me flatly.

"You need to prepare yourselves. He doesn't have much time left."

In the sterile room, the once-vibrant old man had deteriorated into little more than skin and bones, wired to a tangle of beeping monitors.

When his eyes landed on me, a faint spark of life returned to them.

"Sean..."

With tremendous effort, he reached out a trembling hand.

"Son, I want to taste it one last time. Your Winter Plum carpaccio."

His voice was barely a whisper, yet his eyes burned with deep longing.

The Winter Plum carpaccio.

It was the most technically demanding dish in my repertoire, requiring hyper-specific, prohibitively rare ingredients.

In particular, the core component—a wild, seasonal deep-sea red clam—cost its weight in gold.

I looked at Arthur. He was still holding out his hand. I swallowed hard and nodded.

"All right, Chef. I'll make it for you."

Stepping out into the hallway, I reached into my empty pockets.

Vivian had canceled the cards she'd given me and blocked my access to the household accounts.

I couldn't even afford a pack of gum, let alone luxury ingredients.

Where was I supposed to get the money?

Inevitably, Vivian's face flashed across my mind.

I had to go back.

This would be the absolute last time I ever asked her for anything.