Emily's POVThe restaurant hummed with energy, the warm glow of chandeliers casting a golden sheen over the sea of guests. I wiped my hands on my apron, exhaling slowly as I scanned the room.Emma stood behind the bar, effortlessly mixing cocktails, her smile lighting up the space. Near the stage, the band from my bar played their hearts out, while regulars at the bar raised their glasses at me with playful winks. Loyal restaurant customers nodded solemnly like seasoned pros, chatting away with industry folks at each food station. Amidst it all, Nathan beamed his signature smile as he tasted a dish, and I even spotted neighbors who’d shown up to every yearly cookout, offering their quiet support.I stole a glance at the large screen behind me. A video played, a beautifully edited montage of my journey—my family’s history, the roots of our recipes, the long nights of struggle, and sweats and tears we poured into our every creation. I saw my parents’ faces, their younger selves beaming
Emily's POVThe heat from the stove warmed my face as I plated the final dish, hands moving with practiced ease. This was the highlight of our family’s meticulously crafted event—my best creation, unveiled in the most dramatic, eye-catching manner. The crowd hushed as I skillfully waved the ladle, splashing hot oil onto the thick, amber curry sauce. The top layer of the massive snapper sizzled, sending a satisfying crackle through the air. Green peppers, red chilies, carrots, lime slices, and diced tomatoes swirled in the rich liquid, their vibrant colors flashing with each pop and bubble. I let the aroma stew, filling the air with its mouthwatering fragrance, then placed the lid on the wok with a soft metallic clink. The crowd gasped. I smiled. “During my time in Philadelphia, I experienced the wonderful culinary ingenuity of Szechuan and Thai cuisines…” I began, my voice smooth. “I wanted to honor that memory by combining the best of both worlds—”“Interesting,” a man interrupte
Emily's POVAs the tension over my creative originality hung thick in the air, the crowd watched with bated breath. Damian stepped onto the stage beside me, his presence commanding attention. With a few swift taps of his fingers, the screen flickered to life, revealing a candid moment from my kitchen—hair messy, face dotted with splashes of sauce, and me fumbling with the ingredients for the dish I’d just introduced. The contrast couldn’t have been more striking.“Stop! Damian, I’m still experimenting!” I protested, laughter spilling out as I fumbled with the ingredients, my hands—no doubt covered in sauce—smeared across the counter. “Promise me you’ll never show this to anyone! You’re supposed to capture my best, not my clumsiest moments!”“Well, it’s the process that shows your genius,” Damian said, zeroing in on me and the cutting board. “What’s next? Tell me about your thought process.”“Well,” I smiled playfully, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear, “maybe a Thai and Szech
Damian's POVThe restaurant had been warm before, filled with the rich scents of simmering sauces, seared meats, and the gentle hum of admiration. Now, the air was thick with something else entirely. Something cold. Something suffocating.Barrett Augustus stood at the center of the chaos, his commanding presence drawing every eye in the room. His sharp, calculating gaze bore into me with quiet fury, his voice slicing through the tension with the ease of a blade."You have defied the family’s wishes for far too long, Damian," he stated, his words clipped and deliberate. "Pretending to date other women, keeping up appearances, when all along, you were secretly pursuing her?"He turned then, his piercing gaze settling on Emily."Tell me, my dear," he continued smoothly, his tone laced with something that sent an unmistakable chill down my spine. "Has my grandson told you the truth?"Emily’s brows furrowed, confusion flickering in her green eyes. "What are you talking about?"Barrett’s li
Damian's POVLouis stood too close to Emily, his presence a vile intrusion, his gaze dark and taunting. He had no right. Not after what he had done to her. Not after he shattered her heart and left her to pick up the pieces alone.I stepped in front of her, blocking his path. “Back off, Louis,” I warned, my voice low and lethal. “You have no place here.”A slow, mocking smirk curled at the corner of his mouth. “Oh? And you do?” He crossed his arms, his tone dripping with disdain. “I must say, Damian, your hypocrisy is astounding. You stand here, acting like some noble protector, when you’re the one dragging her into your family's endless disgrace.”Emily stiffened behind me, her fingers gripping the fabric of her dress. I could feel the tension radiating from her, the confusion, the pain. She didn’t deserve this. She didn’t deserve any of this.Her parents, standing nearby, moved closer, instinctively positioning themselves in silent defense. Her mother’s gaze burned with quiet fury,
Emily's POVThe night had barely ended, but exhaustion clung to me like a second skin. The warmth and excitement that once filled the space had long since faded, replaced by something colder, something that left a bitter taste in my mouth.And at the center of it all stood Damian.He looked at me with an expression I couldn’t bring myself to decipher—desperation, regret, something deeper. His hands were clenched at his sides, as if he was holding himself back from reaching for me.“Emily, please,” he started, his voice raw. “Just let me explain.”I folded my arms. “You had plenty of chances to explain. But instead, you lied. Again and again.”His jaw tensed. “I never wanted to lie to you. I—”“No.” I cut him off sharply. “You pretended to be kind while hiding the truth. And now? I have no idea who you really are.”Damian flinched, like I had physically struck him.“I understand why you’re angry, but I swear to you, everything I did was because I—”I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “
Emily's POV“The whole thing was unbelievable,” a woman at table four murmured, her voice carrying just enough for me to hear.“I know,” her friend replied, barely bothering to lower her tone. “Imagine—him of all people. And right here, in her restaurant? Poor thing, she must be humiliated.”I didn’t need to ask who they were talking about.Rumors had spread like wildfire, twisting and turning with every retelling until I barely recognized the truth within them. Some said Damian’s family had stormed in, demanding he return home as if I were some villainous temptress keeping him hostage. Others whispered that it had been a dramatic public breakup, a love triangle exploding right before their eyes. A few even speculated that I had known all along—that I had planned for this scandal, as if I thrived on chaos.None of them were right.But none of them were completely wrong either.The restaurant bustled with life around me, the clang of silverware against plates, the murmur of conversatio
Emily's POVThe next night back in the city, the bar pulsed with life. The air was thick with laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the scent of whiskey and warm candle wax. It was a full house tonight, the kind of crowd that thrived on the energy of music and conversation. Once, a night like this would have exhilarated me. But tonight, the weight in my chest was too heavy, the dark cloud over my mind too thick to shake."You're brooding," Emma teased, nudging me with her elbow as she sipped on her cocktail. "Again. Honestly, I should start charging you every time you slip into moody silence."I shot her a look, but a reluctant smile tugged at my lips. "I’m not brooding."She arched a brow, clearly unimpressed. "You’re sitting at a bar, staring into your drink like it personally wronged you. That is textbook brooding."I sighed, swirling the amber liquid in my glass. "I just-.""Ah-ah," she interrupted, wagging a finger. "No tragic monologues tonight. You need to have fun, Emily. Rea
Barrett’s POVThe next morning, I sat in my leather recliner, nursing a secund cup of black coffee, and staring out over the manicured estate. Thoughts of the approaching date churned in my mind, and I found myself… restless. Seventy. The big seven-zero. The number itself tasted both bitter and regal on my tongue. I had not planned to celebrate, not publicly anyway. But as the morning wore on, I began to feel something stir in my chest. A small fire. A whisper of sentimentality. Perhaps, I thought, a modest gathering with those closest to me would not be entirely foolish.I reached for the landline beside me, its polished brass and ivory buttons still more satisfying than any of these cursed smartphones. I dialed Charles’ office number and waited.“Father,” Charles answered, his voice clipped, professional. Always the executive, even for me.“I hope I’m not interrupting your hostile takeover of a rival firm,” I said, smirking to myself.“You’re lucky I find your sarcasm charming, Fath
Barrett’s POVThe morning sun filtered through the heavy drapes of my suite, casting golden beams over the thick Persian rugs and polished mahogany furniture. I had just finished a satisfying breakfast of poached eggs, grilled asparagus, and a piece of toast slathered with just enough marmalade to remind me of Madelin’s old habit of sneaking sugar into everything. I was reclined in my massage chair, the mechanical hum of the rollers easing into my lower back as I sipped a small glass of tomato juice. My slippers were warm, my robe wrapped perfectly around me, and for a brief, fleeting moment, I allowed myself the luxury of peace.Then came the knock.It was not sharp or aggressive, but steady, insistent. I assumed it was Becky, my nurse, coming to check my vitals and shuffle me off to the pool where I would wade like a disoriented walrus through lukewarm water in the name of cardio. I did not mind. At my age, movement was a celebration, not a punishment.“Come in,” I called, not turni
Emily’s POVThe house was silent, that comforting kind of quiet that settles just before twilight. I had dimmed the lights in the kitchen and lit the candles I kept tucked away for special occasions, letting them cast soft, flickering shadows across the table. The scent of roasted garlic, sun-dried tomatoes, and fresh basil danced through the air, blending with the heady sweetness of the vanilla candle near the door. Damian had texted me an hour ago to say he was finally headed home after a brutal day at the hospital. I could almost hear the exhaustion in his message.He had been working late all week, dealing with a string of emergency surgeries and difficult patients. I had seen it in the shadows under his eyes and the way his voice sometimes trailed off mid-thought. I hated seeing him that way. So tonight, I decided, was just for him.The table was set with our mismatched plates and the fancy cloth napkins we never used. A bottle of Chianti stood like a soldier at attention beside
Emily’s POVThe smell of garlic, rosemary, and lemon zest lingered in the air as I stirred the sauce gently in the pan, the soft clink of the wooden spoon against metal filling the silence between bursts of laughter. Damian sat on a stool near the island, slicing up bright heirloom tomatoes for the salad, his sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted with a trace of sea salt. There was something sweetly ridiculous about how domestic we’d become. Just last week I was navigating legal documents and emotionally charged confrontations, and now, I was arguing with this man—this impossibly handsome, frustrating, tender man—about how thick tomato slices should be.“Thicker, Damian. They fall apart when they’re paper-thin. What is this, a salad or carpaccio?” I teased, shaking my head.He looked up at me with mock offense, eyes sparkling with humor. “Excuse you, this is art. Not everything needs to be manhandled into submission.”I flicked a little water at him from the edge of my fingers and he gas
Barrett’s POVThe afternoon light filtered in through the tall windows of Emily’s restaurant, casting a soft golden hue across the crisp white tablecloth and delicately arranged tea set before me. I leaned back slightly in my chair, cigar long extinguished, the aroma of fresh herbs and warm fruit filling the air. Emily moved with the grace of a dancer, placing platters of vibrant foods before Tom and me, her smile glowing with sincerity and quiet confidence. It was a different kind of strength than I was used to — not forged in boardrooms or battles, but grown in the soft, persistent soil of daily intention and care. A strength you could eat, I thought, marveling at the spread before us.“I wanted to do something special,” she said as she settled into the chair across from me. “This is part of something I’ve been dreaming up — a lifestyle brand built around nutrition, mindfulness, and family. Something real. I’ve spent so long building something for myself, and now… I want to build so
Barrett’s POVTom turned the wheel smoothly, his gloved hands steady on the leather steering wheel as the car pulled up in front of Emily’s restaurant. The warm amber glow of the morning sun bathed the little bistro’s façade, catching the edge of its elegant signage and making the gold lettering sparkle. It was half-past ten, a peaceful hour before the doors opened to the bustle of brunch service. I reached for my phone, preparing to dial Emily and let her know we had arrived, when the front door of the restaurant swung open.There she was. Bright-eyed and graceful, waving as she stepped into the sun with a smile that could make a bitter man sweet. I rolled down the window and gave her a gentleman’s wave, the kind I had perfected over the decades. There was charm in that wave, intention too. I always made a show of things. She crossed the sidewalk quickly, her steps light and full of purpose, and Tom, ever the reliable footman, was already out of the car and opening the door before sh
Barrett’s POVI opened my mouth to decline, but my stomach betrayed me with a traitorous growl. Tom chuckled and patted his own gut."I haven’t eaten breakfast," he admitted sheepishly. "Wouldn’t say no to something light.""Then it’s settled," Emily said with a delighted nod. "Come inside. I’ll whip something up quickly before the restaurant opens."Inside, the space was warm and inviting. Clean wood, exposed brick, and the scent of cinnamon and espresso hung in the air. She led us to a corner booth and told us to make ourselves comfortable before disappearing behind the kitchen doors.I leaned back against the leather banquette and glanced around, noting the framed photos, handwritten menus, and stacks of mismatched ceramic cups. It had charm. Real charm. Not that fabricated kind the decorators installed into million-dollar spaces with rustic beams from fake barns in Vermont.A few minutes later, Emily returned carrying two plates and two steaming mugs of coffee."Spinach, egg, and
Barrett’s POVOnce they were gone, I called Tom, who had wisely waited downstairs in the car, no doubt reading the paper or texting his wife about what groceries to pick up on the way home.“Tom,” I said, “it’s time. We’re going to Emily’s restaurant to pick her up.”He chuckled on the other end. “That was quick, sir. Thought you’d be stuck there all afternoon.”“It does not take long to make people uneasy,” I said with a laugh, lighting one final cigar before snuffing it out prematurely. “Sometimes all you have to do is show up.”I stepped out from my office and walked through the executive corridor with purpose, nodding politely at those who dared look me in the eye. I was not a ghost of the past. I was still the storm that shook the windows. I took the elevator back down, passing floor after floor of carefully polished egos and glass walls, watching my reflection in the silver doors. There he was—Barrett Augustus, still in control, still calling the shots.The lobby greeted me with
Barrett’s POVThe phone call had gone better than expected. Emily had answered after three rings, her voice a delicate mix of confusion and caution, but the moment she realized it was me—Barrett Augustus—her tone shifted to something more respectful. I could hear the hesitation behind her words, the hesitation of a woman who had been burned too many times, who had learned the hard way that even well-dressed men with deep pockets carried knives behind their backs. But I was not calling to hurt her. No, I had far more interesting things in mind.I told her I wanted to take her somewhere important, somewhere that mattered to me, and she agreed without pressing too much. That pleased me. A young woman with enough intuition to know when not to push an old lion too hard. She insisted, however, that once our little errand was over, I would join her at her restaurant for tea and pastries. Tea and pastries. The very idea of it made me laugh, but there was something endearing about her. She did