Chapter 3

Francesca POV:

"How could you?" I whispered, my voice thick with unshed tears, my gaze fixed on the smoldering ash heap on the driveway. "How could you burn our history? My family's legacy?"

Antonio stood over me, his silhouette stark against the rising sun. "It's just a book, Francesca. We're moving forward. You need to let go of the past." His voice was flat, emotionless.

I knelt, my fingers trembling as I reached for the warm ash. A single, partially burned page, crinkled and black, lay on top. It was a recipe for my grandmother's apple tart, a comforting scent always tied to childhood memories. Shannon loved apples.

A sharp pain shot through my hand as I touched the glowing ember. I cried out, recoiling.

Antonio's foot stomped down on the page, crushing it completely. "Stop it, Francesca. It's done."

"No!" I screamed, lunging at his foot, trying to save the last vestige of what was mine. My desperation was a wild animal, thrashing, unthinking.

He pushed me away, his eyes cold, devoid of the man I once knew. "This is childish. You're acting like a spoiled brat." He watched as the last tendrils of smoke curled into the morning air. "See? Gone."

I huddled there, clutching the few fragments of charred paper that hadn't been completely destroyed, the pain in my hand a dull throb. The realization hit me then, a cold, hard truth: Antonio wasn't just moving on. He was actively erasing. Erasing me. Erasing Shannon. Erasing our entire history together.

The grief, which had been a suffocating blanket, now ignited into a burning, furious fire. This wasn't just about survival anymore. This was about vengeance.

I needed help. Real help. Not the kind Antonio had arranged. I needed someone on my side. Someone who knew the culinary world, someone who understood what Antonio and Harlow were capable of.

Irvin Griffith. My biggest rival. His name surfaced in my mind, unexpected but clear. He was a man of integrity, a chef who respected true culinary artistry. He'd always seen Antonio for what he was: a businessman, not a chef.

I remembered a charity gala, years ago. Irvin had pulled me aside, a strange look in his eyes. "Your talent, Francesca," he'd said, "it's pure. Don't let anyone dilute it." He'd seen something in me, something beyond the glitz and glamour.

I needed to reach him. But how? My phone was gone. My laptop. Antonio had cut me off completely.

I found an old, discarded burner phone in the back of a junk drawer in the garage. It was dusty, barely charged, but it worked. I typed Irvin's number, a number I knew by heart from years of competitive admiration, or perhaps, a strange kind of respect.

When he answered, his voice wary, I didn't waste time. "Irvin, it's Francesca. I need your help. I have something invaluable. My family's secret recipe book. The original. It's yours, if you help me." My voice was a desperate whisper.

A beat of silence. Then, "Francesca? What are you talking about?" His voice was guarded, but I heard a flicker of alarm.

"Antonio and Harlow... they killed Shannon. And they're trying to erase me. I'm going to make them pay, Irvin. I swear it. I'm going to watch everything they built crumble to ash. Just like they did to my life." My voice was cold, razor-sharp. "Will you help me?"

He didn't answer immediately. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken questions.

My hand throbbed, a constant reminder of the physical and emotional wounds they'd inflicted.

Antonio found me later that day, sitting in the ruined living room, numbly staring at the gaping hole where our memories once hung. He sauntered in, Harlow trailing behind him, her hand still protectively on her stomach.

"Francesca," he said, his voice clipped. "Harlow needs a new dish for her upcoming media tour. Something light, elegant. I want you to create it."

My head snapped up. "You want me to cook for her? After everything?" My voice was barely a whisper, laced with disbelief.

"Our daughter just died, Antonio," I added, my voice cracking. "How can you expect me to cook for anyone, let alone her?"

He scoffed. "Grief is a luxury we can't afford, Francesca. The franchising deal is too big. We need to project an image of stability, of moving forward. Besides, Harlow is pregnant. She needs something nourishing."

Harlow stepped forward, her eyes wide, feigning concern. "Oh, Francesca, I know this is hard for you. But Antonio is right. We need to be strong. For the baby."

"Strong?" I echoed, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. "You call this strength? Erasing a child's memory? Stealing a legacy?"

Antonio's face hardened. "Don't tempt me, Francesca. This is a simple request. Create the dish. Or face the consequences."

"The consequences?" I challenged, my voice rising. "What more can you take from me? My child? My home? My sanity?"

"Your freedom," he snarled, stepping closer, his face inches from mine. "You think this little 'rest' period was a holiday? I can send you back, Francesca. And this time, it won't be temporary."

My mind raced. I couldn't go back. Not to that place. Not to the electroshocks, the forced medication, the slow erasure of my mind. The irony was a twisted knife in my gut. I was a chef, my sanctuary the kitchen, my tools knives and fire. Now, my kitchen was a cage, and my talent a weapon against me.

"Fine," I said, the word a bitter swallow. "I'll make your dish." My eyes met Harlow's, a silent promise of something yet to unfold.

Antonio's lips curled into a satisfied smile. "Good. Now, I suggest you get to it. And don't disappoint us." He turned to leave, beckoning Harlow with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Wait," I said, my voice dangerously soft. "Where am I supposed to work? The kitchen was... cleaned."

He paused, a flicker of irritation in his eyes. "Use the old pantry kitchen. It's small, but it'll do. And don't bother us. We have important business to discuss." He glanced at Harlow, a suggestive smirk on his face.

My stomach churned. The pantry kitchen. The same small, cramped space where I had first experimented with flavors as a child, where my grandmother had taught me the secrets of our family recipes. Now, it was a prison.

"Get out!" I screamed, my voice raw with fury. "Get out of my sight, both of you!"

Antonio just chuckled, shaking his head. "Still so dramatic, Francesca. They were right about you." He put an arm around Harlow, pulling her close, and they walked away, their laughter echoing through the silent, broken house.

I stared at the empty wall, at the broken mobile, at the charred remains of my past. My hands trembled, not with fear, but with a cold, clear purpose. He thought he could break me. He thought he could erase me. But I was still here. And I would remember.

I would remember everything.