Chapter 2

"Just tell me where you are, son. A car will be there in ten minutes." The voice on the other end of the line was calm, steady, and held an authority that could command boardrooms and bend markets to its will. This was Arthur Hayes, the patriarch of the Hayes Hospitality Group, a global empire of five-star hotels and Michelin-starred restaurants. And Ethan, the chef who had just been publicly humiliated and cast aside, was his only son and heir. He had walked away from that world three years ago, determined to build something on his own terms, without the weight of the Hayes name.

He wanted to be loved for who he was, not what he stood for. It seemed he had failed on all counts.

The memories came flooding back as he waited in the sterile quiet of the luxury hotel suite his father had booked for him. He remembered meeting Olivia at a local food festival. She was ambitious, fiery, with a business plan and a dream. He had been instantly captivated. He told her he was a chef with a modest trust fund, enough to get them started. It was a lie of omission. The "modest fund" was a bottomless well of capital from a trust managed by his family's firm, set up to anonymously support his venture.

He' d made an agreement with her and with himself, he wanted to succeed on merit. All the lucky breaks, the prime real estate that suddenly became available, the hard-to-get licenses that were approved overnight, the glowing magazine features that seemed to appear out of thin air, Olivia had believed it was her talent and hustle. In reality, it was the silent, invisible hand of the Hayes Group, clearing a path for the heir who had strayed from the fold.

He couldn't stop himself. He picked up his phone and opened Instagram. The first post was from Olivia. It was a picture of her and Mark, their faces close together, champagne glasses raised. The caption read: "To new beginnings and the partner who truly makes it all possible! So excited for the future of Olivia's Table with my brilliant Head Chef and love, Mark." Love. The word was a punch to the gut.

He kept scrolling, a form of self-torture. There were dozens of pictures from the party, all tagged with the restaurant's name. Olivia and Mark laughing. Olivia and Mark feeding each other a piece of cake. Olivia and Mark looking at each other with an intimacy that made Ethan feel sick. Each photo was another confirmation of his own stupidity, his own blindness.

His phone buzzed, vibrating against the cold glass of the table. It was Olivia. He stared at her name, his thumb hovering over the decline button, but he answered. "Ethan? Where did you go?" Her voice was slurred, the sound of champagne evident in her tone. "You can't just run off like a child. We have a business to run." There was no apology, no ounce of remorse. Just annoyance. "This is a big night for us, and you made a scene. Tearing up that contract? So immature."

He remained silent, listening to the clinking of glasses in the background. "Look," she continued, her voice shifting, becoming more business-like. "About that Sterling deal. Did you get a contact name? Mark has some fantastic ideas for a new menu that would be perfect for them. Maybe you could smooth things over, set up a meeting for him."

The audacity of it was breathtaking. She hadn't just replaced him in her bed and her kitchen, she was now actively trying to plunder his work, his connections, for the benefit of her new partner. That was the moment the last shred of sentimentality died. The pain was still there, but it was now overlaid with a cold, hard clarity. He saw her not as the woman he loved, but as a user, an opportunist who had taken everything he had offered and then discarded him when she thought she had found someone better. He didn't say a word. He just ended the call.

He stood up and walked to the window, looking out over the city lights. He felt empty, but also strangely calm. The decision was made. There was no going back, no reconciliation, no "working things out." There was only severance. He picked up his phone again, but this time he didn't call his father.

He called Arthur Vance, the sharpest lawyer in the Hayes Group's legal arsenal, a man known for his merciless efficiency. "Vance," Ethan said, his voice steady and clear. "It's Ethan Hayes. I need you to start divorce proceedings immediately. And I want you to initiate the clause that severs all financial ties between my personal assets and the entity known as 'Olivia's Table'. Liquidate everything."