Chapter 2

Eveline Sawyer POV:

Janel stayed with me that night, long after the horrified Gables had made their hasty exit. She didn't say much, just sat on the cold floor with me amidst the wreckage of our miniature dream, occasionally pushing a glass of whiskey into my hand.

"You could come home, you know," she said softly into the silence, hours later. "Really come home."

I rested my head back against the cool brick wall, the alcohol doing little to numb the hollow ache in my chest. I watched her, her expression earnest, hopeful. It was the same look I saw in my parents' eyes every time they visited from Napa.

Napa Valley. Not just a place, but an institution. The heart of American culinary excellence, home to The Sawyer Conservatory, the most prestigious cooking school in the country. A school my parents, Edwardo Owens and Florrie Rodgers, just happened to own.

I was born into a world of Michelin stars and James Beard awards, a legacy I was meant to inherit. The plan was always for me to graduate from the Culinary Institute of America and then take my place at the Conservatory's flagship restaurant, The Vintner's Table.

Then, during my final semester in New York, I met Jace Matthews.

He was brilliant, ambitious, and carried the weight of his working-class town in Pennsylvania on his shoulders like a shield. He was determined to make a name for himself without a single handout, and he bristled at any mention of privilege or inherited wealth.

So, for him, I erased my own.

I told him my parents ran a small, struggling diner in a nameless California town. I followed him to Seattle, a city where the Sawyer name meant nothing in the architectural world he was so desperate to conquer. For five years, Jace Matthews believed I was Eveline Sawyer, a talented but ultimately ordinary chef from a humble background.

And it worked. Together, we built our own small empire. Our startup, a culinary consulting firm paired with his architectural designs, had landed major contracts. We were the city' s golden couple, the self-made success story everyone loved to root for.

I always thought that one day, when he was secure enough in his own success, I could tell him the truth. That he would see my background not as a threat, but as something we could share.

He never became secure enough.

A heavy sigh escaped my lips. "What's the point of telling him now?" I murmured, more to myself than to Janel. "It's over."

"Then tell him it's over and come home," Janel urged, her voice firm. "Come back to Napa."

This time, I didn't argue. "Okay," I whispered. The word felt foreign, but right. "I'll come home."

A slow smile spread across her face. "Good. Your parents will be ecstatic. Your mom has been holding your Head Chef's jacket hostage for five years."

She squeezed my hand, a silent promise of support. "I'll book your flight. First one out tomorrow. They don't need to know why you're coming, just that you are."

After Janel left, I went back to the apartment I shared with Jace. The silence was suffocating. Our home, usually filled with the scent of whatever recipe I was testing, felt cold and sterile. I made myself a sandwich with stale bread and wilted lettuce, the act of eating feeling like a chore.

I scrolled mindlessly through my phone, my thumb hovering over Jace' s contact, before a notification popped up at the top of my screen. A new post from Kathie White.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I clicked on it.

It was a picture of her and Jace, their heads bent together over a laptop in their brightly lit office. His arm was draped casually around her chair, his fingers just inches from hers on the mouse. The caption read: "Burning the midnight oil with the best mentor a girl could ask for. He always saves the day. "

Bile rose in my throat. He wouldn't be home tonight. This was the pattern. A crisis, a late night at the office, and then a text around 2 a.m. saying he was crashing on the office couch because he was too exhausted to drive. He was never too exhausted to drive.

I looked around the pristine apartment, at the life I had so carefully constructed. A life built on a lie to protect a man's fragile ego. A man who was, at this very moment, playing hero for another woman.

A small, bitter smile touched my lips. At least we never got around to signing those marriage papers.

I wouldn' t be his sad, cheated-on wife. I wouldn' t even be his heartbroken girlfriend.

I was done.