Ivy's POV
I shouldn't have come here.
But Rachel's apartment was three blocks away, my car was still parked at Meridian, and the rain was getting worse. My best friend would help me. She had to. We'd survived culinary school together, cried through failed soufflés and burned sauces, promised we'd always have each other's backs.
Fourteen months, Marcus had said. But that was impossible. Rachel wouldn't—
I knocked on her door at 11:47 PM.
Footsteps. The lock clicked.
Marcus opened the door.
He was wearing Rachel's fluffy pink bathrobe, the one I'd given her last Christmas. His hair was wet from a shower. The scent of Rachel's lavender body wash clung to his skin.
You've got to be kidding me, he said.
Something inside me shattered completely.
You're here. You're actually here.
Where else would I be? He didn't even look guilty. Just annoyed, like I was an ex-girlfriend showing up drunk instead of his fiancée discovering his betrayal. Rachel, your friend's having a breakdown on our doorstep.
Our doorstep.
Rachel appeared behind him, wrapped in a towel, her black hair dripping. For a second—one tiny second, I saw guilt flash in her eyes.
Then it disappeared, replaced by something harder.
Ivy, you shouldn't be here.
Shouldn't be My voice cracked. Rach, we've been friends for six years. You were supposed to be my maid of honor. You helped me pick out my wedding dress last month while you were sleeping with my fiancé?
Ex-fiancé, Marcus corrected coldly. And keep your voice down. The neighbors—
I don't CARE about your neighbors! I pushed past him into the apartment.
My brain couldn't process what I was seeing. Marcus's chef coat hung on Rachel's coat rack. His shoes lined up neatly by her door. A framed photo of them together on her bookshelf—laughing at some restaurant, kissing under string lights, looking happy.
How long had this been here? How many times had I visited Rachel, sat on this couch, poured my heart out about wedding plans and Marcus and our future—while evidence of their affair surrounded me?
How blind had I been?
How long? I demanded. The truth this time.
Rachel pulled the towel tighter around herself. Fourteen months. Like Marcus said.
Why?
Because he chose me. Rachel's voice was quiet but steady. Each word precisely aimed. He loves me, Ivy. He really, actually loves me. Not the version of you he pretended to love because you were convenient.
The words hit like physical blows.
Convenient?
Marcus sighed like I was a child refusing to understand simple math. You're talented, Ivy. I won't take that from you. Your fusion concepts are innovative—that's exactly why I needed them. Your recipes elevated Meridian's profile, brought in critics, got us recognition. Rachel understood that. She helped me properly document everything, refine your rough ideas into actual dishes. Under my name, obviously, since I'm the head chef and you were just—
Just what? My voice shook.
Just the diversity hire who got lucky. He said it so casually. Like it was a fact, not a cruelty. The Chen family name got you the interview. Your exotic fusion angle got you the position. But executing at Meridian's level? That was me, guiding you, protecting you, making you look good.
That's not true
Isn't it? Rachel's voice was sharp now. You were always one mistake away from falling apart, Ivy. After your mom died, you were a mess. Crying in the walk-in. Showing up late. Your hands shaking during service.
I cried once! One time, on the anniversary of her death!
And that's all it takes. Marcus pulled an envelope from Rachel's coffee table and handed it to me. Thick, expensive paper. Official legal letterhead visible through the opening. Cease and desist from my lawyers. If you claim ownership of any recipes served at Meridian, we'll sue you for defamation, harassment, and breach of employment contract.
My hands shook opening it. Pages of legal threats. Accusations of instability. Claims of erratic behavior.
We have witnesses, Rachel added quietly. Six staff members ready to testify that Marcus developed those dishes. That you were struggling with the pressure. That you'd been making concerning comments about stealing credit for his work.
You paid them off. The words came out flat. Dead.
We documented the truth, Marcus corrected. And here's what you need to understand, Ivy: you can't fight this. We have lawyers, money, connections, and a solid narrative that the entire industry already believes. You're the unstable chef who cracked under pressure and got fired for theft. Fighting us means destroying yourself even more than you already have.
He opened the door. A clear dismissal.
Take the loss. Move on. Go back to Houston, work in some corporate kitchen where expectations are lower, and forget this ever happened. Because if you try to come after us, we will bury you so deep you'll never work in food again.
I looked at Rachel one last time. My best friend. The person who knew all my secrets, all my fears, all my dreams.
I trusted you, I whispered.
Rachel's jaw tightened. I know. That was your first mistake.
And loving him was your second, Marcus added with a cruel smile. Now get out.
I ran.
Down the stairs, through the rain, my lungs burning like I'd forgotten how to breathe. My car was still at Meridian—I couldn't go back there, couldn't face those people who'd watched my destruction.
So I ran until my legs gave out, collapsing in some alley, my back against cold brick, sobbing until I had nothing left.
The rain kept falling. Austin didn't care that my world had ended. The city just kept moving, kept living, kept not giving a damn that Ivy Chen had lost everything in one night.
I had seventeen dollars in my wallet. My phone battery was at 6%. And I had one place left to go.
The one place I'd sworn I'd never need again.
The drive to Houston took three hours.
I found a 24-hour gas station, charged my phone enough to call an Uber, and got my car from Meridian's parking lot at 1 AM. The restaurant was dark. Empty. Like the six years I'd spent there had never existed.
I drove south on I-10 with the radio off and my mind blank, watching white lines disappear under my tires.
The Chen family mansion appeared at 2:47 AM—huge, imposing, perfect. Spotlights illuminating the manicured lawn. Three stories of success and old money and everything I'd tried so hard to make proud.
I parked in the circular driveway and walked to the front door on shaking legs.
Rang the bell.
Lights turned on upstairs. I heard voices. Footsteps.
The intercom crackled to life. My father's voice, annoyed and cold: Ivy?
Dad, please. My voice broke. I need help. Something terrible happened, and Marcus lied, and I just need
I saw Dominic's messages. The whole family did.
Those messages are lies! Marcus stole my recipes, he's been sleeping with Rachel, he set me up and I can prove it if you just let me
Enough. The single word cut like a blade. The Chen name means something in this city, Ivy. Respect. Honor. Success. You've embarrassed us.
Dad, please
First your mother, marrying below her station, raising you in that confused, divided way. Never truly Chinese, never truly Mexican, just... confused. And now this. Getting fired for theft and erratic behavior. Confirming everything people whispered about you.
Each word was a knife.
What did they whisper? I asked, even though I didn't want to know.
That you only got opportunities because of your exotic background. That you were a diversity hire playing at being a real chef. That you'd eventually fail because you don't truly belong anywhere. His voice was ice. I defended you. Told them you were talented, hardworking, worthy of the Chen name. And you proved them right instead of me.
I didn't do what Marcus said! I didn't steal anything!
It doesn't matter what you did or didn't do. What matters is what people believe. And they believe you failed. You made the family look foolish for supporting you. I can't have that.
So you're just... abandoning me?
Silence.
Then: Don't contact anyone in this family again. Don't come to family events. Don't use the Chen name to get favors or opportunities. You're on your own now. Handle your problems yourself, like the independent woman you claimed you wanted to be.
The intercom went dead.
I stood there for twenty minutes, shivering in my rain-soaked chef's coat, waiting for someone to change their mind. For my grandmother to come down and hug me. For my aunt to sneak me inside. For anyone to choose me over the family reputation.
No one came.
At 3:15 AM, I got back in my car and drove to a Walmart parking lot.
I slept in the back seat with two suitcases as pillows—everything I owned in the world. My savings account had $50,000—ten years of working sixteen-hour days, skipping vacations, saving for the restaurant Marcus and I were supposed to open together.
Fifty thousand dollars and nothing else.
No job. No family. No home. No future.
Just me and a car and a broken heart and a rage that burned hotter than any kitchen fire I'd ever known.
They thought they'd destroyed me.
Marcus. Rachel. My father. Dominic. Everyone who'd believed the lies.
They thought Ivy Chen would just disappear. Give up. Fade away.
They were wrong.
I didn't know how yet. Didn't know when. But somehow, I would prove them all wrong.
I would rebuild.
I would succeed.
And someday, they would regret what they'd done.
But first, I had to survive tomorrow.