Ivy's POV
The kitchen knife slipped.
Not because my hands were shaking—they never shook, not after ten years of professional cooking. It slipped because Marcus grabbed my wrist mid-slice, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
What the hell is this? He shoved a printout in my face. A food blog review. My stomach dropped when I saw the headline: Meridian's Fusion Phenomenon: Chef Webb's Korean-Mexican Masterpiece.
My recipe. The gochujang short rib tacos I'd created last month, blending my Chinese grandmother's techniques with my Mexican abuela's spices. The dish that told my whole story on one plate.
Marcus had served it to critics. Under his name.
Marcus, that's my
Your what? His voice was loud. Too loud. The Friday night dinner rush hummed beyond the kitchen doors, but inside, every station went silent. Twenty staff members stopped cooking, stopped moving, and stared at us.
My fiancé's handsome face twisted into something ugly. Your recipe? Are you seriously claiming you created my signature dish?
I did create it. You know I did. We tested it together last month, and I told you
You told me a lot of things. Marcus released my wrist, stepping back like I'd burned him. How you were struggling with the pressure. How you felt like you didn't belong here. How maybe you weren't cut out for fine dining after all.
Ice flooded my veins. I never said any of that.
Chef? Jenna, our line cook, looked confused. Ivy's been killing it. Her stations are always perfect.
Marcus ignored her. His eyes, the warm brown eyes I'd stared into a thousand times, the ones that had promised me forever, were cold as winter. I've been patient with you, Ivy. Covering for your mistakes. Protecting you. But stealing credit for my work? That's too far.
The room started spinning. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening.
Everyone back to work! Marcus barked. Ivy, my office. Now.
I followed him on numb legs, past the pasta station where I'd taught Marco how to make proper carbonara, past the grill where I'd spent three years perfecting my techniques, past Rachel, my best friend since culinary school, who stood frozen at the pastry station.
Rach? I reached for her hand. Tell him. You were there when I developed that recipe. You saw
Rachel pulled away, staring at the floor. Wouldn't meet my eyes.
Something cold and terrible crawled up my spine.
Marcus's office was tiny, barely room for his desk and the filing cabinet. He closed the door. For a second, I thought maybe we could fix this. Maybe he'd realize the blog made a mistake. Maybe
He pulled out a folder. Placed it on the desk between us like a weapon.
Sign this.
What is it?
Resignation letter. You're leaving Meridian effective immediately.
The words didn't make sense. Marcus, what are you talking about? We're engaged. We're supposed to get married in
That's over. He said it so casually. Like our three years together meant nothing. Rachel and I have been together for fourteen months. We're in love, Ivy. Real love. Not whatever desperate thing you convinced yourself we had.
The floor disappeared beneath my feet.
Fourteen months. While he'd been planning our wedding, tasting cakes, looking at venues—he'd been sleeping with my best friend. My best friend who'd helped me pick out my wedding dress. Who'd held my hand through my mother's funeral last year. Who I'd trusted with everything.
You're lying.
I'm done lying, actually. Marcus leaned against the desk, arms crossed. You're a decent chef, Ivy. But you're not innovative. Everything good you've made? I helped you develop it. My techniques. My guidance. And now you're trying to steal credit because you're jealous of my success.
That's insane! Those are my recipes, my innovations
Prove it. His smile was sharp. Go ahead. Show me your documentation. Your development notes. Your dated records of recipe creation.
My mind raced. The notes were on my laptop. My personal laptop that I kept in the shared office space where Rachel also worked, where anyone could access
Oh God.
You deleted them, I whispered. You deleted my files.
I have no idea what you're talking about. Marcus opened the door. But I do have documented evidence that you've been unstable lately. Missing shifts. Making mistakes. Several staff members have noticed concerning behavior.
What staff members? Who said
Sign the resignation, Ivy. Leave quietly. Or I'll have security remove you, and I'll make sure every restaurant in Austin knows you're a thief and a liar. You'll never work in fine dining again.
The threat hung between us like poison.
I thought about fighting. Screaming. Calling him every name I knew in English, Spanish, and Mandarin. But his face was stone, and I could hear movement outside the door—security, probably. He'd planned this. Every detail.
I hate you, I said quietly.
You'll get over it. Marcus pushed a pen across the desk. Sign.
My hand shook as I picked up the pen. As I signed away my career, my reputation, my future. The ink looked like blood on white paper.
Get out.
I walked back through the kitchen in a daze. Everyone watched—some pitying, most just curious. Rachel was crying at her station, but she didn't try to stop me. Didn't say a word.
The kitchen door swung shut behind me with a final, terrible click.
Outside, Austin's October rain hit me like a slap. Cold and merciless. My chef's coat soaked through in seconds as I stood on the sidewalk, watching cars pass, watching people laugh and talk like the world hadn't just ended.
My phone buzzed. Once. Twice. A dozen times in rapid succession.
I pulled it out with shaking hands.
The Chen family group chat, my father, my aunts and uncles, my cousins. Forty-two messages. I scrolled to the first one from my cousin Dominic, posted seven minutes ago:
Disappointing news about Ivy. Source at Meridian confirms she was terminated for recipe theft and erratic behavior. The family should distance ourselves immediately to protect the Chen name.
My aunt Linda: Agreed. We can't be associated with this.
Uncle James: Always knew she was trouble. That's what happens with mixed marriages.
My father's message came last, each word a knife: Ivy, you've embarrassed us enough. Don't come home. Don't contact anyone. You're not part of this family anymore.
The phone slipped from my numb fingers, cracking against the wet pavement.
Rain poured harder. People rushed past, umbrellas blocking me from view. I was invisible. Erased.
No job. No family. No fiancé. No best friend. No future.
I picked up my cracked phone, water dripping from my hair, my hands, my ruined chef's coat. The screen flickered but still worked.
Forty-seven messages now. All variations of the same thing: You're out. You're done. You're nothing.
I had $50,000 in savings. A car. Two suitcases of belongings in my apartment that I shared with, used to share with, Rachel.
That was it. That was everything I had left in the world.
I started walking. No destination. Just away. Away from Meridian, away from the lies, away from everything that had just burned to ash.
My phone buzzed one more time.
Marcus: Don't try to fight this. I have six witnesses who'll testify you were unstable. Lawyers ready to sue for defamation. You can't win. Move on.
I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, rain soaking me to the bone, and made a decision.
I wouldn't move on.
I would survive this.
And someday, somehow, I would make them all regret what they'd done.
But first, I had to figure out how to make it through tonight.