"Peaches, Sam. Japanese white peaches. Did you call the importer?"

My husband didn't even look up from his phone. He was standing at the kitchen island, knotting his tie with one hand.

"Not yet. Tomorrow."

"You said that yesterday."

"Then I'll say it again tomorrow." He kissed the air near my cheek and grabbed his keys. "Work's insane, Hannah. You know that."

The front door shut behind him.

That was a month ago.

Six years ago, I was Hannah Moreau, one of the youngest Michelin-starred chefs in New York. Critics called my food "fearless." Then I married Sam Rourke, CEO of Rourke Systems, and hung up my knives. He said he wanted to come home to a real dinner. I wanted to be the one who made it.

So I cooked. Every breakfast. Every dinner. Every late-night snack when he came home smelling like the office.

All I'd asked for this year was two peaches.

For our anniversary, I wanted to make the salad I served him on our first date. Honey-sweet white peaches from Okayama, burrata, basil oil, a little black pepper. I could have ordered them myself. But Sam had the importer's number, and I wanted him to do one small thing.

He promised four times. He forgot four times.

---

On the morning of our anniversary, I seared his favorite ribeye, sliced it thin, and laid it over garlic rice with pickled shallots. I packed it into the lacquered bento box his mother gave us as a wedding gift.

Maybe if I brought it to him, he'd remember.

The receptionist on the forty-second floor stood up fast when she saw me.

"Mrs. Rourke! I didn't know you were coming. Mr. Rourke is in a meeting—"

"It's fine. I'll leave it on his desk."

"Wait, maybe I should call—"

I was already walking.

His office was empty. But the door to the private lounge behind it stood half open. Music drifted out. Something soft and girly. A woman's laugh climbed over it.

I pushed the door.

Pink balloons bobbed against the ceiling. Rose petals covered the carpet like spilled confetti. And on the bed, the one Sam swore he only used for naps during product launches, my husband had his hands under his secretary's skirt.

Chloe Darrow. Twenty-four. She'd started working for him last spring.

The bento box slipped in my hands. I caught it.

"Sam."

He rolled off her, not fast enough to look guilty. Just annoyed. He reached for his shirt on the floor.

"Jesus, Hannah. Ever heard of knocking?"

I stared at him. I actually waited for an apology. It never came.

"Knocking," I said. "That's what you have to say?"

Chloe sat up and tugged her blouse closed, slow, like she had all the time in the world. Her lipstick was smeared across her chin.

"Oh, Mrs. Rourke, please don't get the wrong idea." Her voice was sugar on sugar. "Today's Peanut's hundred-day anniversary. My puppy? I adopted him in the summer. Sam knew how much it meant to me, so he threw a little surprise party."

She pointed at the coffee table like she was showing me a gift.

A custom cake sat there. Two tiers. Fondant paw prints. On top was an edible photo of a tiny brown dachshund wearing a bow tie. Next to it, a gold box of dog treats with Japanese lettering. The shipping label still clung to the side.

Air freight. From Tokyo.

Something in my chest went very quiet.

"You flew in dog treats," I said. "From Japan."

Sam buttoned his cuffs. "They're organic. Chloe said Peanut has a sensitive stomach."

A laugh came out of me. I didn't mean for it to. It was thin and strange, and it scared me a little.

"I begged you for a month, Sam. A month. I only wanted two peaches." My voice cracked down the middle. "And you remembered how many days her dog has been alive?"

He rubbed his forehead like I was a headache.

"Hannah. It's a few goddamn peaches. Are you seriously doing this right now?"

"It's our anniversary."

He blinked. Just once. Long enough for me to see it.

He'd forgotten.

Chloe slid off the bed and touched her throat. A diamond necklace sparkled there, a teardrop stone the size of my thumbnail. She turned it in the light so I couldn't miss it.

"Sam's just really good to his staff," she said with a little smile. "He takes care of the people who work hard for him."

"Is that what you call it?"

"Chloe, stop." Sam didn't even sound angry at her. He sounded tired. "Hannah, go home. We'll talk tonight. You're making a scene in my office."

My office. My scene. Like I was the one who'd filled a room with balloons.

I opened the bento box.

Six years of mornings. Six years of standing over a stove at five a.m. so he could eat something warm. Six years of turning down every chef who called and asked, "Are you ever coming back?"

I tipped the box over the trash can. Steak, rice, shallots. All of it slid out and hit the bottom with a wet thump.

Sam's jaw went tight. "That's mature."

"You want mature?"

I twisted my wedding ring. It stuck at the knuckle, the way it always did when my hands were swollen from the kitchen. I pulled harder. It came free.

I tossed it onto the bed. It bounced once on the rumpled sheets and landed beside the dent where Chloe had been lying.

"I want a divorce."

The room went still. Even the stupid music seemed to fade.

Sam laughed. A short, sharp sound. "You're not serious."

"Watch me."

"Hannah, you haven't worked in six years. Where are you going to go?"

I didn't answer. I turned around. My legs shook, but they moved. One step toward the door. Then another.

I had my hand on the frame when Chloe spoke again. Her voice was light. Almost giggly.

"Sam, you still haven't told her?"

I stopped.

"Told me what?"

Behind me, I heard Sam say her name. Low. A warning.

Chloe ignored it. When I turned, she had one hand resting on her flat stomach, fingers spread wide, the diamond glinting under her chin.

She smiled at me like we were sharing a secret.

"I'm pregnant."

The floor tilted under me.

I grabbed the doorframe. My nails dug into the wood.

"Pregnant," I repeated. The word tasted like metal.

Sam didn't come to me. He crossed the room in two long strides and slid an arm around Chloe's waist, careful, like she was made of glass.

"Hey. Sit down, sweetheart. Don't stand so fast."

Sweetheart.

He eased her onto the edge of the bed. Then he turned and glared at me over his shoulder.

"Are you happy now? You stormed in here screaming. She's in her first trimester, Hannah. Stress isn't good for her."

"I didn't scream."

"You threw food in the trash and tossed your ring at a pregnant woman."

"I tossed it at *you*."

Chloe pressed a hand to her forehead. "Sam, I feel a little dizzy."

"See?" He rubbed her back in slow circles. "Just go home. Please."

My eyes burned. I bit the inside of my cheek until the sting won.

I didn't give them my tears. I walked out past the receptionist, who suddenly found her keyboard fascinating.

---

The penthouse was silent when I got back.

I dragged my old rolling suitcase out of the hall closet. It still had a luggage tag from a food festival in Lyon. Seven years old.

I opened the bedroom closet. My chef's whites hung in the back, pressed and untouched.

I had one sleeve in my hand when the elevator chimed.

Voices filled the foyer. A man's cough. A woman's sharp, familiar laugh.

"Hannah? Are you home?"

Margaret Rourke.

I stepped into the living room. My mother-in-law stood in her camel coat, pearls at her throat. Behind her was Sam's father, Richard, already checking his phone. And behind *him*, holding a tiny dachshund in a sweater, was Chloe.

Sam came in last. He set down a monogrammed overnight bag that wasn't mine.

"What is she doing here?"

Margaret peeled off her gloves one finger at a time. "Don't take that tone. Chloe is carrying my grandchild."

I turned to Sam. "You told them?"

"Two weeks ago," Richard said, not looking up.

Two weeks. They'd sat across from me at Sunday dinner. Margaret had complimented my duck.

"You knew," I said to her. "And you asked me for the recipe."

"It was good duck." She shrugged. "That doesn't change facts. Six years, Hannah. Six years and nothing. I've been patient."

"We were trying."

"*You* were trying. Clearly the problem was never my son." She waved a hand toward Chloe like she was presenting a prize. "Now we have a solution. You should be grateful it's happening at all."

"Grateful."

"Yes. Grateful. Most women in your position would be thrown out."

Chloe cuddled the puppy against her chest and gave me a soft, sorry look. It didn't reach her eyes.

Margaret walked straight past me toward the hallway. "The master gets the morning sun. That's best for her. We'll need a humidifier in there. And new sheets. Not those gray ones."

My stomach dropped. "The master bedroom is *my* bedroom."

"It's Sam's apartment."

I spun on my husband. "Say something."

Sam loosened his tie. He looked at the floor, then at me.

"Chloe's health isn't great. The doctor wants her to rest. You move into the guest room for now. Once the baby's born, we'll figure it out."

"Figure it out," I said. "Like what? A rotating schedule?"

"Don't be dramatic."

"You're moving your mistress into our bed, and I'm dramatic?"

Margaret came back into the room, smoothing her coat. "Since you're staying, you'll be useful. Chloe needs proper meals. Low sodium. High folate. Fresh fish twice a week, but nothing with mercury."

I stared at her.

"You want me to cook for her."

"You don't work. You haven't worked in years." She said it like reading a grocery list. "Cooking is the one thing you're good for. So do it."

Richard finally glanced up. "Margaret."

"What? It's true."

Something cold settled behind my ribs. I almost laughed again.

Chloe set Peanut down. He trotted over and sniffed my shoes. She reached into her purse and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.

"Oh, Mrs. Rourke, you'll need this for the menu." She flicked it onto the coffee table in front of me. "Morning sickness is awful. The only thing I keep down is fruit."

I picked it up.

An order confirmation. Okayama Prefecture. Shimizu Hakuto white peaches. Quantity: one case. Twenty-four pieces. Express air freight.

Ordered by Sam Rourke. Last Tuesday.

Last Tuesday, I'd asked him at breakfast. He'd said *tomorrow*.

"He got me a whole box," Chloe said, smiling. "He said I could have as many as I want."

My hands started shaking. Not from sadness. From something hotter.

I tore the paper in half.

Then in quarters. Then smaller, until it was confetti, and I let it rain onto the rug at Chloe's feet.

"Hannah!" Sam snapped.

"I'm not cooking for her." My voice came out steady. Steadier than I felt. "I'm not moving to the guest room. And I am not raising your mistress's baby with my own two hands."

The slap came out of nowhere.

Margaret's palm cracked across my cheek. My head snapped sideways. Her ring caught my lip, and I tasted copper.

"How dare you," she hissed. "A hen that can't lay a single egg, and you think you get to make demands?"

The room went silent. Peanut whimpered and backed under the sofa.

I touched my mouth. My fingers came away red.

I looked at Sam. I waited. For one second, I still believed he'd step in.

He sighed.

"Apologize to my mother, Hannah."

Chloe hid a smile behind her hand.

I wiped the blood off my lip with my thumb. Slowly. I made sure he watched.

"Sam," I said quietly. "You know what I regret most?"

He frowned.

"It isn't marrying you." I picked up my suitcase handle. "It's giving up myself for you."

For once, he had nothing to say.

---

I spent the night in a cheap hotel near Penn Station. The sheets smelled like bleach. I didn't sleep.

At midnight, I called Daniel Okafor, a family lawyer who used to eat at my restaurant every Friday.

"Hannah Moreau? God, it's been years."

"I need a divorce, Daniel. Fast."

He didn't ask why. "Come to my office at ten."

At nine-forty the next morning, my phone buzzed before I reached his building.

"Hannah, don't come up yet." His voice was tight. "Where are you right now?"

"Outside. Why?"

"Sam's lawyers filed an emergency motion with the court at eight a.m. They're asking to freeze your access to every joint marital account."

The street noise seemed to fall away.

"He can do that?"

"He's trying. And Hannah…" Daniel paused. "Check your personal card."

I pulled it out at the coffee cart on the corner. The vendor swiped it.

Then again.

He handed it back with a pitying shrug.

"Declined, lady."

"He wants you to wait a year."

Daniel slid the papers across his desk. I didn't touch them.

"A year for what?"

"Until after the baby's born. His lawyers call it 'avoiding disruption.'" He tapped a paragraph. "You also sign a statement saying the divorce is mutual, due to your 'emotional health concerns.' Plus a gag order. In return, you get a settlement. A decent one."

"Emotional health concerns."

"Their words."

I read the line twice. Then I pushed the pages back.

"No."

Daniel leaned back. "Hannah, that settlement is real money. You've got nothing coming in."

"If I sign that, I'm the crazy wife for the rest of my life. And I'm still married to him for another year." I folded my arms. "What happens if I just walk away from the money?"

He studied me for a long moment. "You'd keep your personal savings and whatever you brought into the marriage. We file on that, fast. The rest of the assets, we fight for later. If ever."

"Then do that."

"You're sure?"

"I'd rather be broke than his."

He picked up his pen. For the first time all morning, he smiled.

---

The apartment in Brooklyn was a fourth-floor walk-up above a laundromat. One window. A stove with two working burners. The radiator banged like someone was trapped inside it.

I had eleven thousand dollars left. Rent took a third of it.

That night, I unzipped the suitcase and pulled out my chef's whites. They still smelled faintly of the lavender sachet I'd tucked in the pocket six years ago. My name was stitched over the heart. *H. Moreau.*

I held the jacket against my chest and laughed at myself. Then I called Corvine.

"Hannah Moreau." Philippe, my old general manager, sounded genuinely happy. "I thought you'd moved to the moon."

"Close. Upper East Side." I took a breath. "I want to come back, Philippe. The kitchen."

The silence on the line stretched.

"Hannah. Marco's been our chef de cuisine for five years. He kept the star."

"I'm not asking for his job. I'll start lower."

"Even lower, you'd need to trail like everyone else. Six years is a long time. The owners will want proof."

"Then I'll give them proof."

"I hope so," he said gently. "I really do."

---

It took nine emails and two weeks, but Ferrante on Bleecker Street finally offered me a tasting. Executive chef position. Three dishes, any style.

I didn't sleep the night before. I made a white miso velouté with seared scallop and brown butter. Duck breast with a black garlic and cherry glaze over charred farro. A yuzu tart with burnt honey meringue.

Old Hannah food. Fearless food.

At two p.m., I stood in Ferrante's kitchen with my knives laid out like surgical tools. The manager, Gerald Pruitt, sat at the pass with two investors. One older man in a navy suit. One empty chair.

Then the kitchen door swung open.

"Sorry I'm late!"

Chloe. Cream coat. Sunglasses pushed into her hair. Peanut tucked under her arm.

My knife stopped mid-slice.

"What is she doing here?"

Gerald cleared his throat. "Ms. Darrow is here on behalf of Mr. Rourke. Rourke Systems is considering a stake in the restaurant group."

"Of course they are."

Chloe sat in the empty chair and crossed her legs. "Don't let me interrupt. Sam just wanted someone to see how you're doing." She tilted her head. "He worries."

"He worries," I repeated.

The man in the navy suit shifted. "Mrs. Rourke, we did receive a call. Mr. Rourke suggested you've been under significant strain. That you might not be… stable enough to run a kitchen."

The heat from the burner crawled up my neck.

"I'm stable enough to make you lunch," I said. "Taste it before you decide."

I plated the scallop. My hands didn't shake. I made sure of that.

Gerald tasted. His eyebrows lifted, just slightly. The investor took a second spoonful.

Chloe didn't touch hers. She fed a crumb of bread to the dog.

"It's cute," she said. "But Sam says you've been out of the kitchen so long, you don't really know how to do anything anymore. Except pack lunches for a man."

The investor coughed into his napkin.

Something in me snapped clean.

I lifted my chef's knife and drove it point-first into the cutting board. The blade sank deep and stood there, quivering.

Chloe flinched. Peanut yelped.

"Listen to me," I said quietly. "You got my husband. You got my bedroom. You got my peaches. Fine. But this?" I pointed at the board. "This was mine before he ever met me. I'm not going to lose forever, Chloe. Write that down for him."

For a second, nobody breathed.

Then Gerald stood and buttoned his jacket.

"Mrs. Rourke, the food is excellent. Truly." He glanced at the knife, then away. "But I think you've just made the investors' concerns for them."

"She provoked me."

"I understand." He didn't look like he understood. "We'll be going another direction."

Chloe gathered her coat and smiled at me on her way out.

"Feel better, Hannah."

---

It was pouring when I stepped onto Bleecker Street.

I stood under Ferrante's awning with my knife roll under my arm and checked my banking app. Something to do with my hands.

The credit card balance had jumped. Forty-one thousand dollars.

I scrolled. Cartier, Fifth Avenue. A resort in Turks and Caicos. Two first-class tickets. A spa package.

All charged to the joint card that still had my name on it. All dated in the last three months.

I called Daniel. Voicemail. I hung up before the beep.

The rain soaked through my flats. A taxi hissed past and splashed my ankles. I didn't move.

Six years. He hadn't just left me. He'd hollowed me out first.

Across the street, a neon sign blinked in a diner window. *HELP WANTED. LINE COOK.*

I wiped my face. Rain or something else, I didn't care which.

"Okay," I whispered. "Okay. Line cook."

I had one foot off the curb when my phone buzzed.

*Chef Novak.*

Teodor Novak had taught me knife skills at culinary school. He'd also once thrown my béarnaise in the sink and told me to try again until it didn't taste like fear.

"Chef?"

"Moreau." His accent hadn't softened in twenty years. "I hear you are cooking again."

"Trying. It's not going well."

"Good. Struggle is useful." Paper rustled on his end. "I have a job. Private chef. Live-in. The client is Edward Castellane."

I stopped on the curb. Even I knew that name. Old money. Older than the city's first skyscraper. Nobody photographed the Castellanes.

"The pay is five hundred thousand a year," Novak said.

"Five hundred—" I lowered my voice. "Chef, why are you calling *me*?"

"Because no one else will take it." He sighed. "Three years ago, Edward was in a car accident. Very bad. Since then, he is… different. He threw a plate at the wall in front of one chef. Another girl, a pastry cook, ran out of the estate crying. She did not come back for her knives."

Rain dripped off the awning in a steady line. I watched it fall.

"Chef. If he likes my food, will he hire me?"

Novak was quiet for so long I checked whether the call had dropped.

"Hannah," he said finally. "In the last two months, he has fired twenty-seven chefs."