"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."