For five years, I was the ghostwriter for my celebrity chef boyfriend. And for the fifth time, Caleb Blackwood credited a new season's menu to someone else.

He placated me, as always, with the blueprint of our future restaurant. "Clara, think long-term," he'd say. "Just a little longer. Once the funding comes through, once we get our three Michelin stars, I promise. The very next project, you'll be the Executive Chef."

At twenty-one, I was a fool, willing to bet my future on him. Now, at twenty-eight, years of waiting and endless recipe development have whittled away all the love and courage I once possessed.

I closed my recipe notebook, surrendering my dream of becoming a top chef in New York City. And I surrendered him, too.

C Caleb, I’m done waiting.

————————

————————

1

At the James Beard Award ceremony in New York's Lincoln Center, the banquet hall was packed with the culinary elite. The air buzzed with the clinking of glasses and the rustle of luxury brands.

Caleb stood in the spotlight, his deep-set eyes—the same ones that had charmed countless underclassmen at the Culinary Institute of America. He scanned the room, his gaze landing on Sloane Sterling, the daughter of our main investor, before announcing her as the winner of the Rising Star Chef of the Year award.

I gripped my champagne flute so tightly my knuckles turned white. The crowd surged to its feet, erupting in thunderous applause.

This was my fifth year as a ghost recipe developer. It was also the final year of our six-year pact—a verbal agreement that was supposed to make me his co-founder.

My boyfriend, Caleb Blackwood, was chairman of the selection committee. He attributed all the credit to the "innate culinary intuition" of twenty-three-year-old Sloane Sterling, a restaurant investment tycoon's daughter. And just like that, he elevated her to the stage, effectively pushing me off a cliff.

Sloane descended from the stage in a Prada haute couture gown. Her Louboutins tapped a sharp rhythm on the marble floor as she strode toward me.

"Oh my God, Clara, I'm so, so sorry..." she began, her bright blue eyes fixed on me with an innocence that suggested her talents lay far more in acting than in cooking.

"I never dreamed I'd win," she lamented.

Then, Caleb approached, one hand tucked coolly in his suit pocket. He said proudly, "Sloane, a winner never has to apologize."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over me without lingering.

"Clara, she's a newcomer. Cut her some slack. You know how important this is for the restaurant's funding. There's always next time for you."

The two of them stood before me, a picture-perfect couple.

Caleb’s arm was a protective shield behind a beaming Sloane. Together, they looked like a power couple straight off the cover of a food magazine.

I stared into Caleb's eyes, searching for a flicker of guilt, a hint of remorse. I found nothing.

He had truly forgotten. Forgotten that fall five years ago when he was desperate to open his restaurant. Back then, my only living relative, my grandfather, had been diagnosed with a heart condition back in Vermont. The medical bills were astronomical, piling up faster than I could blink. It had forced me to abandon my own plans for a restaurant and gamble on his exploitative promise.

If I helped him win an international award within six years, he would make me a co-founder with shares in the restaurant. If not, I would walk away with nothing, forfeiting the intellectual property rights to every recipe I’d created.

On the strength of that one promise, I’d scraped together not only his startup capital but also my grandfather’s medical fees.

I had bet everything on him. And in the final year of our pact, he shattered my hopes. He’d given the honor to someone else.

I realized reality wasn't a Hollywood story with a happy ending. I couldn’t give the Blackwood another six years. My sixty-three-year-old grandfather didn't have much time left either.

There won't be a next time, Caleb.

Cameras were pointed in our direction. I took a step back, forcing the most graceful smile I could muster.

"Congratulations to you both." I paused, my next words dripping with sarcasm. "Your mentor-mentee relationship is a true inspiration to the culinary world. It's touching, really."

Caleb seemed faintly displeased by my remark. The hint of a sneer beneath his smile wasn’t pleasant.

Too young, he thought, a flicker of disdain on his face. Too impulsive. All ambition and no patience—she wouldn't last in this city. Five years in the business and she expected to be on top? Did she think this was a Hollywood movie? Success took talent, not connections. Sleeping her way to the top? That trick only got you so far. The culinary world was ruthless, not a charity. Still, she should try again next time. Next time, he’d make it right. If there was a next time.

With that thought, he moved to console her. "Clara, the after-party is at Per Se. You should come."

"No, thank you." I declined politely. "I'm heading home."

Caleb frowned. I wasn’t the type to refuse a networking opportunity. It was a crucial part of survival in this industry. But before he could dwell on it, Sloane had already looped her arm through his.

Meanwhile, I called an Uber. As I slid into the back seat, I gazed out at the cold, glittering panorama of the Manhattan nightscape.

Before I even got home, the hashtags were trending on social media: #CalebBlackwood, #SloaneSterling, #CulinaryGoldenCouple. Each tag was a blaze of red, screaming that they were trending.

Caleb had a cookbook in the works, a three-year project for the restaurant. He was now rushing to name Sloane as the sole author. If I had been at that after-party, I bet my expression would have been anything but graceful.

When my phone screen went dark, my own reflection stared back. I looked tired, pale. The woman in the reflection was anything but happy.

Just as I closed the app, a text from Caleb arrived.

"Don't wait up. Going to be a late one."

I didn't reply, just swiped the message away. The dim blue light of the screen cast shadows on my face as I recalled his justifications.

“That girl from the CIA is a diamond in the rough… We need buzz, Clara. It's business. When will you grow up?”

My questions had dwindled over time.

At first, it was, “Who is she?”

Then, “Why her?”

And finally, silence.

As I scrolled through his long, detailed messages about Sloane, I realized he hadn't noticed that I’d long since stopped asking about the rosemary tattoo he got for me—the one his watch always seemed to cover lately.

All that remained was the cruel, two-word confirmation: Message Read.

The last straw had come three months ago. It was a simple matter of priorities.

That day, Sloane had nicked her finger with a paring knife in the back kitchen. At the same moment, I slipped while carrying a pot of boiling lobster bisque, the entire contents spilling across my arm. Her injury was a tiny cut that barely drew blood; my arm was severely scalded. One kitchen, two worlds apart.

Caleb's concern for me was a brief, "Did you run it under cold water?"

Meanwhile, he fussed over Sloane, personally driving her in his Porsche to the best private hospital on the Upper East Side. He was so worried that he posted on social media: "Urgent! How to prevent scarring on delicate skin?"

In the photo, Sloane sat in the passenger seat of his Porsche, looking fragile but glamorous. And there I was, lying alone in the staff lounge, the cloying scent of burn cream heavy in the air.

I watched Caleb banter with friends in the comments, his replies breezy and charming, while my texts went unanswered. His indifference stung more than the searing pain in my arm.

After a sleepless night, I went to his office, my arm wrapped in thick bandages. I found him engrossed in tasting a macaron Sloane had just made, his brow furrowed in concentration. The texture of a single macaron was a thousand times more important than my third-degree burn.

"Hang on, Clara. The almond flour ratio is a bit off."

He didn't even turn around.

I stood outside the glass door, watching as he guided Sloane in adjusting the recipe. For two hours, I watched him, finally understanding that a single, trivial cookie mattered more to him than I did.

Framed on the glass door was the Best New Chef award he’d received from Food & Wine magazine last year.

At one point, his assistant, Olivia, came over and whispered, "Clara, Caleb is still discussing the menu with Sloane. It might be another two hours..."

She watched my face for a reaction. "Why don't you come back later?"

I stubbornly shook my head. "I'll wait."

Olivia looked troubled.

"You might be disturbing them if you stay."

Suddenly, a sharp, nauseating pain shot through me, and my body buckled. Olivia caught me just in time.

The commotion drew Caleb’s attention from the other side of the glass. He glanced in my direction, his expression unreadable.

"Please escort Clara to the break room."

He spoke with the detached authority of someone removing a disruptive employee. Then, his gaze lingered on my contorted posture, his lips parting slightly as if to ask if I was okay.

"Caleb, should the frosting be sweeter...?"

Sloane's soft, sweet voice pulled his attention back to the macarons. That flicker of concern vanished, dissipating like a mirage.

The message was clear: Stop the drama. Be professional. Get out before you embarrass me. Once he was done, perhaps he would generously send me a copy of the tasting notes he'd made with Sloane as "compensation."

The air conditioner hummed its monotonous drone. Only a wall separated us. He was the one controlling the temperature, while I shivered, caught between the July heat of Manhattan and the biting chill of the AC.

I pulled my sleeves down, turned, and walked toward the elevator.

Five years ago, we graduated from the CIA together, vowing to conquer this city.

Now, I had to accept the painful truth: the man who once shared a chef's knife with me was gone forever.