My brother curled his lip and said mockingly, "I used to think you had such a happy, respectable family. I didn't expect it to fall apart this badly."

There was a glint of schadenfreude in his eyes.

At that moment, I realized—I'd misjudged him too. So much for putting yourself in someone else's shoes; envy always wins. My useless brother must have been waiting for years to see me humiliated.

"Everyone in the family is talking," he went on. "They say you've got the face of a man and the heart of a beast. Pretend to be kind on the surface, but behind people's backs you're greedy and fake—stealing peanuts from your own daughter's restaurant, of all things."

I froze. "Eliza told people that?"

"She couldn't talk sense into you, so she got everyone else involved," he said with a shrug. "They all agreed I should be the one to talk to you. Honestly, for someone your age, you should be grateful your daughter and son-in-law even let you live with them. Don't push your luck, or you'll end up alone with no one to take care of you."

Every word was a dagger twisting in my chest.

I never imagined my own daughter would drag my name through the mud like that—calling her father a thief before the entire family.

After the pain came clarity. I said firmly, "I'm never going back to that restaurant."

"That place is too small, and the air's too foul for me to breathe. As for old age—if it comes to it, I'll live in a nursing home. On hearing that, my brother's expression hardened. "Have you lost your mind, big brother? It's just a plate of peanuts! You'd turn on your daughter over that?"

I turned my back to him, unwilling to say another word.

Yes—it was just a plate of peanuts. But was that really enough reason to send me to the hospital?

Why, no matter what I said, were they so determined to believe the worst of me?

"You're hopeless," my brother muttered before walking out.

When the door closed, my apprentice finally spoke up. "Master, I'd like to invite you to be the head chef at my restaurant."

He took out a folder and handed it to me. I glanced at it—and my eyelids twitched violently.

The contract stated that I would receive seventy percent stock ownership.

Such an offer probably didn't exist anywhere else in the world. After all, no restaurant owner ever gives a chef such a large share.

"My father and I just came back from overseas," he explained earnestly. "We're starting a restaurant business and I’ve heard of your reputation for a long time—that's why I begged to be your apprentice to learn from you."

"But after seeing how you've been treated, I can't stand by anymore. From today on, I want to call you my godfather. I'll take care of you for the rest of your life."

"It's written in the contract too."

I had noticed long ago that Calum not only had great comprehension but also an extraordinary temperament. He was bright and refined, but I hadn't expected such sincerity.

Compared to my ungrateful daughter and her husband, he was a world apart.

I was deeply moved.

"Master," he said gently, "no need to decide now. Think it over."

He didn't press me further.

The next day, Eliza finally appeared at the hospital. The first thing she did when she entered the room was frown.

"The tycoon who came yesterday wasn't satisfied with the food," she said curtly. "I've invited him to come back in a week. You need to return and help."

She strode right up to me and grabbed my arm, not even bothering to check my condition.

"I'm sick," I said flatly. "Hire another chef."

She didn't apologize—didn't even look guilty.

"We did hire someone new," she said matter-of-factly. "My mother-in-law recommended him. This time, we just need you to help out. The kitchen’s too busy without two people, and you have enough experience to manage both sides."

Her tone was full of entitlement, as though she were doing me a favor.

I felt my blood boil again.

So that was it. They wanted me to go back as someone else’s assistant.

Me? A dignified state banquet chef?

When have I ever worked under someone else?

How utterly ridiculous!

It was nothing short of trampling on my professional dignity.

Seeing the dark look on my face, Eliza sighed impatiently. "Dad, we already made a compromise by letting you be the assistant. Can't you just be satisfied? Do you really want to tear this whole family apart before you stop?"

"If you weren't my father, I wouldn't even bother with you!"

Her tone dripped with disdain.

I clenched my fists until my knuckles cracked and turned away, refusing to answer.

She hadn't always been like this. My daughter used to be kind, gentle, and filial. Perhaps now that she was married and had her own career, she felt her wings have hardened. She no longer respects her old father and just saw me as a burden, standing in her way.

"Dad," she continued sharply, "if you're going to be this stubborn, then let's settle our accounts properly."

Her eyes narrowed as she began counting, cold and methodical.

"You've been getting one thousand a month for living expenses. It's been two years—that's twenty-four thousand. I won't even count the meals you've eaten. Just give me twenty thousand, and we'll call it even."

She said it without shame, as if she were the one who'd been wronged.

My whole body shook with fury.

Calum couldn't stand it anymore. "Eliza, do you even hear yourself? If that's how you calculate things, shouldn't you count how much it cost him to raise you into an adult?!"

She scoffed. "He raised me because he had to. That's what parents do. But now I'm married—I'm part of the Rembrandt family. Helping him is kindness, not an obligation!"

Her words stripped away the last illusion I had of her.

It was clear that now she thought the new chef was capable enough. She no longer had any scruples, completely revealing her true colors.

My heart went cold. I bit out the words, each one cutting my tongue like glass.

"Fine. Twenty thousand, right? I'll give it to you. After this, we're no longer father and daughter."

"Gladly," she said without hesitation. "Just don't come crawling back when you regret it."

I transferred the money. She checked her phone, turned on her heel, and left without looking back.

The more I thought about it, the heavier my chest felt. A violent cough escaped me, and the medical monitor beside my bed began to blare an alarm.

My apprentice shouted for the doctors, and they rushed in just in time to stabilize me.

Later, a few workers from the restaurant messaged me. They'd created a small chat group—and sent me a video.

In the footage, Eliza was grinning from ear to ear, speaking to Michael and her mother-in-law.

"The money is back," she said proudly. "My father is perfectly fine—he was just faking being sick to guilt-trip us."

Her smile was sly and gleeful, like a fox that had just outwitted the farmer.

I felt my heart twist painfully again.

"Good job, honey!" Michael said, pulling her into his arms. "Once we serve that tycoon a perfect meal, we'll get the five-million investment. After that, we'll be swimming in money."

Her mother-in-law raised a thumbs-up. "Don't worry about the cooking—I found the new chef myself. He's reliable, clean, and won't sneak bites from the kitchen. He knows every cuisine too! The tycoon will be over the moon."

The three of them laughed, beaming with joy, as if nothing in the world could go wrong.

Watching that video, I finally gave up on them completely.

"Calum," I said weakly, my voice trembling but resolute. "About what you said before... I accept."

Calum immediately knelt and kowtowed, tears in his eyes. "Godfather! I swear I'll honor and care for you all my life. If I don't, may the heavens strike me down!"

Tears welled in my own eyes—part gratitude, part heartbreak. Gratitude for the boy who treated me like family, and grief for the daughter who no longer did.

Seven days later, the richest man in town arrived at Eliza's restaurant.

Under the command of the new chef, steaming plates of food were served one after another.

"Mr. Irwin, please try these dishes," Michael said obsequiously, pouring him a glass of wine.

Eliza and her mother-in-law exchanged a look, grinning so wide their faces nearly split.

In their minds, they were already living the high life—luxury villas, yachts, and designer handbags glittering in their daydreams.

The richest man picked up a piece of braised pork belly with his fork and placed it into his mouth—only to spit it out the very next second.

"Too gamey!" he roared, slamming the cutlery onto the table. "And you didn't even clean off the pig hair properly!"