The Billionaire's Chef Poisoned My Parents—Now It's His Turn

My billionaire husband has anorexia, and the only food he can stomach is whatever his precious little chef, Dahlia Powell, makes for him.

I fought. I screamed. In the end, I swallowed my pride for my daughter's sake.

On the surface, Dahlia played the innocent lamb, all smiles and deference. But the moment my back was turned, she prepared a feast for me and my parents—a last supper, as it turned out.

I ate sparingly and barely survived. My parents died in agony.

Afterward, Dahlia gasped and clutched her chest. "Oh no! I must have confused the fo-ti root with pepper—they look so similar! But surely you noticed the taste was off? Unless… you're trying to frame me?"

The pain was unbearable. I wanted to tear her throat out with my teeth.

But my husband shielded her. He slid a forgiveness agreement across the table, his voice flat. "This wasn't Dahlia's fault. It was an accident. Besides, you should be grateful it was your parents who died and not us."

"You know I can't survive without Dahlia. Sign it."

When I refused, she threatened my daughter's life.

I signed.

My daughter was still forced to drink soup boiled with raw aconite.

I died choking on hatred and regret, the poison burning through my veins.

Now I've been given another chance.

When my husband slams that same forgiveness agreement in front of me, I hand the pen back to him.

"You're the one who should sign this."

——

0ne

"I'm just a chef who loves cooking. Mrs. Hansen is being paranoid!" Dahlia stood before me, eyes wide with practiced innocence. "But since you're so worried about competition, let me prove myself. I'll prepare dinner for you and your family tonight. Once you taste my food, you'll see there's nothing between Mr. Hansen and me."

She was smug beneath the simpering act. Her words dripped sweetness, but her expression screamed triumph.

I wasn't angry.

Because I realized I'd been reborn.

In my past life, I'd exploded at her right here. But Marcus had called me difficult, refused to even look at me. While I was out picking up my parents, he let Dahlia replace our nanny and cook an elaborate dinner.

I knew nothing.

Not until my parents collapsed mid-meal, writhing in pain. Not until my vision blurred and numbness spread through my limbs. Only then did I understand—the food had been poisoned.

I tried to call for help.

Marcus and Dahlia stopped me. They stalled deliberately, forcing me to watch my parents stop breathing. Then they used my daughter to make me "forgive" Dahlia's "carelessness."

My death. My parents' deaths. My daughter's death. All written off as accidents. Marcus bought off every relative who might have questioned it, and our lives were swept away like dust.

This time, I smiled.

"Fine. I'll go get my parents now. Have dinner ready when we return." I looked her up and down. "If you'd remembered your place from the start—that you're just a cooking tool—I wouldn't have bothered arguing with you."

Her face flushed crimson.

I walked past her without another glance and drove to pick up my parents.

Two

When I returned, the table was covered with dishes. Just as lavish as before, just as appetizing. I'll give Dahlia this much—despite her rotten soul, she really can cook.