Chapter 1
My husband’s mistress slapped me at the restaurant and ordered me out.
She had no idea I owned the entire building.
I’d spent three years building that place from a dusty, empty storefront.
Every tile on the floor.
Every light fixture above the booths.
Every recipe on the menu, tested a hundred times in my tiny apartment kitchen until it was perfect.
It wasn’t just a restaurant.
It was my blood, my sweat, the thing I’d poured every spare hour into when my husband said I was “wasting my time” with a “silly little dream.”
He’d begged me to meet him there for our fifth anniversary dinner.
Texted me all day, sweet things he hadn’t said in years.
Said he had a surprise.
I wore the silk dress he’d bought me for our first Christmas, the one I’d only worn twice.
I got my hair done, painted my nails the soft pink he used to say he loved.
My hands shook a little on the drive over, stupid, giddy excitement bubbling in my chest.
I thought maybe he’d finally changed.
Maybe he was ready to be proud of me, proud of us.
I walked through the door at 7 PM sharp.
And froze.
He wasn’t alone.
A woman with long, sharp red nails sat in my usual booth—the one I’d had custom built, the one I ate at every night after closing.
Her hand was resting light on his arm.
Her lipstick was the exact shade I’d thrown away last month, after finding a stray tube in our car.
My husband didn’t even stand up when he saw me.
He just sighed.
Long, slow, annoyed.
Like I was the one who’d crashed his date.
Like I was the inconvenience.
The woman stood up slowly.
A smirk pulled at her glossy lips.
She walked right up to me, her stiletto heels clicking loud on the tile I’d picked out myself.
The scent of her expensive perfume burned my nose—perfume I’d seen on our credit card statement, the one he’d lied and said was for his mother.
“Listen, sweetie,” she said.
Fake pity dripped from every word, thick and sour.
“He doesn’t want you here.
Leave quietly, and we won’t make a scene.”
I stared right past her, at my husband.
Waiting.
For him to say something.
Anything.
To tell her to stop.
To tell her it was a mistake.
To stand up and come to me, like a man was supposed to protect his wife.
He just looked down at his wine glass.
Swirled the red liquid around.
Said nothing.
Tears burned the back of my eyes.
My throat tightened so bad I could barely breathe.
The silk dress suddenly felt too tight, too hot, like it was choking me.
I’d spent three years building this place for us.
For the future we’d promised each other.
And he’d brought her here.
To my booth.
To my home away from home.
“I’m not leaving,” I whispered.
My voice cracked.
I hated how small it sounded.
That’s when it happened.
Her hand flew across my face so fast I didn’t see it coming.
The crack of it echoed off the walls.
My cheek stung, hot and throbbing, like I’d pressed it to a stove.
I stumbled back, my palm flying to the bruise already blooming purple under my skin.
My ears rang.
The whole restaurant went dead quiet.
Every fork stopped clinking.
Every glass stopped clinking.
Every head turned toward us.
She leaned in close.
Her breath was hot on my ear, sharp with wine and spite.
“Get out,” she hissed.
“Or next time I won’t stop at one slap.
I’ll make sure you never want to show your face in public again.”
I glanced at my husband again.
He still didn’t move.
He just took a slow, deliberate sip of his wine.
Like none of this was his problem.
Like the woman he’d sworn to love and protect wasn’t standing ten feet away, bleeding inside, because of him.
I looked around the room.
At the waiters who’d worked for me since day one, their eyes wide with shock and rage.
At the regulars who came in every Sunday for pancakes, who knew exactly who I was, who’d watched me build this place from nothing.
At the glowing neon sign above the bar.
My name was printed right across it, in looping white letters.
LILA’S KITCHEN.
I took a deep breath.
My hand still pressed to my burning cheek.
The tears that had been threatening to fall suddenly dried up.
Something cold and hard settled in my chest, right where the hurt had been.
May you like
I opened my mouth to speak.
And that’s when the front door slammed open so hard the windows rattled.
