Chapter 3

The hospital was as white and sterile as Jocelyn' s mansion. I woke up alone after major surgery, my body a roadmap of fractures and stitches. The nurses were kind, but their professional sympathy only highlighted the gaping void where my family should have been.

Jocelyn never came. Not once.

During those long, lonely days of recovery, I had a lot of time to think. And to plan. I used a burner phone I' d bought months ago to make one call.

"Matthew," I said, my voice hoarse.

"Ethan? My god, man, what happened? I heard something on the news..."

Matthew Clark. My best friend from culinary school. He was a successful restaurateur in Portland now, the kind of success I had dreamed of before I sold my soul. For years, he had been my lifeline, the one person who knew the truth.

"I'm out, Matt," I said, the words tasting like freedom. "I'm finally out."

I told him everything. About the ring. The accident. Jocelyn' s chilling indifference.

He was silent for a moment, then he said, "The offer still stands, you know. The food lab. Your preservation techniques, those flavor profiles you've been developing... it's brilliant stuff, Ethan. We could build an empire."

For years, while playing the role of the perfect house husband, I had secretly been working in my own little corner of the mansion's massive kitchen. I' d developed innovative food preservation techniques, creating artisanal products with unique, complex flavor profiles. It was my secret rebellion, the one part of my soul I had kept for myself. I' d sent samples to Matthew, and he' d been blown away.

"I'm in," I said, no hesitation. "I'm all in."

The day I was discharged, my phone buzzed with a call from Jocelyn. I ignored it. Another call. Ignored. A text message demanding to know why I wasn't home to manage the household staff. I deleted it without reading.

I took a cab straight to the airport and flew to Portland. The moment I stepped off the plane, the cool, damp Oregon air felt like a baptism. Matthew was waiting for me. We went straight to his lawyer's office and I signed the partnership agreement.

My old life was over.

To celebrate, Matthew took me to a food truck. I ordered the greasiest, spiciest Philly cheesesteak on the menu, the kind of food Jocelyn had always forbidden as "low-class." I took a bite, and the rich, messy, unapologetic flavor was the taste of liberation.

I took out my old SIM card, snapped it in half, and tossed it into a nearby trash can.

Freedom. It tasted like Cheez Whiz and fried onions. And it was glorious.