Chapter 3

A week later, the final insult came. A glossy new website appeared online: "Nova - A Bold New Culinary Experience. Coming Soon." The address was sickeningly familiar. It was my address. Aura's address.

The website featured a photo of Mark, looking smug in a designer chef's jacket, and Sarah, smiling brightly by his side. The "About Us" section described them as "culinary visionaries" ready to "redefine the city's dining scene." A quote from Mark was splashed across the homepage: "It's a shame what happened to the previous tenant, but some chefs just can't handle the pressure. We're here to build something that lasts."

The public taunt was a splash of gasoline on the fire in my gut. Chef Dubois saw the look on my face.

"Revenge is a dish best served cold, mon ami," he said, placing a hand on my shoulder. "But first, you must prepare the ingredients."

He was right. I needed a plan. My faked death had to be flawless, a final act that would give me the freedom to move, to gather the last pieces of evidence I needed. The obstacle was pulling it off without a single mistake.

I decided to go back to my apartment one last time. There was an old, hard-to-access crawlspace where I had stashed some emergency cash and a fake ID I' d had made years ago for a Vegas trip, a stupid youthful mistake that now felt like a prophecy. I had to get it. I went late at night, picking the lock I had installed myself.

The apartment was dark and silent, but it smelled of her perfume. It made my stomach clench. I was about to head for the crawlspace when a light flicked on in the living room.

Sarah stood there, holding a glass of wine. She gasped when she saw me.

"Ethan! My God, you're here. I've been so worried."

She rushed to me, her face a perfect picture of concern. I stood my ground, my body rigid.

"I came for my things," I said, my voice flat.

"Of course, of course," she said, her eyes darting around the room. "But you look terrible. You haven't been sleeping. Here, let me get you a drink. A real drink. To calm your nerves."

She went to the bar and poured a generous amount of whiskey into a glass. Her back was to me, but I saw her hand slip into her pocket and shake a fine white powder into the glass. She swirled it, her movements fluid and practiced.

"Here," she said, handing it to me. "You need to rest, Ethan. You need to just... let go of all this stress."

I took the glass, my mind racing. I brought it to my lips, tilted it back, and let most of the liquid spill down the front of my shirt, making sure to swallow a tiny, bitter-tasting mouthful. I coughed, feigning a choke.

"Sorry," I mumbled, setting the glass down. I swayed on my feet, letting my eyelids flutter. "Feel... dizzy."

"It's okay," she cooed, guiding me to the sofa. "Just close your eyes."

I let my head fall back against the cushions, my breathing growing heavy and slow. I was "passing out." Through slitted eyelids, I saw her pick up her phone.

She dialed a number. "It's me," she whispered. "He's here. He's an absolute mess. He just showed up, incoherent."

A pause.

"Don't worry," she said, her voice turning cold and pragmatic. "He drank it. He'll be out for hours. After tonight, he won't be a problem for anyone. It's almost a kindness, really. He can't handle the failure."

Another pause.

"Yes, I have the note I wrote. It's in his handwriting, I practiced. It will look like he came back here, fell into despair, and ended it all. The whiskey, the pills... it's perfect. Tragic."

She was confirming it. She wasn't just ruining me; she was staging my suicide. The cruelty of it was breathtaking. She thought she was giving me an easy way out, a twisted act of love to put a failed man out of his misery.

She walked over to the coffee table and placed the rest of a bottle of sleeping pills next to the whiskey glass, arranging the scene like a food stylist plating a dish. She looked down at me, her expression unreadable. For a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of something, of the girl I used to love. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by a mask of grim determination.

She leaned down and kissed my forehead, her lips cold as ice.

"Goodbye, Ethan," she whispered.

Then she turned, walked out of the apartment, and closed the door behind her, leaving me to die. I lay there, motionless, the sedative beginning to pull at the edges of my consciousness. I fought it, focusing on the hate. It was the only thing keeping me awake.