Franky KayLeean Antrim

As my husband handed his mistress credit for my work on a global livestream, I smiled and applauded. He was Julian Croft, the newly crowned Chef of the Year. I was the one who actually ran the kitchen. And I was Ava Reed, the wife he’d never publicly acknowledged. His acceptance speech was an ode to the restaurant manager, Isabella. He called her his muse, his source of inspiration. Under his adoring gaze, the woman cried beautifully. The audience was eating it up. Julian came over to me, expecting a scene. I simply raised my glass. “Congratulations.” He froze for a moment, then smiled, praising my composure, my understanding of the moment. He didn’t know my composure came from a place of certainty. My work was already done. He didn’t know the partnership dissolution agreement, disguised as a routine document, was already waiting for his signature. And he had no idea that in a few hours, blinded by the applause, he would sign away his entire future. His performance was a masterpiece. But my counterattack was just getting started. … I ignored the smug look on Julian’s face and threaded my way through the throng of guests. The air, thick with champagne and forced pleasantries, was suffocating. I just needed to get outside and breathe. But Isabella intercepted me, blocking my path. Her face was a mask of practiced concern, her voice cloyingly sweet. “Ava, I know this must be difficult, but everything we do is for the restaurant, right?” She reached for my arm, a familiar, collegial gesture that was a complete lie. My body recoiled before my mind could catch up. I took a half step back, her hand landing on empty air. It was a small movement, but it was enough to crack the perfect facade of warmth on her face. Isabella’s eyes instantly welled with tears. She turned to Julian, who was standing nearby, her voice trembling. “Julian, I was just trying to get Ava to join us… She’s not being a team play......