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ONE

MADELINE

The best part of my job is being in charge of entitled men who think they’re better than me because they have a dick.

The rest of it—the hustle and bustle, the creative outlet for the recipes that come to me in the middle of the night, the breakneck pace—is nice, too.

But having the power of an executive chef?

That’s something I’ve worked hard for.

After constantly being overlooked for positions I wanted because the job went to a man less qualified than me, I landed the executive chef role at CARVD, a Michelin star steakhouse in the heart of Las Vegas.

That was three three years ago, and I’ve never loved cooking more.

The kitchen is where I belong.

It’s me and food, and it’s the longest, healthiest, happiest relationship I’ve ever had.

“Hey, Andre.” I smile at my favorite line cook and set my notebook and pen on the prep station. “How are we looking for tonight?”

“What do you think?” Andre raises a brow as he sharpens the knife he’s holding. He lifts his chin to the stacked containers, the ones I can see from here labeled Heritage carrots and Confit garlic , and I nod. It’s going to be a long day. Yeah , s tupid question . We’re always busy. He turns the handle and carefully inspects the blade before putting it back in the block against the wall. “Jared wants to see you in his office before we get started.”

“Did he say what it was about?”

“Nope. Vague as always.” He shrugs and moves to a paring knife. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

I head for my kitchen manager’s office, nervous. It’s rare he asks to see anyone before our night starts. His management style has always been hands-off, and knowing he’s here hours before we open the doors to a waitlist a mile long concerns me.

I knock on his door and rock back on my heels. I make a list of the half-dozen things I need to accomplish while I wait for him to answer. I have to track down the fresh spinach we got in yesterday. Take our new runners through proper dish placement and presentation. Assist with prep, which also means checking to make sure we have enough heavy cream for a large batch of peppercorn sauce. Steaks are our signature dish, and if I can avoid eighty-sixing yet another item off our menu tonight, I damn well will.

There’s too much to do, and a quick glance at my watch tells me time is slipping away.

CARVD is one of the hottest spots in the city. Our diners are high-profile athletes, celebrities, and millionaires in town to watch UFC fights and F1 races.

I put everything I have into an innovative menu that changes weekly and draws a crowd. I spend hours experimenting with flavors and technique. I pride myself on learning and evolving as a chef, which is why I’m hesitant to find out why my boss wants to speak to me.

As a meticulous planner and overachiever, being told I’ve done something wrong will be enough to send me spiraling before service.

“Come in,” Jared finally yells, and I throw the door open with a smile.

“Hey, Jared. Good to see you.” I stretch my smile wide, hoping it doesn’t look as forced as it feels. “Andre mentioned you wanted to chat before I got everyone together to go over tonight’s menu?” I ask.

He motions to the chairs in front of his desk. “Take a seat.”

I perch on the edge of one and discreetly check the time again. I don’t want the team to think I’m leaving it to them to pick up my slack. “What’s up?”

“I have some news.”

“Is it good news or bad news?”

He drums his fingers on his desk, and my nerves amp up. “I hate drawing things out, so I’m going to cut to the chase. The restaurant is being sold. The new owners are bringing in a lineup of chefs and runners.”

Hell .

That is definitely not good news.

“Sold?” I repeat. “Our profit margins are through the roof. Almost every culinary magazine has featured us in positive write-ups. Why would they?—”

“It happens a lot in this business. You know how high turnover is. Someone has an idea they want to try out, and it’s successful for two weeks before going up in smoke. This management company has been snatching up dozens of restaurants in the city, and they chose CARVD as their next project. They’re going to turn it into a tapas lounge.”

“ Tapas ? That’s not even a full plate of food.”

“It’s not my call.”

“When does it go into effect?”

“Immediately. Don’t bother with dinner. They’re bringing in their folks to handle the crowd tonight before shutting down for a week to repurpose the menu,” Jared says.

The menu I’ve spent countless hours on.

The menu I’ve poured my heart and soul into.

It wasn’t good enough.

I’m not good enough, and that’s a terrifying revelation.

My hands shake and I take a breath through my nose. I want to cry, but I learned a long time ago that getting emotional won’t fix the problem in front of me.

Jared throws out words like investment opportunity and new ideas , and a million thoughts race through my head.

How am I going to pay for my daughter, Lucy, to go to school? How am I going to afford rent, my car payment, and Christmas gifts in a few months?

I’m not rich by any means, but I know I’m lucky compared to others. My low six-figure salary lets us get by comfortably. It lets me pay the bills and gives me a chance to set aside money each month for Lucy’s college fund.

Losing that is going to up-end everything I’ve worked so hard for, and that’s what hurts the most.

“Okay.” I stand and head for the door, wanting nothing more than to escape to a place where I can be weak for a minute. Where I can cry and be mad. My chest hurts. My eyes burn, and I hold back the sob working its way up my throat. “Thank you for letting me know, Jared.”

“Madeline,” he says. “You’ll find something.”

In a cutthroat industry where job openings on a similar compensation scale don’t appear out of thin air, I’m not hopeful. But I smile anyway. I lift my shoulders in a What can you do ? kind of way and nod.

“If you hear of anything, let me know,” I say, closing the door to his office with an aggressive slam.

My empathetic side tells me to head back to the kitchen and spend a few minutes with the people I enjoy working with, but I refuse to be the one to break the news about our impending unemployment.

Instead, I grab my purse and slip out the back exit to the employee parking lot, grateful for a moment alone.

The dry afternoon heat greets me, and it’s a hug I’ve come to tolerate after so many years of living here. When I first moved to Vegas, I complained about the never-ending summer. I missed cycling through four seasons. Leaves falling in autumn and snow on Christmas Day back in Ohio.

The warmth is a comfort now, and after that news, I need all the comfort I can get.

I climb in my car and start the drive to my parents’ house ten minutes away from the Strip. I grip the steering wheel tightly while an old country song croons from the speakers of my Hyundai. George Strait helps ease the sting of losing something I love, something I’m good at, but not by much.

When you’re a single parent who needs to provide for her child, you don’t have time to wallow. You don’t have the opportunity to beat yourself up or stew over what you could’ve done differently.

You have to put on your big girl pants, plaster on a fake fucking smile, and figure out a way to get shit done.

By the time I cut the engine, my mind is working in overdrive. I’m thinking of the contacts I have in the city who might know of any openings. I’m revamping my resume and wondering if I have any business casual clothes in my closet that might be appropriate for an interview.

“Mom?” I call out, letting myself in. “Anyone home?”

“Madeline?” My mom appears around the corner wearing a worried look. “What are you doing here?”

I kick off my shoes. Panic claws at the base of my spine when I realize there’s someone else who can be responsible for a minute. It doesn’t always have to be me.

“The restaurant is being sold,” I say in a voice so faint, I’m not sure I’m speaking at all. “Which means I’m out of a job.”

“Oh, sweetie.” Mom opens her arms, and I walk into her embrace, grateful for her hugs even at thirty-three. “Tell me everything.”

Half an hour later, we’re sitting at the dining room table deep in brainstorming mode. My computer is open as I make a list of anywhere and everywhere I can think of that might be hiring, and things are looking bleak.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do. I can’t pay for Lucy’s education on a minimum-wage salary, but I don’t want to homeschool her or put her in public school. It’s important to me that she’s around other deaf kids who communicate like her, and I’m not sure how I’m supposed to do that now,” I say.

“What about the child support Clark pays? Where does that money go?” Mom asks. “You could reach out to your lawyer and see if you can negotiate a higher amount now that your income is uncertain.”

“I don’t want to rely on the child support.” I tap my laptop and sigh. “The last thing I want to do is give that man any sort of power over us. I put the money in a separate account, and I haven’t touched a dime of it since he left.”

I’ve never hated anyone in my life, but the disdain I have for Lucy’s father is insurmountable.

We were happy in the years before I got pregnant. Hell, I moved here to be with him. We took trips to the Caribbean and bought a house with a big backyard. We spent every night talking about what our future looked like, and our life was straight out of a fairytale.

When Lucy came into the world, she failed her newborn hearing screening before we left the hospital. She failed her next one, and after a trip to the audiologist, we learned she was deaf.

A month after her diagnosis, Clark left us. He told me he didn’t sign up to raise a child who is “different”. He didn’t want to put in “the work” it would take for her to be happy and taken care of, and the last thing he would ever do is learn sign language.

It’s been the two of us ever since, and she relies on me to give her the life she deserves. Reaching out to the piece of shit who abandoned us when we needed him the most is not demonstrating the strength I try to teach Lucy. No matter how much money he has, I need to come up with another idea.

“How much do you have in savings?” Mom asks, breaking me from my murderous daydreams of what I would say to Clark if I ever saw him again.

“Enough to get through a few months of expenses.” I close my computer and rest my chin in my hand. “I’m going to stop by some restaurants next week to see if I can find anything, but maybe this is the universe telling me something.”

“Telling you what?”

“That I need a fresh start? I’ve been in Vegas for a decade, but I’m not sure this is where I want to plant roots.”

“What do you mean? You have your apartment. Your father and I are here. Lucy goes to school right up the road.”

“Those are all wonderful things, but I moved here for Clark. It’s never really felt like my home , you know? I could bounce between jobs that might make ends meet, or I could see if there’s something else calling my name. Even if it means moving and starting with a clean slate.”

It would hurt to lose my support system.

My parents moved to Vegas to be closer to me after the divorce, and having them nearby to help with childcare has been the only way I’ve kept my head above water.

But deep down, my heart tells me I need to put myself first. I need to take a step out of my comfort zone, and that could mean leaving this city—and its ghosts—behind.

“Dad and I will always support you, Madeline,” Mom says, and that makes me want to cry.

I set my mug down and reach across the table so I can take her hand in mine. “I know.”

Light footsteps and a soft giggle break our moment. Lucy comes barreling into the kitchen. She’s my mini-me, a smaller version of myself I’d do anything to protect.

Mommy! she signs, and I reach for her. She runs into my arms and I scoop her up, holding her close to my chest. You’re here!

This will always be my favorite place in the world: with Lucy in my lap, grateful for every second I get with her.

Hi . I kiss the top of her head. Have you had fun with Grams and Gramps this afternoon?

We watched a video on parakeets. Can we get a parakeet?

I glance at my mom, and she gives me a guilty smile.

She was very excited about the birds . You know how hard it is to tell her no , my mom signs, and I laugh.

Yeah . I hold Lucy tighter. I’d give her anything she ever wanted. I do .

Lucy touches my cheek and frowns. You look sad .

I’m okay, sweetheart . Should we start getting dinner ready?

Can we do hot dogs?

Of course we can , I tell her, not the least bit wounded she doesn’t want to eat any of the dishes I’ve mapped out in my planner for the week.

My daughter squeals and climbs out of my lap. She takes off for the kitchen, and my mom touches my shoulder.

“You’re going to figure it out, honey,” she tells me, and I nod.

I’ve been flying by the seat of my pants for the last six years, and I always figure it out.

I can do it a little longer.