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Chapter One

Savannah

The fallout is immediate.

By the next morning, the entire internet knows what happened. It’s everywhere. Twitter, Instagram, TikTok.

My name is trending for all the wrong reasons.

Every headline screams the same thing: Celebrity Holiday Wedding Catering Disaster! Food Poisoning Scandal Rocks Hollywood! A Not-So-Merry Christmas for This Couple!

And then there’s the memes. Oh, God, the memes.

They’ve dubbed me “Salmonella Savannah” .

My face—my fucking face —is plastered on every meme, every joke, every viral tweet. Pictures of Olivia Harper looking pale and miserable, of guests puking into bushes, all with captions like, “Hope you enjoy your last supper ,” and “Eat at Lemons? No thanks, I prefer to live.”

I want to die. I want to crawl into a hole and never come out.

But it gets worse. So much worse.

Lemons is done. Finished. No one wants to eat at a restaurant run by the woman who gave half of Hollywood food poisoning.

Investors pull out. Reservations are canceled. Layla, my best friend, my business partner , sits me down a few days later and drops the bomb.

“I’m buying you out.”

I stare at her, my mouth hanging open. “What?”

She looks uncomfortable, like she doesn’t want to be saying this, but she’s doing it anyway. “Sav, I’m sorry. I really am. But this...this is bad. I’ve been talking to the investors, and they don’t think we can recover from this. The only way to save Lemons is if I take full control.”

I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach. “You’re getting rid of me?”

“I’m not getting rid of you,” she says quickly. “But we have to think about the future. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of, okay? But...I need to buy you out. It’s the only way.”

I stare at her, my eyes burning with unshed tears. “You’re serious.”

She nods. “I’m sorry, Sav. But this is the only way.”

I stand up, my chair scraping loudly against the floor. “Fuck you.”

“Sav…”

“No,” I snap. “Fuck you, Layla. You’re just going to...what, take everything we built together and throw me out like trash?”

“I’m trying to save what we built,” she argues, her voice rising. “This isn’t personal. This is business.”

“Business?” I laugh bitterly. “Fuck business. I thought we were friends.”

“We’re friends,” she says, her voice softening. “But I have to do what’s best for the restaurant.”

I shake my head, my throat tight. “What about me? What about everything I’ve worked for? You’re just going to cut me out like I’m nothing?”

Her face crumples, but she doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to.

I turn and storm out, slamming the door behind me.

The next few weeks are a blur.

Everywhere I go, people recognize me. They point. They laugh. They whisper. I can’t walk down the fucking street without hearing someone mutter, “There goes Salmonella Savannah .”

It’s like I’ve become a joke. A punchline.

I avoid my phone. Social media is a fucking warzone, filled with people tearing me apart. The restaurant scene in New York? Yeah, I’m done there. No one wants to hire the chef who poisoned a famous person’s wedding. My reputation is shot.

And my dad? Not a single fucking call. Not a text. Nothing.

The one person who could’ve shown me some goddamn support during all of this just...disappears. I know we don’t have the best relationship, but I thought maybe this would be the thing that brought him back, that made him realize how much I needed him.

But no. Of course not. He’s probably in LA or Miami or wherever the fuck, schmoozing with his football clients, not giving a single thought to his daughter who’s having the worst fucking time of her life.

I sit in my apartment, staring at the ceiling, wondering how the hell it all went so wrong. I was so close . So close to everything I’ve ever wanted.

And now...now I’m nothing. A joke. A meme. Salmonella fucking Savannah .

I rip the tinsel rope off my Christmas tree with annoyance. Dry needles pelt all over the floor.

I grimace, but I should have thought of that. The tree has been sitting here forgotten for more than a month.

I had come home from the Christmas wedding nightmare and taken down all my Christmas decorations. I didn’t have the heart to look at them anymore.

The tree had stayed, mostly because there were still presents under it. Once I had exchanged gifts with my friends, it had sat there collecting dust, the lights turned off, forgotten.

Now, however, it was turning into a real fire hazard and I had forced myself to deal with it.

What else did I have to do? Layla had made me stay away from the restaurant to protect me from the ravenous press attention before she decided to buy me out. My life was reduced to sleeping, hiding from social media, and mourning the Christmas that I wished I had had.

I decide to finally be brave and grab my phone. I check the notifications. My inbox is flooded with media requests, interview offers from talk shows, reality TV deals.

They all want to talk to me, to hear my side of the story. But they don’t give a shit about me. They just want more content, more shit to laugh at.

Layla texts me a few times, asking how I’m doing, offering to talk. I ignore her. I can’t even look at her without wanting to punch something.

I toss my phone onto the couch and groan. “Fuck.”

There’s a knock at my door.

I ignore it, sinking deeper into the couch. But the knocking gets louder.

“Sav, open up!”

It’s Layla.

I grit my teeth and storm to the door, yanking it open. “What do you want?”

She winces at the venom in my voice. “I came to check on you. You’ve been ghosting me.”

“Yeah, because I don’t want to talk to you.”

She pushes past me and walks into my apartment like she owns the place. “Well, tough shit. I’m here now.”

I slam the door and cross my arms. “What do you want, Layla? I’ve lost everything. You took what was left from me. Isn’t that enough for you?”

She spins around, her eyes flashing. “You didn’t lose everything. You still have me.”

“Do I?” I ask coldly. “Because it sure as fuck doesn’t feel like it.”

She sighs, running a hand through her hair. “Look, I know you’re pissed at me. I get it. But I didn’t have a choice. I had to do what was best for the restaurant.”

I shake my head. “I don’t give a shit about the restaurant anymore. I cared about us . About what we built together. And you just...threw it all away.”

Layla steps closer, her voice softening. “Sav, I didn’t throw it away. I saved it. And when the time is right, I’ll bring you back. I promise.”

I scoff. “Yeah, right. Like anyone’s going to want me back after this. I’m a fucking joke.”

“You’re not a joke,” she says firmly. “You’re one of the best chefs in this city, and you’re going to bounce back from this. You just need to lay low for a while, let things blow over.”

I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Lay low? How am I supposed to do that when the entire fucking internet thinks I’m a walking biohazard?”

Layla shrugs. “I don’t know. Go on vacation. Get out of the city. Do something that makes you happy.”

I stare at her, my anger simmering just beneath the surface. But deep down, I know she’s right. I need to get the hell out of here before I lose my mind.

“I’ll think about it,” I mutter.

She gives me a small smile. “Good. And when you’re ready to come back, Lemons will be waiting for you.”

I nod, though I’m not sure if I believe her.