PART 1
“Listen to me very carefully,” Julian hissed, pointing a trembling finger at my face. “Tomorrow is my mother’s sixtieth birthday. You will cook a heritage feast of sixty distinct dishes. If you are missing a single one, pack your bags and get out of my house.”
He stepped back and slammed the heavy oak door. A loud, metallic click echoed through the space. He had locked the deadbolt from the outside, trapping me in the freezing, dark kitchen.
For five years, I had paid the $3,500 monthly mortgage on this luxury condo and funded his and his mother Fiona’s lavish lifestyles. In return, I was treated like an unpaid servant, locked away simply because I couldn’t physically cook a 60-course meal overnight.
I sat on the freezing tile floor. But no tears fell. When a woman’s heart goes completely numb, the only things left are absolute cruelty and freezing cold logic.
I pulled out my phone. The screen lit up in the dark. I dialed Darcy—my college roommate, and currently one of the most ruthless, feared divorce attorneys in Chicago.
She answered on the third ring.
“Darcy, that offer you mentioned a year ago… does it still stand?” I asked, my voice eerily calm.
Two seconds of dead silence. Then, Darcy’s voice dropped, turning deadly serious. “You finally woke up. What happened?”
“Julian just locked me in the kitchen. He and Fiona are forcing me to cook a sixty-course feast by noon tomorrow. If I refuse, he’s throwing me out on the street.”
Darcy swore, instantly shifting into apex predator mode. “Listen to me, Sloan. By noon tomorrow, I will have every legal document drawn up. The divorce petition, an emergency asset freeze, and an order of protection. But Sloan, I need evidence.”
I smirked, staring into the oppressive darkness of the kitchen. They thought I was a helpless sheep.
“I have it,” I whispered. “From the second he walked through the door demanding the food, I hit record. Every insult, the door slamming, the lock turning—it’s all here.”
“Brilliant,” Darcy murmured with fierce pride. “Now, find an excuse to get out of there and come straight to my penthouse.”
I hung up. Reaching behind a massive tin of oats in the pantry, I pulled out a hidden debit card holding my secret war chest.
Tomorrow was Fiona’s sixtieth Jubilee. Didn’t she want a spectacular gift?
Fine. Tomorrow at noon, I would deliver a “feast” that she and her parasite son would remember for the rest of their miserable lives.
