Chapter 1

Sasha

The cab drops me off on Lexington Avenue, and the cold December air hits my face like a wake-up call. I'm back. Six months in New York City, right in time for the holidays. The city practically glitters, strung up in white lights that make everything look like a snow globe, even though the snow won't stick for another week or two.

I drag my suitcase behind me, weaving through tourists taking selfies in front of storefront displays. A couple bumps into me, too busy laughing to notice anyone else exists. I can't even be annoyed. That's the thing about New York during the holidays: everyone's drunk on the atmosphere, high on possibility.

My apartment is exactly as I left it when I signed the lease remotely. Small, overpriced, and perfect. The exposed brick wall makes up for the kitchen that's barely bigger than a closet. I drop my bags and immediately open the window, letting in the sounds of the city. Car horns. Distant music. Someone shouting about a car cutting them off. Home.

I've been chasing assignments across the country for the past year, building my brand, my voice, my reputation. Food is so much more to me than just sustenance. It's culture, memory, identity. That's what I write about. That's what people respond to. And now, this six-month gig with Culinary Chronicles is the kind of opportunity that can change everything.

My phone buzzes. A text from my mom: "Welcome back, baby girl. Call me when you're settled."

I smile, firing back a quick response before changing into something more comfortable. The magazine doesn't need me until tomorrow, which means I have the rest of the day to reacquaint myself with the city that shaped me.

Twenty minutes later, I'm standing outside Marzipan, the tiny bakery tucked between a dry cleaner and a bookstore in the West Village. The window display hasn't changed—same rustic wooden shelves, same handwritten chalkboard menu, same mismatched ceramic plates showcasing their daily specials.

The bell chimes as I push through the door, and warmth envelops me immediately. Cinnamon and brown butter and something citrusy I can't quite place. Heaven.

"Oh my God. Sasha?"

I grin at the woman behind the counter. Mei's hair is shorter now, cut into a sharp bob that frames her face perfectly. She's wearing the same flour-dusted apron she's had for years, the one with the faded logo from some baking competition she won back in culinary school.

"Hey, stranger."

"You're back!" She abandons the espresso machine and comes around to hug me, leaving white handprints on my coat. "I thought you'd forgotten about us little people now that you're fancy."

"Please. I dream about your kouign-amann when I'm stuck eating mediocre hotel breakfast."

"Flatterer." But she's already reaching for the tongs, pulling a golden, caramelized pastry from the case. "This one just came out. Sit. Talk to me."

I settle onto one of the mismatched stools by the window, watching the street outside while Mei preps my order. A couple walks by, hand in hand, stopping every few feet to kiss under the holiday lights. Young love. Stupid and fearless.

"So." Mei slides a plate across the counter, along with a cappuccino I didn't order but absolutely want. "Six months? That's a real assignment."

"Culinary Chronicles. I'm covering the holiday food scene, plus whatever else they throw at me."

"That's huge. Congratulations." She leans against the counter, studying me with those sharp eyes that never miss anything. "You nervous?"

I tear off a piece of the pastry, letting the buttery layers melt on my tongue before answering. "Terrified. Excited. All of it."

"Good. That means it matters."

We fall into easy conversation, the kind that only happens with people who've known you long enough to skip the bullshit. She tells me about her girlfriend's proposal last month, shows me pictures of the ring. I tell her about the barbecue joint in Austin that changed my life, the family-run pho place in Portland that made me cry.

"You've been everywhere," she says, a note of wistfulness in her voice.

"And now I'm here."

"Where you started."

Not quite where I started. That was a different version of New York, a different version of me. The girl who thought love and ambition could coexist without combusting. The girl who believed in happily ever after with a boy who looked at his career the way other people look at religion.

I push the thought away, focusing on the present. The perfect pastry. The good coffee. The friend who's genuinely happy to see me.

After Marzipan, I wander. There's no destination, just the need to move, to remember. The city shifts around me, familiar and strange all at once. That bodega where I bought terrible wine and good empanadas is now a juice bar. The vintage shop where I found my favorite leather jacket is gone, replaced by a chain pharmacy.

But some things haven't changed. Washington Square Park still hums with musicians and chess players and college kids pretending they're too cool to be impressed by anything. The fountain is off for the season, but I can still remember summer nights sitting on its edge, eating dollar pizza and planning a future that felt limitless.

I was twenty-two then. Fresh out of school, armed with a journalism degree and opinions about food that I thought the world needed to hear. I was writing for free, building a portfolio, waiting tables to pay rent, and falling for a chef who worked every holiday and most weekends.

Jace.

His name still does something to me. Something I don't want to examine too closely.

We were young and stupid and so fucking convinced we were different. That we'd make it work despite the odds, despite the restaurant industry's brutal hours, despite his father's expectations and my ambitions.

We didn't.

I shake my head, pulling my coat tighter as the wind picks up. That's ancient history. Four years might as well be a lifetime in your twenties. We're different people now. I've built a career. He's probably done the same, following in Emmett's footsteps like he always planned.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. An email notification.

I consider ignoring it—I'm technically off the clock until tomorrow—but curiosity wins. I pull up my inbox, scanning the message from Catherine, my editor at the magazine.

"Sasha, welcome back! Hope you're settling in. Quick note about your first assignment. We'd like you to cover the new tasting menu at Redford Kitchen. Emmett Redford's son has taken over as head chef, and word is he's doing incredible things with seasonal ingredients. Reservations are hard to come by, but I've pulled strings. You're booked for Friday at 7 PM. Looking forward to your take on it."

My stomach drops.

Redford Kitchen.

Jace and Emmett's restaurant.

I read the email again, slower this time, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something different. They don't.

Of course. Of course my first major assignment back in the city would send me straight into the path of the one person I've successfully avoided for four years. The universe has a sick sense of humor.

I lean against a lamppost, staring at my phone like it personally betrayed me. Friday. That's three days away. Three days to prepare myself to walk into that dining room, sit at a table, and critique the work of someone who once knew me better than anyone.

Someone whose hands I remember. Whose laugh I could pick out of a crowd. Whose ambition burned so bright it left scars on both of us.

"Fuck," I mutter, earning a glance from a passing businessman.

I could ask Catherine to reassign it. Come up with some excuse about conflict of interest, prior relationship, potential bias. She'd probably understand.

But that's not who I am. I don't run from assignments because they're uncomfortable. I've reviewed restaurants owned by people who've insulted my work, chefs who've refused to speak to me, establishments with reputations for chewing up critics and spitting them out.

This is my job. My career. The thing I chose when I walked away from a relationship that was suffocating both of us.

I start walking again, heading north without thinking about where I'm going. The holiday lights twinkle overhead, but their charm has dimmed. The festive cheer feels distant now, muffled by the white noise in my head.

Jace is head chef at Redford Kitchen. That means he did it. He made it. He stepped out of Emmett's shadow far enough to run the kitchen, to put his own stamp on the menu. Part of me—the part that remembers lazy Sunday mornings and late-night conversations about dreams—feels proud.

The rest of me feels like I'm about to walk into a trap of my own making.

By the time I make it back to my apartment, it's dark outside. The city has shifted into evening mode, restaurants filling up, bars getting louder, the energy changing from productive to pleasure-seeking.

I pour myself a glass of wine I definitely don't need and open my laptop. Professional research. That's all this is.

Redford Kitchen's website is sleek, minimalist. The photos showcase dishes that look like edible art: precise plating, bold colors, ingredients I recognize and some I don't. There's a picture of the dining room, all dark wood and warm lighting, intimate without being stuffy.

And there, on the "About" page, is a photo of Jace.

He looks older. Sharper. His hair is shorter than I remember, and there's something harder in his eyes, even through the professional photographer's lens. He's wearing chef's whites, arms crossed, expression serious. Confident.

The bio beneath talks about his training, his philosophy, his commitment to seasonal cooking and supporting local farms. It doesn't mention the hours we spent arguing about whether he was working too much. It doesn't mention the times he chose the restaurant over me, over us.

It doesn't mention me at all.

Which is exactly how it should be.

I close the laptop and drain my wine glass.

Three days. I have three days to pull myself together, to remember that I'm a professional, that I've done harder things than review a restaurant owned by my ex.

Three days to prepare for the possibility that seeing him again might not feel like ancient history at all.