Chapter 1

Jackie

The knife moves through the bell pepper with practiced precision, my hands flowing with the same rhythm I've followed since culinary school. My small Charlotte apartment fills with the aromatic blend of sautéed garlic and onions – the foundation of tonight's client meal prep. Classic comfort food with a healthy twist, my specialty.

My phone vibrates against the cutting board. Mom's face lights up my screen.

"Hey Ma, I'm in the middle of—"

"Jackie, my God! Have you heard what happened? It's your cousin, baby. Celia and her husband, Aston." Her voice cracks, sharp and high. "They've been in an accident in New York."

The knife slips from my fingers, clattering against the wooden board. My stomach drops like I've missed a step on a staircase. "What? Are they okay?"

"They're alive. Banged up pretty bad, though. Broken bones, bruises everywhere. They were on their way to some fancy wedding."

I stumble to the couch, legs suddenly weak beneath me. The room spins slightly as I sink into the cushions. "Oh my God."

"They need help, Jackie. Celia's been asking for you."

My free hand presses against my forehead, pushing back the panic that threatens to overwhelm me. Celia and I have always been close while we were growing up, more like sisters than cousins. Life pushed us in different directions, but now it's bringing us back together. "Of course she has."

"You need to go to them. They're at their penthouse now, but neither of them can even make a sandwich. They've been surviving off of take-out, poor souls. Everybody knows a warm homemade meal is better for the body."

I glance at the half-prepped meals in my kitchen, the calendar on my fridge filled with local client appointments. My whole life in neat little boxes – the life I've been trying to build here in North Carolina, far from the intensity of New York's culinary scene.

But it's something I've dreamed about. An industry I've always wondered if I could make it in. New York City is a whole beast of its own… but what if?

"I can't just drop everything and—"

"Family comes first, Jackie. Always." Mom's voice leaves no room for debate. "Remember when you broke your ankle during that catering competition? Who flew down that same night?"

"Celia." I whisper, memories flooding back.

Celia, a few years older than me and infinitely more successful. Celia, who married a literal billionaire but never let it change how she treated me.

"She needs you, honey. They both do."

I look around my apartment – at the stack of cookbooks with my notes sticking out, the vision board for my future restaurant, the life I'm still trying to figure out at twenty-nine.

"I'll book a flight tonight." The words come out before I fully process them.

"That's my girl." Mom's relief is palpable. "Family's everything, Jackie. When the world falls apart, we hold each other up."

My eyes drift to the photo on my bookshelf – Celia and me at the beach when we were teenagers, her arm around my shoulder, both of us grinning wide and our curly hair whipping in the air.

"Yeah," I say softly. "We do."

I hang up with Mom and pace my kitchen, staring at the client calendar that suddenly feels meaningless. My life in Charlotte can wait. Celia needs me. I find her phone number in my phone and press call with a shaky finger. The phone rings four times, and I'm about to hang up when—

"Jackie? Is that you?" Celia's voice sounds raspy, tired in a way I've never heard before.

"Hey, Celia. My mama just told me what happened." My free hand fidgets with the edge of my shirt. "Are you okay?"

A soft laugh crackles through the line. "Define okay. Everything hurts, but I'm alive. Aston's worse—broken leg, two cracked ribs. The car hit his side first."

I sink onto my couch, stomach twisting. "And you?"

"Dislocated shoulder, whiplash, bruises in places I didn't know could bruise. The doctors say we're lucky. The car burst into flames, but we got helped out of the car by people nice enough to stop." She pauses, and I hear rustling fabric. "Don't feel lucky though. Can barely get to the bathroom without wanting to cry."

My mind's already racing through recovery meals, anti-inflammatory ingredients, dishes that would heal and comfort. "Who's taking care of you two? Your housekeeper?"

"She comes three times a week, but..." A sigh crackles through the line. "Food's been the biggest issue. Aston keeps ordering delivery, but I can't stomach another night of lukewarm pasta or soggy pad thai."

"That's actually why I'm calling." I straighten my spine, decision already made. "I want to come cook for you guys."

The line goes quiet for so long I check to make sure the call hasn't dropped.

"Celia?"

"You'd do that? Come all the way to New York?"

"Of course I would. You'd do it for me. I can make all those healing soups Grandma used to make when we were sick. Remember her magic broth?"

"With the star anise and ginger." Her voice perks up. "God, I'd kill for that right now."

"No killing necessary. Just a spare bedroom for a few weeks."

"Jackie, we have four spare bedrooms in this place. And I..." Her voice cracks slightly. "I could really use the company. Aston's cranky as hell when he's in pain. The man built a tech empire, but can't handle a broken leg."

I laugh, feeling the rightness of this decision settle in my chest. "Guess some things even money can't fix."

"Not without help," she says softly. "Are you sure about this? I mean, I know you're trying to build your own life in Charlotte. Your clients—"

"They'll understand a family emergency. They just have to." I'm already eyeing my laptop, thinking about flights. "Besides, I've always wanted to see how the other half lives. Your Instagram makes that Upper East Side penthouse look like a palace."

"It's just an oversized apartment with better views." She laughs, then groans. "Ow. Don't make me laugh. Everything hurts."

"I'll book a flight for tonight if I can. Text me your address, and I'll be there before you can say 'bone broth.'"

"Bone broth," she whispers, then adds more seriously, "Thank you, Jackie. Really. This means everything."

After we hang up, I stare at my phone, a mixture of nerves and excitement building in my chest. New York City. The culinary capital of America. The place I've always been a little afraid to test myself against.

And now I'm headed straight into its heart.

Grabbing my laptop, I cancel my remaining appointments with a quick group email. Several clients respond immediately with understanding messages—they know family comes first. I silence the tiny voice in my head whispering about lost income and professional momentum.

"Sorry, Chef Marcel," I mutter to the framed photo of my culinary school mentor as I pack. "Looks like New York gets me after all."

My suitcase lies open on my bed as I dart between closet and dresser, tossing in essentials. Clothes, my favorite knife roll, and the cookbook Grandma gave me before she passed—the one with all her handwritten notes in the margins.

In the kitchen, I open my spice cabinet and survey my collection. Each glass jar contains a different world of possibility.

"If you're going to an actual billionaire's kitchen, you don't need to bring salt," I tell myself with a laugh.

But I grab my special blends anyway—the smoky Creole seasoning that makes everything taste like home, the herbal anti-inflammatory mix I developed during culinary school, and the secret curry powder that's won me more than a few private chef gigs. Some things you don't trust to anyone else's pantry, no matter how fancy.

My phone pings with a flight confirmation. Six hours until takeoff. I pack faster.

My santoku knife slides into its protective sheath—the expensive one Celia got me for Christmas three years ago. Next comes my microplane, silicone spatulas, and the digital thermometer I can't cook without.

"You're not moving there," I remind myself, zipping up the culinary toolkit that's become my professional security blanket. "Just helping family heal."

But as I look around my apartment, something feels different. Like I'm not just leaving for a few weeks but stepping into something bigger. The thought sends a shiver of excitement through me.

I grab my phone, book a rideshare to the airport, and take one last look at my vision board. The magazine cutout of a New York City restaurant storefront stares back at me. Underneath, in my own handwriting: "Someday?"

"We'll see," I whisper, shouldering my bags.

Family first. Everything else will fall into place.