“Chef,” her sous, Marco, said, sliding a tablet under her nose. “Vendor order. Cavolo nero is up thirty percent.”
The office was a cramped, windowless closet behind the wine cellar, but it was hers. She shut the door, leaned against the cool metal, and let the mask fall. At thirty-four, Rachael Cavalli had everything she’d starved for: two Michelin stars, a reality show cameo, a cookbook deal. But her reflection in the dark monitor showed a woman with tired eyes and a persistent wince.
The heartburn stayed. But for the first time in months, Rachael Cavalli smiled. heartburn pt. 1 rachael cavalli
She dropped the uneaten half onto the desk. The acid clawed up her throat, sharp and real. For a moment, she thought she might be sick.
She picked up the uneaten crostino, walked to the trash, and dropped it in. “Chef,” her sous, Marco, said, sliding a tablet
She stared at the screen. Her thumb hovered over the delete button. Instead, she typed: Safe pays the rent, Luca. How’s Chloe? Delete. Delete. Delete.
She scanned the numbers. Her signature black kale salad, the one that had put Vivace on the map, was bleeding money. “Substitute chard. Adjust the plating. No one will notice.” She shut the door, leaned against the cool
“I don’t care.” She stood up, and the fire in her chest didn’t feel like acid anymore. It felt like fuel. “Luca wants to play with fire? Let’s see how he handles a real burn.”
