Chapter 2My Wife, the Cooking Pro

David looked startled, as if he hadn't expected that question.

Not about his relationship with Claire, not about why he was living in our old place. But about her cooking.

A look of pity crossed his face, followed by a smug, satisfied smile.

"You didn't know, did you?" he said, his voice laced with condescension. "Back in the day, I told her offhandedly that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. Without a second thought, she went and got a professional culinary degree."

He leaned back. "I mentioned once that her braised pork was just okay, so she practiced it dozens of times. Now it's her signature dish. After all these years abroad, I really missed her... braised pork."

I was floored.

When I first met Claire, I wasn't much of a cook either. But knowing she was a picky eater, I spent my days watching tutorials, learning to make new and different dishes for her. I knew she loved braised pork, so I practiced it endlessly. At first, I'd either burn the caramel or the meat would be bland. Claire would always frown and meticulously point out everything I'd done wrong.

I kept at it until my hands were covered in burns from the hot oil. The day I finally perfected it, Claire took one bite and froze. She was silent for a long time, a strange, faraway look in her eyes.

I didn't know what memory she was savoring then. But I understood now.

Watching my expression, David slowly stood up and took a pristine glass container from his fridge. He opened it with a deliberate slowness, as if unveiling a priceless treasure.

"Claire made these this morning. Sweet and sour ribs. But you probably know she's never liked sweet food."

"But I love it," he continued, his eyes glinting. "She once consulted a Michelin-starred chef just for me, to get this recipe right. She said you have to tweak the sugar and vinegar ratio over and over to get that perfect balance. That's why she was up before dawn today making them."

I stared at the ribs, a heavy weight pressing down on my chest.

I love sweet and sour ribs.

The year I was trying to win her over, I learned to make that exact dish, practicing until the flavor was perfect. But when I served it, her face fell. She threw down her utensils and accused me of not knowing her at all.

I was completely baffled. It was only later that I learned she didn't eat sweet dishes. I felt guilty for a long time and tried to make it up to her. I even fed the entire plate of ribs to a stray dog downstairs right in front of her to prove my remorse.

From that day on, I never made another sweet dish. I was even careful about adding too much sugar to my stir-fries.

My eyes stung, but I let out a bitter laugh. "Is there more?"

David frowned, confused. "What are you, a masochist? You think hearing more will make you give her up to me?"

I smiled faintly. "You never know."

His eyes lit up. He opened his laptop. His inbox was filled with hundreds of unread emails, all from Claire.

The last one was sent three years ago, the night before our wedding.

"David, I'm getting married tomorrow. I know you're busy and rarely have time to reply, but I wanted to tell you this. You once said you wanted your own personal chef. I've never forgotten that. I'm a certified Master Chef now. I have so many dishes I'm great at. And even though my name will be on another man's marriage certificate, I swear to you, these hands will never cook for anyone but you. This is my permanent promise to us."

I read every word, my vision blurring and clearing.

I finally understood why Claire had always been so critical of my cooking. It was never about the technique or the flavor. It was about the person making the food.

Since she had already promised her culinary skills and her heart to someone else, then I didn't want this wife anymore.

There are plenty of women in this world who know how to cook.