Chapter 3Receipts of Revenge

“Chloe, look at this,” Jenna said, handing me her phone.

It was the latest scoop from a celebrity gossip account.

[Sources confirm that popular food blogger Isabella Carbonari will be the special guest on the hit talk show ‘The Midnight Hour’ this Friday. She will exclusively share the love story between her and rising-star chef Noah Wells. The theme of the night: ‘How to Be the Wise Woman Behind a Successful Man.’]

Jenna crushed the beer can in her hand.

“Wise woman? My ass!”

“What is she trying to do? Publicly execute you?”

“She’s going to tell the whole world that she’s the smart one, and you were the foolish one who got left behind!”

I stared at the post. The comment section was already a party.

[Can’t wait! Isabella’s perspective on love is always so on point!]

[Finally, a masterclass from Isabella! Taking notes!]

[A wise woman teaching you how to pick a winner, hahaha.]

And then there was a top-liked comment.

[The ex-girlfriend is probably fuming right now. Too bad. People from different worlds are never meant to be together.]

Jenna snatched the phone back.

“Don’t look at it! It’ll just make you sick!”

I nodded.

“Yeah. I won’t.”

After Jenna left, I was alone again.

It was late, but I felt like I should eat something.

Almost unconsciously, I opened a food delivery app. My finger scrolled for a long time before stopping on the page for “Maison Noah.”

The picture of their signature dish, “Secret Recipe Braised Pork,” priced at $38, was beautifully shot.

I placed the order.

Half an hour later, it arrived. The packaging was exquisite—a black box with a gold-stamped logo.

I opened it. The pork was arranged neatly, each piece cut to a uniform size.

I picked one up with my fork and put it in my mouth.

It was tender. The spices were overpowering, masking everything else. It was the taste of a restaurant—standardized, flawless, and impersonal.

It wasn't the taste I remembered.

I put down my fork and looked out the window. It had started to snow.

I remembered a winter night, a long time ago.

The snow was coming down just like this. I had a terrible flu, a fever so high I couldn’t taste anything. We were living in a rundown apartment building with no central heating.

Noah wrapped me in a mountain of blankets until I looked like a burrito.

He was frantic.

“Chloe, please, you have to eat something. You need your strength.”

I shook my head. “Everything tastes like cardboard.”

He thought for a long time. Then he rummaged through our things and pulled out a handwritten cookbook from one of my suitcases—one my mother had insisted I bring with me.

“I’ll make you this,” he said, pointing to the words “Braised Pork.”

That night, the single light in our tiny, one-burner kitchen stayed on all night.

Lying in bed, I could hear him clumsily chopping meat, pouring oil, and then hissing in pain as the hot oil splattered on his skin. I could even smell the acrid scent of him burning the sugar on his first try.

He tried again and again.

Just as the sky was beginning to lighten, he walked to my bedside, carrying a steaming bowl of braised pork.

His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, and there was a red mark on his cheek from an oil burn.

“Chloe, try it.”

“I followed your mom’s recipe. I don’t know if it’s right.”

I was too weak to sit up, so he fed me, one spoonful at a time.

It was strange. Even though the fever had stolen my sense of taste, I could clearly taste that bowl of braised pork.

It wasn’t too salty, just a little sweet. The meat was so tender it melted on my tongue.

It was the taste of my mother’s cooking. The taste of home.

As I ate, tears started to fall.

He panicked. “What’s wrong? Is it bad?”

I shook my head, swallowing the piece of pork in my mouth.

“It’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten in my life.”

…

The memory receded like the tide.

I looked at the takeout box in front of me.

And I thought about how Isabella was about to go on national television and brand me as the “dead weight” on Noah’s path to success.

She was going to redefine all my most precious memories as nothing more than the “mundane baggage of an unambitious woman.”

I wiped the tears from the corners of my eyes.

My gaze hardened, shifting from sorrow to an unshakable resolve.

You want dignity? I’m not giving you any.