The Soufflé of Sweet Revenge

I spent seven years sacrificing my own culinary dreams for my boyfriend, Collin. For our fifth anniversary, I baked his favorite soufflé and waited for him to come home to the romantic dinner I' d prepared.

He never showed. Instead, a video surfaced online of him at a party with his rival chef, Frankie. He was laughing as he mocked me to a crowd. "Emma's probably at home crying into her pathetic little soufflé," he slurred.

The next morning, he tried to apologize with a "make-up gift." It was a cheap silver necklace, an exact copy of one Frankie always wears.

He' d forgotten I'm allergic to silver.

In seven years, he never even learned that about me. I wasn't his partner; I was just a dress rehearsal for the woman he really wanted.

I packed my bags and flew home to Chicago. When Collin texted, demanding to know what "stupid designer bag" I wanted to make things right, I sent my final reply.

"I'm engaged. And trust me, he's everything you're not."

Chapter 1

Emma Lang POV:

Collin never cared about me, not really. This painful truth slammed into me, hard enough to knock the wind out of my lungs, as I stared at my phone screen on what was supposed to be our five-year anniversary. It was a betrayal that tasted like ash and burned like fire, destroying everything I thought we had built.

The soft glow of the anniversary dinner I had prepared flickered around me, a cruel joke. The table was set with our best china, the candles casting dancing shadows, and the scent of my carefully baked raspberry soufflé filled the air. It was a scene straight out of a romantic movie, except the leading man was missing.

I had spent hours on the soufflé, Collin's favorite. It was light, airy, and perfect, just like I used to imagine our life together. I had even bought a new dress, something special, hoping to rekindle the spark that had dimmed so long ago. My heart drummed with a nervous anticipation, a mix of hope and a familiar dread.

The clock on the wall mocked me with its steady tick-tock. Seven o'clock. Eight. Nine. Each minute felt like a heavy stone dropping into a bottomless well. My phone, usually a constant companion, lay silent on the counter. No calls, no texts, not even a lame excuse.

I picked it up for the tenth time, unlocking the screen, then locking it again. My thumb hovered over Collin's contact, but I didn't dial. What was the point? This wasn't new. His disappearances had become as predictable as the sunrise, always with a flimsy story about a "culinary emergency" or a "last-minute catering crisis."

But tonight felt different. It was our anniversary. Even Collin, with his endless self-absorption, usually remembered that. A cold knot tightened in my stomach.

Then, a notification popped up. A social media post. Not from Collin, but from Frankie Patton. My heart sank even before I