Chapter Three
Catherine's POV
David straightened his collar after Leon released him and scoffed.
“You chose to help me. I never forced you. I have a family of my own now. You can’t keep dragging us down.”
Dragging them down.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
When I opened them again, every trace of weakness and hope was gone.
“Leon, bring me my purse.”
Leon wiped the tears from his face and handed me my purse.
I unzipped it and took out my checkbook and a pen.
I wrote a check for thirty thousand dollars and flung it at Jessica’s face.
“Here’s thirty thousand. The extra five grand can go toward your coffins.”
Jessica’s face twisted with anger when the check hit her. Then she saw the amount, and her eyes lit up as she snatched it from the floor.
“At least you know what’s good for you.”
I looked at them coldly.
“I’ll sign the share transfer agreement.”
I took the pen, signed my name on the transfer agreement, and tossed it at David as if it were trash.
“From this moment on, David, you and I are no longer mother and son.”
“You’re not my son anymore, and I’m no longer your mother.”
“Now get out of my hospital room.”
David stared at me for a moment, clearly taken aback by my decision.
Then he sneered. “Fine by me. I got the money and the shares. Let’s go.”
He took Jessica by the arm and walked out of the room without looking back.
The room fell silent again.
Leon sat beside my bed and took my hand.
“Don’t be upset, Catherine. They’re not worth it.”
“With my savings and backing from an investor, I took over an upscale restaurant downtown. It’s called Stella.”
“I was going to tell you today. Come work with me, Catherine. Be my executive chef. I’ll pay you a million dollars a year and give you an ownership stake. I want all of Los Angeles to know who the real Michelin queen is.”
I looked into Leon’s sincere eyes and felt a warmth I hadn’t felt in years.
Slowly, I pulled the IV from the back of my hand.
“All right.”
I clenched my teeth and spoke one word at a time.
“We’re going to Stella. I’ll show them that without me, they’re nothing.”
Three days after leaving the hospital, I officially took over the kitchen at Stella.
Meanwhile, David and Jessica were throwing a huge reopening celebration at The Golden Oak.
They thought getting rid of their “old burden” would make the restaurant more profitable.
To cut costs, Jessica fired every experienced kitchen employee I had trained. Then she hired Thomas, an influencer chef with a million followers, for next to nothing.
Thomas was handsome, covered in tattoos, and great at sprinkling salt and tossing pans for the camera.
As for his cooking?
He couldn’t even tell real stock from water mixed with a bouillon cube.
But David and Jessica didn’t care. They believed an online following was all they needed to make money.
The Golden Oak was brightly lit on the night of its grand reopening.
Jessica greeted guests at the entrance in a plunging evening gown, working the crowd like a socialite.
David stood nearby, beaming as he spoke to reporters from several small local outlets.
“The Golden Oak has been completely transformed! We’ve left outdated cooking methods behind and embraced the latest culinary trends,” David said to the cameras.
For the reopening, they had invited Richard Ashford, the most famous food critic in Los Angeles, along with more than a dozen wealthy guests who had once been loyal customers of mine.
Mr. Ashford was an extremely demanding older British man. One review from him could turn a restaurant into an overnight sensation or destroy it just as quickly.
At eight o’clock, the guests took their seats.
In the kitchen, Thomas and several temporary workers scrambled to keep up.
“Hurry! Get that frozen steak out and thaw it in the microwave!” Thomas shouted.
“Chef, the microwave will ruin the texture,” one of the kitchen assistants said cautiously.
“Shut up! Who’s the chef here, you or me? The guests are already waiting. Throw some black pepper and rosemary on it, and make the plate look good.”
The first main course, Beef Wellington, finally reached the table.
Mr. Ashford stared at the unappetizing mess on his plate. Its pastry was soggy, and bloody liquid seeped from the beef. He frowned at once.
He picked up his knife and fork, cut off a small piece, and put it in his mouth.
He chewed twice.
Mr. Ashford’s face turned a sickly shade. He grabbed his napkin and spat the meat straight into it.
Several of the wealthy guests around him followed his lead and took a bite. One by one, they put down their silverware. One guest even covered his mouth and gagged.
Mr. Ashford slammed his knife and fork onto the plate.
“What the hell is this?”
