Revenge Of The Sweet Wife

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 saw the image. Frankie, the flashier, trendier chef Collin was obsessed with, the one he constantly measured himself against.

The picture was a selfie. Frankie, beaming, her arm slung casually around Collin's waist. He was laughing, a genuine, unburdened laugh I hadn't seen directed at me in years. They were standing in front of a sprawling catering display, surrounded by glittering lights and champagne flutes. The caption read: "Another flawless event with my favorite culinary partner! Couldn't have pulled off this surprise party without you, my sweet Collin! #DreamTeam #CulinaryMagic #BestPartnerEver"

My sweet Collin. The words were a punch to the gut. They weren't even trying to hide it anymore.

My eyes scrolled down the comments. A stream of heart emojis and compliments for their "chemistry." Then, a video autoplayed. It was a short clip of Collin, his face flushed with wine, telling a story to a group of people. I couldn't hear every word, but the disdain in his voice was clear as he mimicked someone.

"Emma, darling," he sneered, his voice high-pitched and mocking, "can you believe I actually have to work tonight? So sad, our anniversary. But don't worry, I'll bring you home some scraps!" The crowd around him roared with laughter. Frankie, standing beside him, clinked their champagne glasses together.

The sound of his mockery, coupled with the image of his adoring gaze at Frankie, ripped through me. It wasn't just a betrayal. It was an annihilation of every sacrifice I had made, every quiet compromise, every dream I had put on hold for him. He saw me as a joke, a burden, a doormat.

A strange calm settled over me. The kind of calm that comes after the storm has passed, leaving only devastation in its wake. All the little lies, the forgotten dates, the late-night texts he'd hide-they all clicked into place, forming a horrifyingly clear picture. I wasn't his partner. I was his glorified sous chef, his therapist, his emotional punching bag. And sometimes, his backup plan.