Chapter 3 - The Reappearance of Chef EvelynThe morning after the gala, the financial news networks across the country were dominated by a single, explosive headline:
“VANCE GLOBAL SHARES PLUMMET: EMERGENCY BOARD MEETING CALLED AMID WHISPERS OF FRAUD AND SCANDAL.”
I sat at the marble kitchen island of my Tribeca penthouse, sipping black coffee while watching Bloomberg TV. On the screen, a financial anchor was discussing sudden, unexplained institutional sell-offs of Vance Global stock, triggered by anonymous tips sent to investigative journalists late last night—tips containing certified copies of forged coroner reports from Los Angeles, banking records linking Victoria Vance to illegal morgue payoffs, and a birth certificate bearing Leo’s DNA markers.
My cousin, Marcus Vance—the same brilliant legal mind who had helped dismantle Julian’s life three years ago when I finally reached out to my real family—walked into the kitchen carrying a thick leather briefcase.
“The SEC has opened a preliminary inquiry,” Marcus said, tossing a stack of documents onto the island. “And the Los Angeles District Attorney’s office is already subpoenaing the cemetery records in Upstate New York to exhume that Jane Doe body Victoria planted. Your mother-in-law is facing federal conspiracy, forgery, and obstruction of justice charges.”
“And Julian?” I asked calmly, setting my coffee cup down.
“Julian is spinning out of control,” Marcus smirked, pulling out a tablet. “He’s tried calling your encrypted burner phone forty times since midnight. His new wife, Chloe Miller—remember her?—is currently packing her designer bags and threatening a high-profile divorce because she realizes the penthouse she’s living in is tied to frozen corporate assets.”
I smiled faintly, remembering the smug selfie Chloe had sent me the night I was thrown into the rain, telling me Julian would be completely hers.
Karma had a magnificent sense of timing.
Just then, the private elevator chime chimed softly in the foyer.
Marcus raised an eyebrow, walking over to check the security monitor mounted by the door. “Well, speak of the devil. Look who’s downstairs begging for an audience.”
On the screen, standing outside the private lobby of our penthouse, was Julian Cross.
He looked unraveled. His expensive charcoal suit was wrinkled, his tie loosened, and dark circles bruised the skin beneath his bloodshot eyes. He wasn't the untouchable CEO who had sneered at me across a dining room table in Shaker Heights. He looked like a man whose entire universe had just collapsed into dust.
“Let him up,” I said quietly.
Marcus nodded, pressing the security release. “I’ll be in the study. Shout if you need me to throw him out a window.”
A minute later, the private elevator doors opened directly into my penthouse.
Julian stepped inside, his eyes scanning the luxurious, sprawling art-filled loft before locking onto me. I was sitting at the kitchen island, perfectly calm, wearing a simple cashmere sweater while reviewing catering orders for the upcoming weekend.
Julian rushed forward, stopping a few feet away as if he were afraid to approach too closely.
“Evelyn,” he breathed, his voice broken, hoarse with exhaustion. “Please. You have to call off your lawyers. You have to stop whatever you’re doing to the stock.”
I didn't look up from my tablet. “I’m not doing anything, Julian. I’m just a chef. If your stock is crashing, maybe it’s because the market finally realized your company was built on stolen land and forged bodies.”
Julian fell heavily onto his knees beside my chair, catching everyone by surprise—even me. He reached out, his hands trembling as he rested them palms-up on the edge of the marble counter.
“I didn't know,” Julian whispered, tears spilling over his lower eyelids. “I swear to God, Evelyn, I didn't know my mother forged those death records. She told me you died of exposure after running away. She told me the body was identified. I mourned you, Evelyn. I wore black. I went to that grave every year.”
I finally set my tablet down, turned my chair around, and looked down at the man who had once told me I was barren, defective, and unworthy of his love.
“You mourned me?” I asked, my voice dripping with icy venom. “You replaced me within twenty-four hours with the woman who mocked my worn-out clothes. You didn't mourn me, Julian. You celebrated the fact that your inconvenient, embarrassing wife was out of your way so you could climb higher up the corporate ladder.”
Julian flinched, hanging his head in shame. “Chloe was a mistake. She’s filing for divorce the second she realized the accounts are frozen. She never loved me; she only loved the name. Just like my mother only loved the power.”
“And what did you love, Julian?” I asked softly.
He looked up, his dark eyes brimming with desperate sorrow. “You. I realize that now. When I saw you at the hotel... when I saw my son standing in front of me... I realized I threw away the only real thing I ever had for a hollow empire of glass.”
May you like
I stood up, towering over him as he knelt on the floor.
“Too bad,” I said, my tone absolute and unyielding. “Because the empire you traded me for is burning to the ground. And by the time the sun sets tonight, the name Julian Cross won't even be allowed to buy a cup of coffee in this city.”
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