Chapter 2

The next day, I woke up with a chilling sense of clarity. The memories of the crash, of their betrayal, were not a dream. They were a warning. A roadmap.

Today was the day I was scheduled to meet my mentor, Chef Dubois, the Michelin-starred pastry genius who had taken me under his wing. In my first life, I had been so excited. I brought home a small, exquisite cake he had gifted me, a gesture of his confidence in my skills.

Debra had taken one look at it and scoffed. "The buttercream is overworked. And the design is so... loud. It lacks subtlety." She had dissected it with the authority of someone who thought a box of Duncan Hines was haute cuisine. I was mortified, and Matthew had told me I was being too sensitive.

Not this time. This time, I had a plan.

I met Chef Dubois at his restaurant in Manhattan. The air smelled of caramelized sugar and possibility. He was as kind as I remembered, his praise for my bakery's progress making me feel a warmth I hadn't felt in years.

As I was leaving, he handed me a small, elegant box. "A little something for you, Jennifer. Keep up the magnificent work."

I thanked him, my heart steady. This was my weapon.

I arrived home just as Debra was "helping" in my kitchen, which meant rearranging my spice rack alphabetically, a system she insisted was superior to my own.

"Oh, Jennifer, you're back," she said, wiping her hands on a towel. "How was your little meeting?"

"It was great," I said, putting the box on the counter. "Chef Dubois is amazing."

"I'm sure he is," she said with a tight smile that didn't reach her eyes. She eyed the box. "What's that?"

"Just a little cake he gave me," I said, feigning nervousness. "He said it was one of his new creations. I'm almost afraid to eat it, it looks so perfect."

This was the bait.

"Oh, let me see," she said, her "know-it-all" tone firmly in place.

Instead of opening the box, I pulled out my phone. "He sent me a professional photo of it first. Look."

I showed her the screen. But it wasn't a photo of the cake in the box. It was a picture of the "Ispahan," the world-famous rose, lychee, and raspberry macaron dessert by the legendary French pastry chef, Pierre Hermé. It's an icon of the pastry world. To a foodie, it's like showing a physicist a photo of Einstein.

Debra leaned in, her eyes narrowing. "Oh, dear."

She let out a small, condescending laugh. "Well, I don't want to hurt your feelings, Jennifer, but this is... very amateurish."

I held my breath, a cold smile playing on my lips.

"The color is just garish," she continued, warming to her subject. "That pink is so unnatural. And the way the raspberries are just plopped on top? It's messy. There's no technique here. It looks like something a teenager would make for a bake sale."

She shook her head. "Honestly, I'm surprised a 'Michelin-starred chef' would put his name on something so gaudy. It just shows a complete lack of a refined palate."

Several patrons in my bakery, who had been quietly enjoying their coffee, were now listening intently. I could see the smirks forming on the faces of a couple of food bloggers who were regulars.

I let her finish, letting the silence hang in the air for a moment.

Then, I looked at her, my face a mask of wide-eyed innocence and apology.

"Oh, my gosh, Debra. I am so, so sorry," I said, my voice filled with fake panic. "I showed you the wrong picture. That's not Chef Dubois's cake."

I swiped the screen. "This is his cake." I showed her a photo of the actual, much simpler cake in the box.

Then I turned the phone back to the Ispahan. "That one... that's a picture of a dessert by Pierre Hermé. He's like, the most famous pastry chef in the world. That's his signature creation."

A ripple of snickers went through the bakery. One of the food bloggers let out a loud, unrestrained laugh.

"She said the Ispahan looks like it's from a bake sale!" he whispered loudly to his friend.

Debra's face went from pale to beet red in a matter of seconds. The blood drained from her face, then rushed back in a hot, humiliating wave. She looked around at the mocking faces, her mouth opening and closing like a fish.

"I... I was just..." she stammered, but no words came out. She was utterly, publicly, spectacularly humiliated.

She grabbed her purse and practically fled the bakery, not even looking at me.

That evening, Matthew came home, his face a thundercloud.

"What did you do to my mother?" he demanded, throwing his briefcase onto a chair.

"What are you talking about?" I asked, calmly wiping down a counter.

"She called me, crying! She said you set her up, that you made everyone laugh at her. How could you embarrass her like that, Jennifer?"

The first revenge was complete. It was small, but it was sweet. And it was only the beginning.