The engine sputtered once, twice, then died like it had decided this exact moment was the funniest possible time to quit.
Paxton Hale’s hands tightened on the steering wheel of the luxury sedan until the leather groaned. The traffic light ahead flicked from green to yellow to red, and they sat there anyway, stranded in the middle of Southside Chicago like a rich, glossy paperweight.
In the rearview mirror, Roads King, billionaire restaurateur and human embodiment of “don’t waste my time,” kept typing on his phone as if willpower could push the car forward. He wore a charcoal suit sharp enough to cut glass, sunglasses still on even though the sky was cloudy, and an expression that suggested someone, somewhere, was about to lose their job privileges and possibly their will to live.
Paxton cleared his throat. Carefully. He used the tone reserved for telling a lion its steak had been cancelled.
“Taste the food, sir,” Paxton began.
Roads’s thumbs froze. “We’re stopped,” he said.
Not a question. A verdict.
“Yes, sir,” Paxton confirmed.
“In the middle of the street.”
“Yes, sir.”
“In a car I specifically asked you to service before I returned from Singapore.”
Paxton’s British accent thickened as stress poured over it like syrup. “To be fair, sir, you returned three weeks earlier than planned. And this vehicle has been in storage for six months while you were—”
Roads lifted his head slowly, the movement deliberate. Surgical. “Stop talking,” he said. “And fix it.”
Paxton swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
Forty-three minutes. That’s what Roads had left.
In forty-three minutes, he was expected to stand at Meridian, the newest jewel in King Collective’s crown, in the Gold Coast where Chicago’s food elite would gather like well-dressed sharks. He would be photographed. Interviewed. Watched.
And, worst of all, he would be expected to do what he’d avoided for eight months straight.
Eat.
Roads stared out through the tinted window, jaw clenched tight enough to grind diamonds. Eight months ago, he’d been “the golden palate.” The man who could taste a sauce and tell you which corner of the world the pepper came from. The culinary genius turned empire builder.
Now he was the man who lived on bland rice, unseasoned chicken, and fear.
He exhaled slowly. The breath scraped the inside of his ribs.
Then he saw her.
Ten feet away, beside a battered food cart that had survived more winters than most relationships, stood a young woman in a bright yellow apron. The faded red letters on it read:
DAVE’S SOUL BOWLS.
She stared at Roads’s car like it was a miracle parked on four wheels, blessed by German engineering and dropped from the heavens directly onto her block.
Her eyes were wide, measuring, hungry.
Roads recognized that look. It was the same look people got when they realized his watch cost more than their yearly rent.
Great, he thought. Another fortune hunter.
Paxton climbed out, popped the hood, and stared at the engine bay like it had betrayed his family line.
Roads followed a minute later, stepping onto the street to “stretch his legs” and, if he was honest, to breathe air that didn’t smell like expensive leather and anxiety. Southside Chicago moved around him with its own rhythm: buses sighing, people walking with purpose, a distant siren singing the city’s constant lullaby.
The woman by the cart lifted a phone and whispered into it without taking her eyes off him.
“Juno,” she said, voice urgent. “You need to see this.”
A crackly voice answered. “Girl, I’m at work. I got a patient with hemorrhoids the size of—”
“There’s a luxury car broken down in front of my cart,” the woman cut in.
“Okay. And?”
“Luxury car means luxury money,” she said, like she was reciting scripture. “Which means potential luxury customer.”
“Ash,” the voice warned, “you can’t just ambush people because they’re rich.”
The woman grinned. “Watch me.”
She hung up.
Roads watched the way she tucked the phone away, shoulders squaring like she was gearing up for battle. Not the bored strut of someone seeking attention, but the desperate posture of someone who needed the world to give her a break.
And he hated that his chest tightened at the sight.
Paxton glanced at Roads. “Sir, I’ll call a mechanic and a backup vehicle immediately. You’ll still make the Meridian opening. I promise.”
“You have forty minutes to make that happen,” Roads said, his voice calm in the way hurricanes were calm at the eye.
The woman’s cart hissed as steam rose from something on a portable stove. The smell drifted toward Roads against his will: warm spice, garlic, smoke, something sweet that didn’t belong to the bland prison he’d built for himself.
The woman stepped closer.
Up close, she was… startling.
Curvy in a way that made a man’s attention forget its manners. Warm brown skin. Honey-colored eyes that flickered between playfulness and panic. Two high ponytails that should have looked childish but somehow made her seem fearless.
She walked right into his personal space with the confidence of someone with nothing left to lose.
“Excuse me,” she said.
Roads turned fully, letting his “boardroom freeze” settle on his face. “Can I help you?”
She didn’t retreat. Didn’t even blink.
“Actually,” she said, gesturing toward the cart with a smile that could sell snow to Antarctica, “I think I can help you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?” she asked, eyeing him. “Because your driver looks like he’s about to cry, and you’ve got that vein in your forehead that says you’re three inconveniences away from a stroke.”
Paxton made a choking sound.
Roads’s eye twitched.
The woman stuck out her hand. “Ashley.”
He didn’t take it.
She didn’t care.
“Ashley Dave,” she continued brightly. “And this,” she patted the cart like it was a beloved pet, “is Dave’s Soul Bowls. Home of the best noodle bowls on the Southside. My daddy’s been running this cart for twenty-six years. People come from all over Chicago for his cooking.”
Roads had no time for this. “That’s wonderful,” he said flatly. “I’m not interested.”
“You haven’t even heard the menu yet.”
“I don’t need to.”
“We’ve got the Dave Special,” she said, counting on her fingers. “Egg noodles, blackened chicken, peppers, onions, and a sauce that’ll make you forget your troubles. We’ve got the Veggie Delight for the health conscious. We’ve got the Spicy Soul Burner for people who like to feel alive.”
“Miss Dave,” Roads interrupted, patience thinning to a razor’s edge, “I appreciate the sales pitch. But I don’t eat street food.”
The irony nearly made him laugh.
Roads King, owner of seven restaurants, refusing food… because food was a weapon now.
Ashley’s smile held, but something flickered behind her eyes. Hurt. Anger. A crack in her armor.
“That’s fine,” she said, voice tighter. “Most people who drive cars like yours don’t.”
She turned to walk away, shoulders stiff, like she was trying not to let him see the disappointment.
Roads should’ve let her go.
Should’ve gotten back in the car. Should’ve made it to Meridian, found another excuse, avoided another camera, another fork, another lie.
But then she muttered under her breath, just loud enough for the universe to want him to hear it.
“Even though they’re missing out on the best food in their sad, bougie lives.”
Roads’s eyebrows rose.
“Excuse me?” he called.
Ashley spun around like she’d been waiting for that invitation.
“Look,” she said, stepping closer again, “Mr. King.”
So she knew exactly who he was.
“I get it,” she continued, voice sharp now. “You’re rich. You’re important. You own half the restaurants in Chicago. You’ve got places to be and people to fire. But your car isn’t moving anytime soon.” She glanced at Paxton under the hood. “And I’m just trying to make a living.”
Roads stared at her.
“So,” Ashley said, pulling a small paper bowl from the cart, “here’s the deal. One free sample. Tiny bowl. If you don’t like it, I’ll leave you alone forever. If you do like it…” Her eyes held his. “You pay whatever you think it’s worth.”
“No,” Roads said.
“Why not?”
“Because I said no.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It’s the only reason you need.”
Ashley put her hands on her hips.
Roads noticed then, for the first time, that her hands were shaking.
This wasn’t hustle. This wasn’t ego.
This was survival.
“Please,” she said, and the playfulness dropped completely. “Just one taste. That’s all I’m asking.”
Roads looked at her. Really looked.
The worn apron. The cart that needed paint and love. The tight line of worry around her mouth. The hope and fear wrestling inside her eyes like two dogs fighting over the same bone.
And something inside him… paused.
Maybe it was the desperation he recognized because he’d been desperate himself for eight months. Maybe it was the way she fought like she still believed effort could change fate. Maybe it was temporary insanity brought on by stress.
Or maybe it was the tiny, impossible whisper in his chest.
What if this time is different?
Paxton’s voice drifted over from the engine. “Thirty minutes minimum, sir.”
Roads had time. He hated that he had time.
He exhaled.
“Fine,” Roads heard himself say. “One bite.”
Ashley’s face lit up like someone had just handed her rent money and hope in the same envelope.
“Really? One bite?”
“One bite,” Roads repeated. “Then you leave me alone.”
“Deal.”
She practically sprinted back to her cart.
Paxton stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Sir, are you certain this is wise given your condition?”
“It’s one bite,” Roads murmured. “I’ll spit it out discreetly if I need to.”
But his mind already ran through the risk like a checklist: nausea in seconds, throat tightening, sweat, humiliation, escape route.
Five minutes later, Ashley returned with a small bowl that smelled like the kind of comfort people wrote songs about. Roads’s stomach, trained to fear, betrayed him with a low growl.
Traitor.
“Dave Special,” Ashley said, holding it out like an offering. “The sauce is my daddy’s secret recipe. Four generations of flavor.”
Roads took the bowl. Warm in his hands. Noodles glossy. Chicken blackened perfectly. Vegetables still crisp.
He lifted the fork.
Ashley held her breath.
Roads took the bite.
And—
Nothing happened.
No nausea. No recoil. No panic clawing up his throat.
He chewed slowly, waiting for the horror.
It didn’t arrive.
Instead, flavor arrived. Real flavor. Butter and smoke and spice, a sweetness at the edge like a hand smoothing a brow. The noodles were silky. The chicken tender. The sauce deep enough to drown in.
Roads swallowed.
Still nothing.
His hand trembled as he took another bite.
Then another.
Ashley’s eyes widened. “You… you like it?”
Roads couldn’t speak.
He just kept eating until the bowl was empty.
Eight months of fear. Eight months of bland survival. Eight months of lying to investors and staff and himself.
And this young woman with two ponytails and a beat-up cart had just fed him like it was… normal.
Roads stared at the empty bowl like it was evidence of a miracle.
“Who taught you to cook?” he asked, voice rough.
“My daddy,” Ashley said, pride flaring. “Julian Dave. He’s been cooking soul food since before I was born.”
“Where is he now?”
Pain crossed her face. “Physical therapy. He had a stroke four months ago. I’ve been running the cart while he recovers.”
Roads’s mind raced, furious and desperate in the same breath.
Impossible. Medically, psychologically impossible.
But it had happened.
Paxton’s phone buzzed. “Sir, the backup car is here.”
A black SUV pulled up behind the dead sedan like a shadow with tinted windows.
Roads should’ve left. Should’ve thanked her. Should’ve protected his secret with distance.
Instead, he pulled out his wallet and extracted five crisp hundred-dollar bills.
Ashley’s jaw dropped. “Sir, that was just a sample. Like… free.”
“I know what a sample is,” Roads said.
“That’s five hundred dollars.”
“I can count.”
Ashley snatched the bills so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash. “I definitely want the money. Thank you. Thank you so much, Mr. King.”
Roads’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile. But close.
“I’ll be back,” he said.
Ashley blinked. “What?”
“Tomorrow,” Roads said. “Same time. Have another bowl ready.”
Then he turned and walked toward the SUV, leaving Ashley standing there with $500, a stunned expression, and a heart pounding with possibilities.
Paxton fell into step beside him. “Sir… should I ask?”
“No,” Roads said firmly.
He paused, then added, “And Paxton.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Find out everything you can about Julian Dave and his daughter. Background, financials, everything.”
Paxton hesitated. “May I ask why?”
Roads looked back through the window at the cart, at the woman who had just broken an eight-month curse with noodles and stubbornness.
“Because,” he said quietly, “she might be the answer to a problem I thought was unsolvable.”
The pattern became a ritual.
Every day at noon, Roads King’s SUV rolled up to Dave’s Soul Bowls. Every day, Ashley handed him two bowls. Every day, he paid $500 like money was the least valuable thing in the equation.
By day seven, Ashley had $3,500. Enough to pay down a chunk of medical bills. Enough to breathe.
By day eight, she had a crowd.
“Yo, Ashley!” Mark from the barber shop yelled as the SUV pulled up. “That your rich boyfriend again?”
“He’s not my boyfriend!” Ashley shouted back, even though her grin betrayed her.
“Then why he keep coming back?” Mark’s eyes twinkled. “Good food only keep a man coming for so long. Then he come for somethin’ else.”
Ashley felt her cheeks heat. “It’s just business.”
But the way Roads looked at her when he ate… that wasn’t business.
That was hunger of a different kind.
On day eight, Roads broke the routine.
He got out of the SUV and walked toward her cart, tall and commanding, but his eyes… his eyes looked tired. Not “I didn’t sleep” tired. “I’ve been carrying a secret too long” tired.
“Not today,” he said when Ashley reached for ingredients.
Her heart sank. “Oh. Okay. Did you… get tired of the food?”
“No.” His jaw worked as if he was chewing on words. “Miss Dave, I have a proposition for you.”
“What kind of proposition?”
“I’d like to hire you,” he said, “as my personal chef.”
Ashley blinked hard. “I’m sorry… what?”
“You’d prepare my meals,” he continued, voice steady. “I’ll pay you fifteen thousand dollars per week.”
Her brain slipped on the number like ice.
“Fifteen… per week?” she repeated faintly.
“Yes.”
“That’s… sixty thousand a month.”
“Yes.”
“For cooking?”
“Yes.”
Ashley gripped the edge of her cart to stay upright. Sixty thousand a month would wipe out her father’s bills. Save the cart. Save her.
But nothing came that clean.
“Why?” she asked, suspicion punching through awe. “You own seven restaurants with world-class chefs. What’s the catch?”
Roads’s eyes flashed with something raw. “Let’s just say I have specific dietary needs,” he said quietly, “that you seem uniquely qualified to meet.”
“That’s the vaguest answer I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s the only answer I’m prepared to give right now.”
Ashley studied him, mind racing. “And if I say no?”
“Then I’ll continue buying two bowls a day,” Roads said, “and we’ll both pretend this conversation never happened.”
She should say no.
Taking a job from a mysterious billionaire with secrets sounded like the first chapter of a story where the girl ends up in a ditch.
But the physical therapy bill due next week didn’t care about caution.
“I can’t abandon my daddy’s cart,” Ashley said. “It’s his legacy.”
“You’re barely making money,” Roads replied, not cruelly, just honestly. “Without my purchases, you make fifty to seventy dollars a day. That isn’t sustainable.”
Truth burned.
“What if I work mornings for you,” Ashley said, “and run the cart afternoons?”
Roads considered. “I only eat lunch. Mornings work.”
“And I can quit anytime.”
“Anytime.”
“And eventually,” Ashley said, narrowing her eyes, “you tell me the real reason you’re doing this.”
Roads held her gaze. “Eventually.”
Ashley swallowed. “Can I think about it?”
His expression softened. “Of course. Take the time you need.”
He typed on his phone, then turned the screen toward her.
His number.
“I should warn you,” he said, stepping back toward the SUV, “I’m not an easy man to work for. I have standards. And there are… complications.”
“What kind of complications?”
“The kind we discuss if you accept.”
“That’s super ominous.”
Roads’s eyes held hers. In them, she saw loneliness sitting behind wealth like a ghost behind glass.
“I’m offering you more money than most people make in a year,” he said quietly. “I won’t pretend it comes without strings. But I promise I’ll never ask you to do anything that compromises your integrity or your safety. This is about food. Nothing more.”
Ashley believed him.
Which was either instinct… or desperation wearing mascara.
“I’ll let you know,” she said.
He nodded and left.
That night, Ashley visited her father.
Julian Dave sat in his recliner, one side still weak, watching a cooking show like it was church. When he saw her, his face brightened.
“Baby girl,” he said, “what brings you by?”
Ashley sat and spilled everything, words tumbling like coins from a ripped pocket. The daily visits. The money. The job offer.
Julian listened quietly, then rubbed his chin with his good hand. “You trust this Mr. King?”
“I… think so,” Ashley admitted. “But Daddy, sixty thousand a month.”
Julian’s eyes softened. “You could pay off my bills.”
“I could save the cart.”
“You could live your own life,” Julian said gently.
Ashley’s throat tightened. “The cart is my dream too.”
Julian tilted his head. “Is it? Or is it what you think you’re supposed to do?”
Ashley didn’t have an answer.
Julian took her hand. “Baby, legacy ain’t a cart. Legacy is the love and skill you carry wherever you go. If this job helps you, take it.”
Tears burned Ashley’s eyes. “When did you get so wise?”
“Had a lot of time to think lately,” Julian said with a lopsided smile. “Now go call that man before he finds somebody else.”
At 11:47 p.m., Ashley texted:
Mr. King, I accept with conditions. Mornings only. I keep my cart afternoons. I can quit anytime. And eventually you tell me why.
Thirty seconds later:
Agreed. 8:00 a.m. Address attached. Confidentiality required. RK.
Ashley stared at the word “confidentiality” and whispered, “Oh boy. What am I getting myself into?”
The next morning, she stood outside a Gold Coast high-rise that made her jeans feel like an apology.
A doorman checked his tablet and guided her to the penthouse.
Paxton met her at the elevator. “Miss Dave. Right on time. Mr. King is in his office. Follow me.”
The penthouse was a museum of wealth and loneliness. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Furniture that looked untouched. Silence so thick it felt expensive.
In the office, Roads sat behind a mahogany desk, typing. He looked up, and Ashley hated the way her stomach flipped again.
“Miss Dave,” he said. “Thank you for coming. Sit.”
Ashley sat. Roads closed his laptop and leaned forward.
“What I’m about to tell you stays between us,” he said. “No one. Not your father. Not your friends. No one.”
Ashley’s skin prickled. “Okay.”
“I need your word, Ashley.”
Her name on his lips felt dangerous.
“You have it.”
Roads exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for eight months.
“Eight months ago,” he began, “something happened to me. I developed a condition. Psychological, medical, they’re not entirely sure. I cannot eat food prepared by other people.”
Ashley’s eyes widened. “What?”
“The moment I try,” Roads continued, voice tight, “my body rejects it. Nausea. Sometimes vomiting. It’s severe enough that I haven’t been able to eat at my own restaurants, attend business dinners, or function normally in an industry built on food.”
“Oh my God,” Ashley breathed.
“Do you understand what this means?” he asked.
“You own… everything,” Ashley whispered. “But you can’t…”
“I can’t,” he confirmed. “If word gets out, it destroys me.”
And then he said the part that landed like a weight in her chest.
“You ate my food,” he said. “You’re the first person whose cooking I’ve been able to eat since this started. The only person.”
Ashley blinked, mind spinning. “Why me?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “But you’re not just cooking for me. You’re saving my life. My career. Everything.”
The room went quiet.
Ashley swallowed.
So that was the money. The secrecy. The urgency.
She should’ve been terrified.
Instead, she felt… honored. And heartbroken for him.
“Does anyone else know?” she asked.
“Paxton,” Roads said. “That’s it. Not even my girlfriend.”
“Why not?”
“Because Sienna can’t keep a secret,” he said coldly. “And she doesn’t need to know my weakness.”
That didn’t sound like love. That sounded like a contract.
Ashley stared at him. “So I cook mornings. I tell no one. I meet your girlfriend and pretend everything’s normal.”
“Yes.”
“And you pay me sixty thousand a month.”
“Yes.”
Ashley leaned back, letting the truth settle.
Then she met his eyes and said softly, “Okay. I’m in.”
Relief flooded his face like sunlight breaking through cloud.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
Ashley’s mouth twitched. “Also, you should know something.”
“What?”
“I’m going to do more than cook for you,” she said. “I’m going to make you love food again.”
Roads’s dimples appeared for the first time.
“I’m counting on it, Miss Dave.”
For the first few days, working for Roads felt like stepping into a dream she didn’t know she was allowed to have. His kitchen was a paradise. Ingredients she’d only seen on cooking shows. Knives that could slice air.
But the best part was watching Roads eat.
The first time he took a bite of shrimp and grits and closed his eyes, his face softened with relief so pure it made Ashley’s chest ache.
“Thank you,” he said, voice rough.
Two words. Eight months of suffering behind them.
Slowly, the job became something else. They started talking. He asked about her childhood. She asked about his obsession with boxing. He told her his mother had taught him to cook. She told him food was how she showed love when words failed.
And then one day, as she stirred oxtails, he said quietly, “She would have liked you.”
Ashley’s heart stumbled.
Then his phone rang.
“Sienna,” he answered, and Ashley pretended the tightness in her chest was just indigestion.
The girlfriend arrived the next day like a snowstorm dressed in designer white.
Sienna Vale was beautiful in a way that looked curated. Tall, model-thin, hair too perfect to be real, voice sweet enough to rot teeth.
Her eyes swept Ashley’s jeans and ponytails with instant judgment.
“Oh,” Sienna said, smile brittle. “You’re so… cute. And young.”
“Twenty-four,” Ashley replied cheerfully.
“Practically a baby,” Sienna laughed like wind chimes made of ice. “Roads, where did you find her?”
“Recommended,” Roads said, voice flat.
Sienna rearranged the tea sandwiches like she was correcting Ashley’s existence. “Rustic,” she said, clearly meaning “inferior.”
Then she did what bullies always do: she smiled and stabbed.
“Roads, you should have a Michelin-trained chef,” Sienna said. “Not someone who learned at a food cart.”
Roads’s gaze flicked to Ashley’s face, then back to Sienna.
“Ashley’s cooking is exactly what I need,” he said firmly. “I wouldn’t change a thing.”
Something warm bloomed in Ashley’s chest.
Something cold sharpened in Sienna’s eyes.
From then on, Sienna started showing up unannounced. Watching. Commenting. Marking territory like Roads was property and Ashley was an intruder.
And then, on Friday, two hours before an art opening, Sienna arrived alone and pushed past Ashley like she owned the penthouse.
“I need to talk to you,” she said.
“Woman to woman,” Ashley murmured, already tired.
Sienna folded her arms. “I want you to quit.”
Ashley blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Quit. Leave. Find another job,” Sienna said. “I’ll help you. But I want you away from Roads.”
“Does Roads know you’re here?”
“He doesn’t know what he needs,” Sienna snapped. “But I do.”
Ashley’s cheeks heated. “I’m his chef.”
Sienna’s mask slipped, eyes burning. “I see how you look at him.”
Ashley started to protest, but Sienna cut her off, voice sharpening into a threat.
“I can destroy that sad little cart of yours with one phone call.”
“Leave,” a voice said behind them.
They turned.
Roads stood in the doorway, expression thunder.
“I heard everything,” he said quietly. “Get out.”
Sienna’s face crumpled. “You’re choosing her?”
“I’m choosing to not tolerate someone threatening people I care about.”
Ashley’s heart skipped at the words people I care about.
Sienna stormed out, slamming the door.
Ashley, panicked and overwhelmed, grabbed her bag. “I quit,” she blurted.
Roads froze. “What?”
“I quit,” she repeated, voice shaking. “This is too much. I can’t be the reason your life falls apart.”
“Ashley—”
“I have to go.”
She ran.
Two weeks later, her world collapsed anyway.
Complaints started. Then came the scream: “A roach in the noodles!”
Health inspectors arrived. Three more roaches appeared like they’d been planted by an angry god with a grudge.
Dave’s Soul Bowls was shut down with red tape.
Ashley stood on the sidewalk watching her father’s legacy get sealed like a crime scene.
Then the phone call came.
Sienna’s voice, poison wrapped in honey. “How’s business?”
Ashley’s hand tightened. “What did you do?”
“Oh, nothing,” Sienna purred. “I just mentioned… concerns. And friends investigate.”
“You planted them.”
“Can you prove it?” Sienna laughed softly. “By the way, Roads and I are getting back together. He called me begging.”
The lie hit like a punch.
Ashley’s life was burning. Her rent was overdue. Her father’s bills towered like a prison wall.
Then the health department called back with the truth: no infestation, no eggs, no droppings. The roaches were placed deliberately.
Ashley felt something harden inside her.
She called Sienna back.
“I was trying to be respectful,” Ashley said steadily. “I kept my distance because he was taken. But you showed me exactly who you are. And I’m done being nice.”
Sienna laughed. “You think you can compete with me?”
“I don’t need to compete,” Ashley said. “I just need to be myself. And we’ll see who he chooses.”
The silence on the other end was delicious.
“And Sienna,” Ashley added softly, “may the best woman win.”
She hung up shaking, but her spine felt made of steel.
Julian grinned in pride. “That’s my girl.”
Then her phone rang again.
Roads.
His voice sounded wrecked. “I haven’t eaten in two weeks,” he confessed. “I can’t sleep. I can’t function without you.”
Ashley’s breath caught. “You have a girlfriend.”
“No,” Roads said, voice urgent. “Sienna and I are done. Completely. She lied to you. I called her to tell her to leave you alone. That’s it.”
Ashley’s eyes burned. “Why do you want me back so badly?”
A pause. Then, raw and quiet:
“Because somewhere between the first bowl of noodles and the last meal you made me… I fell in love with you.”
Ashley’s world stopped.
“I love you,” Roads said again. “I don’t want to lose you.”
Julian mouthed, Tell him.
Ashley took a shaky breath. “I fell for you too.”
Thirty minutes later, Roads stood at her door looking unshaven and tired in sweatpants, like a man who’d crawled out of hell to find his air again.
She opened the door.
They stared.
Then he kissed her like she was oxygen.
But love, Ashley learned, wasn’t only candlelight and kisses. Love was also choosing truth when lies would be easier.
That lesson arrived at Meridian’s grand opening.
The restaurant glittered with Chicago’s elite: critics, investors, influencers, money with sharp teeth.
Ashley, now trained and promoted, greeted guests in a sleek black dress Roads bought her. She felt like she belonged until she didn’t.
At 8:00 p.m., Sienna arrived in white like a ghost at a wedding.
She pushed through the crowd and made a scene.
Then she dropped to her knees.
Begging. Crying. Performing.
The room watched like it was live theater.
And then, like a magician pulling out the darkest trick, Sienna played a recording.
Ashley’s voice echoed across the restaurant: “Now I’m going to show him who you really are… and we’ll see who he chooses.”
Gasps. Whispers.
Roads looked at Ashley, shocked.
Sienna smiled through tears. “She was playing a game.”
Then Sienna twisted the knife deeper.
“You want the real reason Roads hired her?” she said loudly. “It’s because Roads King can’t eat food prepared by anyone except himself… and her.”
The room erupted.
Roads went still, nightmare unfolding.
Investors stared. Critics pulled out phones. The empire shook.
And Ashley realized, with a cold, clear certainty:
There was no saving this with spin.
Only truth.
So she stepped forward.
“Yes,” Ashley said clearly. “It’s true.”
Silence fell.
She told them about the poisoning attempt. The trauma. The condition. The fear. She told them she was the only one whose food he could eat.
And then, voice trembling but fierce, she defended him.
“Roads King understands flavor beyond taste,” she said. “He can smell a dish and know what’s wrong. He can watch a chef and catch mistakes. The same way a blind producer can create hit songs. The same way people adapt and become brilliant in new ways.”
She turned to Sienna, tears streaming.
“And yes,” Ashley said, voice rising, “I did want him to choose. Because I fell in love with him. Because he treats me like I matter. Because he’s the best man I’ve ever met.”
The room held its breath.
Then clapping started.
From the back: Julian, in his wheelchair, clapping his good hand against his knee like thunder.
“That’s my girl!” he called.
Paxton clapped.
A cook. A server.
Applause spread, not unanimous, but enough to matter.
Roads stepped forward, eyes bright. He cupped Ashley’s face and kissed her in front of everyone, like he was choosing her with his whole life.
Then Roads turned to the crowd.
“What Ashley said is true,” he admitted. “All of it. I was afraid. I hid it. But excellence is still excellence. My condition doesn’t erase what I’ve built.”
One by one, people decided.
Some left, hungry for scandal.
More stayed, moved by honesty.
The major investor, Bernard, extended his hand. “My investment stands. I’m with you.”
The critic promised to write not a takedown, but a story of resilience.
Sienna stood near the entrance, power slipping through her fingers like sand.
“The only thing I regret,” Roads told her calmly, “is wasting two years on someone who never cared to understand me.”
Sienna left, her performance ruined.
And Meridian, bruised but standing, became something better than perfect.
It became real.
Later that night, on the rooftop, Chicago glittering around them, Roads took Ashley’s hands.
“Two months ago,” he said, voice quiet, “my car broke down in front of your cart. I was starving. Literally and figuratively.”
Ashley’s eyes filled.
Roads lowered to one knee.
“I don’t have a ring yet,” he admitted, almost sheepish. “But I have a question. Will you marry me? Will you build a life with me? Will you let me spend every day proving I deserve you?”
Ashley laughed through sobs. “You crazy, wonderful man.”
“Yes or no?” he teased, dimples flashing.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”
He stood and pulled her into his arms, and the city below kept moving as if it didn’t understand a whole world had just changed on a rooftop.
A year later, Ashley stood in the kitchen of Monroe & King, the restaurant she and Roads built together, blending Julian’s legacy recipes with fine dining precision.
Reservations were booked for months. Reviews were glowing. The place felt like home.
Roads walked in and pulled her close.
“We need a high chair at our table in about seven months,” he said, dimples bright.
Ashley stared. “You… how do you know?”
He kissed her forehead. “Paxton saw the pregnancy test box. That man cannot keep a secret.”
Ashley laughed until she cried.
That night, she fell asleep beside her husband, hand resting on her belly, thinking of the lesson that started in a broken-down car and a tiny sample bowl:
Love doesn’t arrive when life is neat.
Love shows up when the engine dies, the bills stack up, and you’re brave enough to offer someone one bite of hope.
And when it comes, real love doesn’t ask you to be flawless.
It asks you to be true.
THE END
