Liora's POV

The scent of rosemary chicken filled the kitchen, warm and rich, the kind of aroma that made people pause and look around. But no one paused here. Not for me. The shining kitchen counters, imported marble floors, and soft clinks of cutlery weren’t mine either.

This was Selena’s house.

Her name was on the award plaques lining the hallway. Her face was on the cooking channel reruns. But it was my hand perfecting the seasoning. My fingers testing the texture of the dumpling dough. My recipes scribbled in her notebook.

I was the secret behind her success.

I stirred quietly, flipping the roast one last time. It didn’t matter that the sous chef praised the flavors, or that the guests kept asking what Selena had done differently this time. She would smile, eyes sparkling, and say something like, "Just a touch of intuition."

She always smiled. Even when she took credit for meals she hadn’t cooked. Even when she told me to use the back entrance so as to hide who I was.

The kitchen was silent except for the low simmer of broth. My scarf itched against my neck, hiding what was left of my face. I didn't mind the burn. Not as much as I minded the looks. The ones that came with pity, followed by repulsion and disgust. My stepsister didn’t look at me at all. My family told me to wear the scarf, I did because my face would ruin their appetite. Even I hated to look at my own reflection.

Footsteps were heard coming from behind me. The sound alone was enough–confident and clipped, like he expected the room to adjust for him.

I didn’t turn to look at who it was. I already knew. My husband was here.

"Why isn't food ever cooked in our house?" he said, voice sharp.

I wiped my hands and turned. He didn’t wait for an answer. He was already walking towards me with his usual scowl.

He moved around like he owned the place. Technically, he did. He funded Selena’s restaurants. He ‘managed’ things. He spent most nights here.

"Do you know how ridiculous it is that I have to eat takeout in my own home? What exactly do you do all day, Liora?" he asked, standing too close.

I flinched at the smell of his cologne. Selena’s brand.

"You don’t come home," I said quietly.

Wrong answer.

His hand came down before I could register it. The sound was louder than the pain. My cheek burned. The kitchen went still. The sous chef outside glanced in, then quickly looked away.

He grabbed my arm and pushed me back, hard. I stumbled. Fell. My scarf shifted. I scrambled to fix it, hands trembling.

"Don’t you dare talk back to me," he said.

The slap was so hard, I tasted blood. My eyes stung, but I didn’t cry. Not here.

“Your stepfather owed me half a million dollars. Embezzlement, gambling, bribes—take your pick. He didn’t want to go to jail, so he offered you instead. Said you’d be obedient. Pretty.”

He glanced down at my scarf. “He lied about that last part. I can't even sleep with you, without feeling disgust over your face. He should be lucky I have Selena, if not, I would have brought you and your whole family to the ground.”

He grabbed my chin to look at him. “How many times to I have to remind you? You don't get to speak back at me. You should remain quiet whenever I speak, do you understand?”

“Understood,” I whispered.

Not because I agreed.

Because I’d learned the hard way—arguing only earned me bruises that didn’t heal fast enough before the next dinner event.

Marcus stood and adjusted his cufflinks like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just slapped his wife in the middle of a kitchen that wasn’t hers. I stood there on the cold floor, pulse screaming behind my teeth, scarf askew, rosemary still hanging in the air like none of this was disgusting.

His phone buzzed.

He checked it. Smirked.

My stomach twisted.

“Your sister’s show wraps up in twenty,” he said, already heading out. “We’ll be upstairs as usual.”

I nodded, acting as if I don't know what was going to happen upstairs. Like I hadn’t walked in once, earlier than expected, and seen her in nothing but his shirt. Like I hadn’t watched them laugh at me like I was the joke in their private sitcom.

Marcus Whitmore, millionaire investor. Media darling. Closet abuser. Public husband to the scarred housewife who never got invited to events. Secret lover to the younger, prettier chef who smiled on screen and gutted me behind it.

I was the charity that earned him sympathy from the public. I was the scar.

The tears burn. How long do I have to be the trash? Why can't I fight back? Why do I have to allow them to keep on stepping on me?

I clenched and unclenched my fist as I tried my best to keep the tears from falling.

I failed. I sniffed as I angrily wiped tears from my eyes.

Weak. Stupid and weak. Inferior to everyone. Because I was the acid burnt girl.

Selena waltzed in five minutes later, heels clicking against the tiles. Her camera crew trailed behind her, cutting angles, murmuring about lighting. She looked tired, annoyed—not like someone who’d just ended a successful shoot. More like someone who didn’t get what she wanted.

“Tell your husband to stop showing up on camera,” she said, already untying her apron. “You know that’s not part of our deal.”

I said nothing.

She turned to me, finally looking at me.

Her eyes dragged across my scarf, my swollen cheek, the blood I hadn’t wiped.

She sighed, like my face was inconvenient. “You're bleeding on the tiles. Clean it.”

I moved slowly, every muscle aching with restraint.

The camera crew didn’t blink. They were used to me. They knew that I was the one cooking Selena's meal, but Selena paid them enough to shut up. While I suffered behind close doors.

Selena tossed her apron on the counter and began fixing her hair, already prepping for the next clip. “You finished the roast?”

“Yeah.”

“And the glaze?”

I nodded.

“Good. I’ll reheat it for the final shot. Go out the back.”

I stayed still.

Her head whipped to me, a glint of irritation flashing. “What?”

“I’m not going out the back.”

She blinked, caught off guard.

“What did you say?”

“I said I’m not going out the back,” I repeated, quieter this time. But not backing down.

Something shifted in her expression—like she wasn’t sure if I was joking or suicidal.

“You’re just angry because your husband slapped you,” she said, smile stretched tight. “Don’t be s

tupid.”

I looked at her and said what's been bothering me for the past few weeks.

“I want to quit,” I said quietly.