His Corrupted Vow of Rosemary

The last straw had come three months ago. It was a simple matter of priorities.

That day, Sloane had nicked her finger with a paring knife in the back kitchen. At the same moment, I slipped while carrying a pot of boiling lobster bisque, the entire contents spilling across my arm. Her injury was a tiny cut that barely drew blood; my arm was severely scalded. One kitchen, two worlds apart.

Caleb's concern for me was a brief, "Did you run it under cold water?"

Meanwhile, he fussed over Sloane, personally driving her in his Porsche to the best private hospital on the Upper East Side. He was so worried that he posted on social media: "Urgent! How to prevent scarring on delicate skin?"

In the photo, Sloane sat in the passenger seat of his Porsche, looking fragile but glamorous. And there I was, lying alone in the staff lounge, the cloying scent of burn cream heavy in the air.

I watched Caleb banter with friends in the comments, his replies breezy and charming, while my texts went unanswered. His indifference stung more than the searing pain in my arm.

After a sleepless night, I went to his office, my arm wrapped in thick bandages. I found him engrossed in tasting a macaron Sloane had just made, his brow furrowed in concentration. The texture of a single macaron was a thousand times more important than my third-degree burn.

"Hang on, Clara. The almond flour ratio is a bit off."

He didn't even turn around.

I stood outside the glass door, watching as he guided Sloane in adjusting the recipe. For two hours, I watched him, finally understanding that a single, trivial cookie mattered more to him than I did.

Framed on the glass door was the Best New Chef award he’d received from Food & Wine magazine last year.

At one point, his assistant, Olivia, came over and whispered, "Clara, Caleb is still discussing the menu with Sloane. It might be another two hours..."

She watched my face for a reaction. "Why don't you come back later?"

I stubbornly shook my head. "I'll wait."

Olivia looked troubled.

"You might be disturbing them if you stay."

Suddenly, a sharp, nauseating pain shot through me, and my body buckled. Olivia caught me just in time.

The commotion drew Caleb’s attention from the other side of the glass. He glanced in my direction, his expression unreadable.

"Please escort Clara to the break room."

He spoke with the detached authority of someone removing a disruptive employee. Then, his gaze lingered on my contorted posture, his lips parting slightly as if to ask if I was okay.

"Caleb, should the frosting be sweeter...?"

Sloane's soft, sweet voice pulled his attention back to the macarons. That flicker of concern vanished, dissipating like a mirage.

The message was clear: Stop the drama. Be professional. Get out before you embarrass me. Once he was done, perhaps he would generously send me a copy of the tasting notes he'd made with Sloane as "compensation."

The air conditioner hummed its monotonous drone. Only a wall separated us. He was the one controlling the temperature, while I shivered, caught between the July heat of Manhattan and the biting chill of the AC.

I pulled my sleeves down, turned, and walked toward the elevator.

Five years ago, we graduated from the CIA together, vowing to conquer this city.

Now, I had to accept the painful truth: the man who once shared a chef's knife with me was gone forever.