Clara smiled, convinced she had won.
Then she leaned forward and kissed him.
The dining room fell silent for one impossible second. A waiter dropped a spoon. Evan pulled back—not out of guilt, but calculation.
“Maya,” he said sharply.
“No, please.” I leaned back. “Go on. I’m learning so much.”
Clara’s voice turned sweet and heavy. “You should be grateful. At least you found out before the wedding.”
“Did I?”
The question landed like a blade between us.
Evan’s expression shifted—just slightly, but enough. I caught it.
Three weeks earlier, my accountant had flagged irregular activity in the restaurant’s vendor accounts. Fake invoices. Inflated wine orders. Payments funneled through a consultancy registered under Evan’s college roommate. At first, I told myself it couldn’t be real.
Then I saw Clara’s name in the emails.
They hadn’t just betrayed me. They had planned to drain my business before the wedding, push me to sign over shares to Evan, and use my own money to open a “sister concept” restaurant with Clara as creative director.
Creative director. Clara couldn’t direct boiling water.
