Chapter 3

The birthday dinner wasn't over yet.

To lighten the mood, someone pulled out truth-or-dare cards.

One card read: Name the person you feel the most guilty about.

Tommaso glanced at me. Then he passed his glass to Alessia.

"The person I owe the most is Alessia."

Her eyes reddened.

"She's suffered with me for three years. From now on, I'm going to give her the life she deserves."

Every glass at the table went up.

Adriano grinned.

"Now that's what a husband should say."

Sitting across from them, I suddenly remembered the worst winter of Tommaso's startup.

Every morning at four a.m., I showed up at the central kitchen in Palermo to test recipes.

During the day, I ran between every shop in the city.

At night, I moonlighted as an instructor at a culinary school.

My hands blistered from scalding-hot baking trays, but I didn't dare take a day off.

Because he'd told me over the phone that he'd borrowed money from an American crime family, and his creditor had given him one month to pay it back.

That was what "suffering together" looked like.

I bore every ounce of hardship. They enjoyed everything that should have been mine.

It was Alessia's turn.

Her card read: What are you most afraid of losing?

She didn't answer. Just looked at Tommaso.

He read her instantly and took her hand, steady and sure.

His friends erupted with laughter.

"Do you even need to ask?"

"Alessia, relax. Tommaso loves you this much—nobody's taking him anywhere."

Someone realized what he'd just said and shot a furtive glance at me.

Mom pretended not to hear. Instead, she pulled out a stack of invitations.

"Dolce Segreto's new pastry shop opens the day after tomorrow. The whole family will be there. Sofia, you're coming too."

I opened the invitation.

It described Alessia as "the third-generation heir to the Caruso family pastry tradition."

And Bellavita—my employer—was listed as an opening partner.

I looked up.

"When did Bellavita agree to this?"

Adriano scoffed. "It hasn't been formally signed yet. Tommaso said you're about to become head of the Milan division. All you have to do is nod."

So they'd known about my transfer all along.

But I'd never told anyone in the family.

Tommaso explained flatly, "When your company ran a background check, they called Adriano to verify."

"So you've known I was going to Milan?"

"For a month."

"Then why did you tell me to cancel my ticket tonight?"

Alessia clutched the invitation tight.

"Because Dolce Segreto is applying to be a long-term supplier for Bellavita. You're my sister and the head of the Milan branch—people will say we got in through connections."

"And if I step aside, no one will say that?"

Mom held my hand the same way she used to when she talked me into buying Alessia a new dress as a kid.

"You've been doing so well at headquarters. Why fight for the director position? Alessia finally has something of her own. You can't force her to give it up."

I pulled my hand free.

"I earned that position. Why should I step aside for her?"

Dad finally set down his teacup.

"Because she's your sister."

"Stay tonight. Come with us to Milan tomorrow. Attend the opening. Tell the partners the recipes are a shared family heritage, then voluntarily withdraw from the transfer. That settles everything."

Tommaso reached into his briefcase and produced a kraft paper envelope.

"We've already drafted the statement. Take a look."

I didn't take it.

The envelope hit the edge of the table and a document slid out.

The first page was titled:

[Family Conflict of Interest Disclosure]

Below it was a supplier application form for Dolce Segreto.

Under "Technical Consultant," my name was printed clearly.

The application date: three years ago.

The exact day Tommaso first cried poor and convinced me not to come to Milan.

The last page was unsigned.

But tucked inside were my recipe lab records from the past three years.

Every single page stamped with Dolce Segreto's red corporate seal.

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