Ethan Spencer didn't want to believe it. With trembling fingers, he dialed a contact inside the Association.

The ringback tone felt like a rhythmic strike against his frayed nerves.

"Hello? Ethan?"

Before Ethan could even get a word out, the man on the other end cut him off.

"Did you cross someone you shouldn't have? A formal complaint went straight to the top brass. Someone is hell-bent on ruining you, to completely sever your path on the international stage. This came from the highest level, Ethan. I… I really can't help you. I’m sorry."

"Wait! Who exactly is behind—"

Ethan’s desperate plea was cut short by the hollow click of a disconnected line.

A second later, his phone chimed with a new notification. It was an email from the hotel’s HR department: he was terminated, effective immediately, with tomorrow serving as his final day for turnover and hand-over duties.

A cold numbness crept into Ethan's fingertips.

He understood now. This was Olivia Hayes’s handiwork. She was determined to burn every bridge he had left.

Ethan spent the night in the hotel apartment, returning to work the next day with a heavy heart, busy preparing for the final handover until the afternoon.

The restaurant manager burst in, looking pale. "Chef Ethan, there’s trouble. A customer is claiming the soup you just made is spoiled."

"What?"

Ethan frowned, wiping his hands and stepping out of the kitchen. He stopped short when he saw Damon Meyer sitting at a corner table with Ryker West—a notorious rich kid known for his penchant for trouble. The pieces clicked into place instantly. This was a setup.

Ryker slammed his hand on the table, his face twisted in performative rage. "What kind of hack are you? Is this swill even fit for a dog to drink?"

Ethan kept his voice steady. "We use only fresh, high-quality ingredients, and the culinary technique is flawless. It is impossible for that soup to be spoiled."

Damon chuckled, a cold, dry sound. "See? I told you. The chef here is far too full of himself. You can't reason with someone like this."

Ryker sneered, his eyes raking over Ethan with contempt. "Just because you were once Mrs. Hayes's husband, you think you’re somebody? The word is out that the divorce is finalized. Without the Hayes Group’s backing, what are you even worth?"

Before Ethan could react, Ryker surged forward, pinning Ethan’s wrist with a brutal, crushing grip and shoving his hand directly into the deep, scalding bowl of broth.

"You—!"

Ethan’s eyes snapped wide, his pupils constricting as a searing, jagged pain pierced through his skin and sank deep into the bone.

"If you can't cook, then don't ever bother trying again!" Ryker snarled, his face contorted with malice.

Ethan yanked his hand back, gasping. The skin was already a vivid, angry crimson. Blisters were rising rapidly across the back of his hand, and his fingers spasmed uncontrollably, twitching with the intensity of the trauma.

Damon sat lazily in his chair, his lips curled into a faint, mocking arc. His eyes held the cold indifference of someone watching an ant struggle under a boot.

Around them, the restaurant manager and staff stood frozen, not a single soul daring to step forward to help.

Ethan endured the agony in silence. He performed his own emergency first aid before rushing to the hospital to have his hand cleaned and bandaged.

He had barely finished settling into the hospital bed when Olivia Hayes and Damon Meyer walked through the door.

Olivia glanced briefly at his bandaged hand, her expression frigid. "You were injured at my hotel, so I’ve already settled the medical bills."

"Ryker’s behavior today was a bit extreme, I’ll admit. But don't worry, Damon has already punished him on your behalf."

"Punished?" Ethan’s voice was raspy. "How exactly?"

"Damon is having the West family ground him. He isn't allowed to leave the house for three days. Let’s consider this matter closed."

The heartless words felt like shards of ice piercing his chest. Ethan let out a sharp, incredulous laugh.

"Olivia, do you take me for a three-year-old?"

He raised his bandaged arm, his eyes burning with a mix of fury and betrayal. "Look at this. I’m a chef. You know better than anyone how vital my hands are to my career. You expect me to just let this go?"

"I am going to file charges for assault!"

Damon scoffed from the side, leaning against the doorframe. "Ethan, you’ve spent years moving in elite circles, haven't you? Have you learned nothing about how the world works?"

"That’s a West family heir you’re talking about. Do you actually think you can win a case against them?"

"People like you, you’re just looking for a bigger payout, aren't you? I have more money than you could ever dream of. I’ll pay for him."

Damon pulled a card from his pocket and tossed it onto the bed. "This is more than enough for your troubles."

Seeing Ethan make no move to touch the card, Damon’s face hardened. "Don't play the martyr now. I’m throwing you a bone—have the decency to take it."