Bad Taste

They called me the talent, not the face.

For eleven years I was the engine of every kitchen that made some man famous. So when I finally put my own name on the glass — CASTELLANO, white letters, three weeks from opening — I thought the hard part was over.

Then my husband told me the brand needed "a face." My dazzling best friend Vivi offered to handle the boring money so I could "stay in my genius." And a hundred and twelve thousand dollars of my custom kitchen got delivered to an empty lot across town.

Here's what the two of them never figured out: a chef tastes everything. Even the rot.

They spent a year writing a story where I fall apart right on schedule — too tired, too paranoid, too much woman to keep what I built. They planned to take my name in front of the whole city, on opening night, with the cameras rolling.

Cute.

Because I read the script. I hired a forensic accountant with a grudge and the warmest eyes I've ever been seen by. My sous-chef kept every receipt since March. And my cat has hated Vivi from day one.

They wanted a show on opening night.

I'm going to give them one.

A standalone revenge romance, served cold with a side of camp. Cheaters get caught. Curvy wives get even — and get the guy.