Part 1A Taste of Deception

The day Cole Donovan brought his ghost home, I was standing in the marble entryway, spatula in hand, about to ask if he wanted me to add another course to dinner.

Then I saw her. The ghost. She pointed a trembling finger at me, her eyes welling with cinematic tears.

“I knew it!” she cried, her voice cracking with practiced despair. “It’s always true, what they write in the novels! The second I go abroad, you find a replacement and install her in your house!”

A replacement?

* * *

I glanced down at my stark white chef’s coat, the grease-resistant clogs on my feet, and the silicone spatula I was still holding. If this was a casting call for a stand-in, nobody had bothered to give me the script.

Before I could process the sheer absurdity of it, the woman—Claire Sterling, I’d soon learn—doubled down.

“No wonder you’ve been so distant these past few years, barely a word while I was away. You had a new toy to play with. You threw me away, your first love, like I was nothing.” Her voice rose to a dramatic crescendo. “And now that I’m back, you can’t even bear to send her away. Fine. If that’s how it is, I’ll leave. I’ll leave you two to your happiness!”

Watching her, a fragile porcelain doll on the verge of shattering, I was utterly dumbfounded. What in the Lifetime movie was happening?

Wasn’t I Charlotte Hale, the chef Cole Donovan had personally headhunted and offered a one-million-dollar annual salary to manage his gastritis with my culinary skills? How did I get promoted from private chef to home-wrecking doppelgänger?

Cole himself looked pained, a deep furrow forming between his brows.

“Claire, what on earth are you talking about? You were gone for three months, and I flew to Paris to see you every other week. How is that ‘barely a word’?”

He gestured toward me, his hand slicing through the thick tension in the air. “And this is Charlotte Hale, my chef. She’s not… whatever it is you’re imagining.”

“A chef?” A single, perfect tear traced a path down her cheek. “Since when are chefs young and… and look like that?”

“I like to wear white,” she choked out, pointing at my uniform coat. “And she’s wearing white. If that’s not a sign, what is? Cole, darling, you don’t have to lie to me.”

I looked down at my functional, double-breasted cotton coat, then at her ethereal white silk dress that probably cost more than my first car. The only thing they had in common was the absence of pigment. An involuntary twitch started at the corner of my eye.

I sighed, deciding to intervene with logic—a futile weapon, I’d soon discover. “Ms. Sterling, I really am the chef. If you don’t believe me, you can come to the kitchen. There’s a chicken soup simmering on the stove right now.”

She clapped her hands over her ears and stomped a stiletto-clad foot. “I’m not listening! I’m not! And even if there is soup, you probably just put it there to trick me!”

Cole looked utterly exhausted. “Claire, what will it take for you to believe that Charlotte is just the chef?”

“Get rid of her,” she said instantly, a triumphant glint in her teary eyes. “Then I’ll believe you.”

She crossed her arms, looking like a detective who had just cracked a case wide open. “I’ve read this story a hundred times. The First Love and the Stand-In can’t coexist under the same roof. It’s only a matter of time before she schemes her way into my place. I won’t lose you, Cole. She has to go.”

Hearing this, Cole’s frown deepened. He shot a hesitant glance in my direction. His gastritis had only just started to improve under my care; he was nowhere near ready to go back to takeout and bland protein shakes. But it was clear Claire wasn’t going to back down.

After a moment that stretched into an eternity, he made his decision. He walked over to me, lowering his voice.

“Charlotte, I know our contract is for a live-in position, but given the… situation, I’m going to have to ask you to move into my penthouse downtown.”

My ears perked up.

“I’ll cover the commute, of course—double the rate for your trouble. And I’ll add a three-month salary bonus as compensation for the inconvenience. How does that sound?”

My eyes lit up like a slot machine hitting the jackpot.

Cole’s downtown penthouse was a five-minute drive from the estate. Not only would I get a paid commute, but I’d also bank an extra quarter of a million dollars? Just for moving my suitcase?

This was more than a win. This was a lottery ticket.

I nodded so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash. “No problem at all, Mr. Donovan. Do you need me to move out right now?” I already had my phone out, ready to call a moving service.

Cole seemed taken aback, probably expecting me to put up a fight or burst into tears. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face, but he just nodded.

“Yes,” he said, his voice flat. “That would be best.”

The movers were surprisingly fast. As I directed them with my luggage, Claire sauntered over in her heels, looking down at me from her self-appointed pedestal.

“See, Charlotte? You can sneak in while I’m gone, but it doesn’t matter. In the end, you’re the one being shipped out. In Cole’s heart, I’m the only one who matters. No matter how hard you try, a replacement will always be a replacement.”

Just then, my phone buzzed. A notification from my bank. The seven-figure wire transfer for my “inconvenience” was shining on the screen.

Suddenly, Claire’s face seemed almost angelic. She was my benefactor, the catalyst for this beautiful windfall.

I smiled at her, a wide, genuine smile. “You’re absolutely right. You’re the most important person to Mr. Donovan. I could never compare.”

She sniffed, mollified. “At least you know your place.”

She turned and clicked away on her heels. In the distance, I heard Arthur, the house manager, asking where she’d like to stay.

Her reply was loud and clear. “I’ll take the room Cole keeps locked, the one filled with my photos that he uses to remember me by.”

Arthur sounded bewildered. “Ma’am, I don’t believe such a room exists.”

Her voice shot up an octave. “How could it not? In the stories, after the First Love goes away, the CEO always keeps a locked shrine for her, a room no one is allowed to enter! If you don’t know about it, just say so. Don’t tell me it doesn’t exist!”

Her voice faded as she walked further into the house. I just shook my head and offered a silent, two-second prayer for Arthur. He was going to need it.