Chapter 1

I was on a business trip when my wife, Lauren, suddenly called, saying she was selling the restaurant my dad had left behind.

“Tony, I’ve decided to transfer the restaurant to someone else. For $1.8 million.”

I froze for two seconds, then demanded to know why she hadn't discussed something so big with me beforehand.

She replied self-righteously, “I’m the legal owner of the restaurant. I have the right to decide.”

“That’s what your dad said before he passed.”

“$1.8 million isn’t a small sum. I thought it was a fair price, so I sold it. What’s wrong with that?”

She hung up immediately. When I called back, her phone was off.

I was shaking with anger. I sent her a message.

“Lauren, if you really sell the restaurant, we’re getting a divorce!”

I canceled all my plans and took the next flight back to the city.

It was five in the afternoon when I landed. I hailed a cab straight home.

I called her on the way, but her phone was still off.

As I approached my apartment building, just as I was about to enter, I saw a black Mercedes parked at the curb.

Lauren was in the passenger seat, laughing and talking to the man in the car.

I retreated behind a nearby tree, watching covertly.

The man was probably in his early thirties.

He rested his arm on the car window, smiling as he asked,

“So, it’s settled then?”

Lauren nodded.

“Don’t worry. Tony’s on a business trip. He won’t be back for another week.”

“Are you sure he won’t mess things up? It is his dad’s place, after all.”

Lauren let out a cold laugh. “I’m the legal owner. I’ll sell it if I want to. No one can tell me what to do.”

“Besides, even his dad said when he was alive that the restaurant was mine to manage.”

“Worst case, we get divorced.”

The man smiled. “Good.”

Lauren smiled too, leaning in and kissing his cheek.

The man reached out and pulled her closer. The two began to kiss passionately in the car.

I gripped my suitcase handle, my knuckles turning white.

They exchanged a few more words, then the man drove off.

Lauren grabbed her bag and went into the building.

I stepped out from behind the tree and stood downstairs, lighting a cigarette.

The early March wind was still chilly. The ash blew away, landing on my shoe.

I looked down at the ashes, remembering my dad on his deathbed, holding my hand and saying, “Tony, I’m leaving the restaurant to Lauren. Don’t overthink it.”

“You’re busy with work and can’t spare the time. She’s ambitious and always wanted to be involved in managing the restaurant. Don’t fight over this.”

I said I understood.

He gasped for a while, then added, “Lauren’s ambition is a good thing, but you must remember to hold onto this restaurant. It’s my life’s work.”

I nodded.

Three days later, my father passed away.

At the funeral, Lauren stayed by my side, crying more bitterly than anyone.

At the time, I thought my dad hadn’t misjudged her. Thinking about it now, it’s just so damn laughable.

I dragged my suitcase out of the apartment complex and found a small diner on the street.

The owner came over with water, glanced at my suitcase, and didn't ask any questions.

When the food arrived, I didn't touch it. Instead, I poured myself a glass of hard liquor. The strong alcohol burned my throat and made my eyes water.

My mom passed away when I was three.

My dad never remarried. He started with a small food cart, waking up at three in the morning every day to push his utility cart to the market for ingredients.

In winter, his hands would crack from the cold; in summer, his back would peel from the sun.

After eight years, he finally saved enough to rent his first storefront.

Ten more years, and he bought out the entire three-story building.

He had no other hobbies in his life; his only joy was being in the kitchen.

When I was little, I’d come home from school and do my homework right there in the restaurant while he cooked beside me.

The cooking fumes always made his eyes red, but he’d chuckle and say he was used to it.

Later, I went to college, got a job, and started traveling a lot for work. Every time I came back, I’d stop by the restaurant.

He’d personally cook a couple of dishes for me, sitting across the table, watching me eat, asking about everything.

One time I visited the restaurant, it was a week before he was hospitalized.

He stood at the entrance, smoking, watching the customers come and go, his eyes filled with reluctance.

I thought then that after a few more years, when I wasn’t so busy, I’d come back and help him.

Unfortunately, I never got the chance.

I refilled my glass and picked up my phone to message my friend, Rubio.

Rubio was a well-known lawyer.

“Help me check a license plate. I’ll send it to you.”

He replied instantly: “What’s up?”

I sent him the license plate number.

“A Mercedes. Why are you checking it? Whose car is it?”

“A guy I don’t know.”

There was a few seconds of silence before he called.

“Tony, explain yourself. What’s going on?”