Chapter 3

Anna's POV

The door to the private room opened.

I wore crisp white chef's whites and white gloves, followed by a line of servers. I directed the service expressionlessly with elegant movements, as if truly serving a group of ordinary diners.

The final signature dessert was brought to the table.

It was my signature creation, "Snowfall."

White truffle ice cream processed with liquid nitrogen, paired with an extremely complex vanilla extract that melted instantly on the tongue like dissolving snowflakes.

This wasn't just the restaurant's signature dish. It was the dessert I'd personally made for Ethan when he proposed five years ago.

"Chloe, try it. This is Mrs. Sinclair's signature creation. People wait six months outside just to taste it," one wealthy patron said.

Chloe glanced at me timidly, then picked up a spoon and placed a small bite in her mouth.

After just one second, she frowned slightly and set down her spoon.

"What's wrong? You don't like it?" Ethan immediately turned his head, his tone showing undisguised concern.

Chloe bit her lip, looking somewhat aggrieved. "Miss Anna's technique is truly excellent, it's just... this dessert tastes too cold. It feels like eating something made by a precision machine. Ethan, I don't understand all those sophisticated techniques. I just feel that food should be warm, should have soul..."

The room fell instantly silent. These words were tantamount to publicly slapping a three-Michelin-star chef in the face.

Everyone looked at Ethan, waiting for him to defend his wife.

However, Ethan only glanced at "Snowfall" before pushing the plate away without hesitation.

"Chloe's right." Ethan lifted his head, his gaze piercing coldly toward me. "Anna, your cooking has become too commercialized. Your head is full of techniques. You've completely lost the soul of food. Yesterday, Chloe fried me an egg at home that had more flavor than this dessert you worked so hard on."

The others let out low chuckles.

I stood there, staring at the pushed-away plate.

Once upon a time, Ethan had waited three hours for me in subzero snow just to taste "Snowfall." When he took the first bite, his eyes reddened as he said, "Anna, this is the most soulful flavor I've ever tasted in my life."

Now he said it wasn't as good as his mistress's fried egg.

The pain in my chest had gone numb. I even found it somewhat laughable.

I didn't explode as they expected, nor did I shed a single tear. I simply raised my hand calmly and snapped my fingers.

"Clear them away."

The servers stepped forward to remove the desserts.

But I picked up the two plates of "Snowfall" in front of Ethan and Chloe. I turned and walked to the trash can in the corner. Then I flicked my wrist.

The exquisite porcelain plates, along with the expensive desserts, crashed into the garbage.

"Anna! What are you doing!" Ethan shot to his feet, his face livid.

I removed my white gloves and tossed them on the table, my gaze cold as ice. "Since Mr. Sinclair's palate has degraded to only appreciating fried eggs, stop wasting my premium ingredients here. Garbage belongs in the garbage can."

With that, I didn't spare Ethan another glance and strode out of the room.