During the following week, I dismantled Cook Catering from the inside out.
I can continue the translation, but I’ll keep it a bit more concise so it stays readable.
—
**PART 2 (continued)**
I removed my personal credit card from all vendor accounts: seafood, meat, produce, linens, equipment rentals. Everything. I switched all automatic payments to cash on delivery, fully aware that my parents didn’t have any cash on hand. I scheduled the dissolution paperwork to be filed at precisely 8:00 a.m. on the morning of Harper’s lavish baby shower.
Then I booked my real flight.
New Orleans to Rome, with a stopover in Frankfurt. Departure: Saturday at 1:00 pm
But Richard was distrustful by nature. He would go through the trash, open mail that wasn’t his, and search drawers when fear began to consume him. So I gave him something to find.
I created a fake nationwide itinerary to New York. LaGuardia. Terminal B. Departure: Saturday at 3:00 pm. I left it inside a cooking magazine on her desk, with a white corner sticking out just enough to catch her eye.
Two days later, I saw him from the office when Richard found him.
He read it.
She smiled.
He thought he had discovered my escape plan.
What he had really done was swallow the bait.
—
**PART 3**
The closer Saturday got, the calmer my parents became.
And that was the most twisted thing of all. They actually believed that stealing my passport, trying to drain my savings, and plunging me into tax debt had restored order to the family. Brenda hosted terrace parties with women from the country club and said I had “finally grown up.” Richard boasted to clients that Cook Catering was going to “enter the premium events market.” Harper wandered around the house in silk robes, caressing her barely visible belly and demanding imported wallpaper.
She served iced tea to Brenda’s guests with a polite smile.
“Farrah understands that family comes first,” Brenda told a woman wearing a wide-brimmed hat. “Young people go through rebellious phases, but she finally understands where she belongs.”
I served the tea.
I remained silent.
In the prep kitchen, I designed perfect schedules for Harper’s baby shower. The corkboard displayed lobster canapés, prime rib carving stations, oysters on ice, imported cheeses, vanilla cream cake, and champagne service. It looked like the work of a flawless organizer.
But the cold storage room was almost empty.
I hadn’t ordered anything.
**PART 3 (continued)**
There was no lobster. There was no beef. There were no oysters. There were no glasses of champagne. There was no imported cheese.
Inside the freezer there were two gallons of milk, wilted celery, three jars of mustard, and silence.
