His Corrupted Vow of Rosemary

Caleb seemed faintly displeased by my remark. The hint of a sneer beneath his smile wasn’t pleasant.

Too young, he thought, a flicker of disdain on his face. Too impulsive. All ambition and no patience—she wouldn't last in this city. Five years in the business and she expected to be on top? Did she think this was a Hollywood movie? Success took talent, not connections. Sleeping her way to the top? That trick only got you so far. The culinary world was ruthless, not a charity. Still, she should try again next time. Next time, he’d make it right. If there was a next time.

With that thought, he moved to console her. "Clara, the after-party is at Per Se. You should come."

"No, thank you." I declined politely. "I'm heading home."

Caleb frowned. I wasn’t the type to refuse a networking opportunity. It was a crucial part of survival in this industry. But before he could dwell on it, Sloane had already looped her arm through his.

Meanwhile, I called an Uber. As I slid into the back seat, I gazed out at the cold, glittering panorama of the Manhattan nightscape.

Before I even got home, the hashtags were trending on social media: #CalebBlackwood, #SloaneSterling, #CulinaryGoldenCouple. Each tag was a blaze of red, screaming that they were trending.

Caleb had a cookbook in the works, a three-year project for the restaurant. He was now rushing to name Sloane as the sole author. If I had been at that after-party, I bet my expression would have been anything but graceful.

When my phone screen went dark, my own reflection stared back. I looked tired, pale. The woman in the reflection was anything but happy.

Just as I closed the app, a text from Caleb arrived.

"Don't wait up. Going to be a late one."

I didn't reply, just swiped the message away. The dim blue light of the screen cast shadows on my face as I recalled his justifications.

“That girl from the CIA is a diamond in the rough… We need buzz, Clara. It's business. When will you grow up?”

My questions had dwindled over time.

At first, it was, “Who is she?”

Then, “Why her?”

And finally, silence.

As I scrolled through his long, detailed messages about Sloane, I realized he hadn't noticed that I’d long since stopped asking about the rosemary tattoo he got for me—the one his watch always seemed to cover lately.

All that remained was the cruel, two-word confirmation: Message Read.