The table was a masterpiece of romantic intention. A single candle flickered in a glass holder, casting a warm glow on the white linen tablecloth. Two wine glasses, already half-empty with a rich Cabernet, stood beside plates of expertly prepared steak. It was their first “fancy” date night in months, and he had gone all out. To commemorate the evening, he’d even suggested a selfie. Leaning in, they smiled, the intimate restaurant backdrop looking like something from a film.
It was a perfect photo. She looked happy, truly relaxed. He looked proud, affectionate. She posted it with a heart emoji, a quiet boast about her wonderful husband and their rekindled romance. The likes poured in.
It was her sister, a chef with an eagle eye for kitchen details, who saw it. Her comment was a single, cryptic line: “Looks delicious! That sauce looks just like the one you used to make.”
The sauce.
She hadn’t thought much of it at the time, focused on the meat and the moment. But now, she zoomed in. On his plate, next to the steak, was a small ramekin of a deep brown, flecked sauce. A red wine reduction with fresh thyme and a hint of black garlic. It was her recipe. One she had developed herself and only ever made at home. A recipe she had never written down.
A cold stillness settled over her. She scanned the rest of the photo, the romantic ambiance now feeling like a set. And then she saw it, something she had missed entirely. Reflected in the dark, polished surface of the knife handle on the table, was a sliver of the open kitchen. And there, standing at the pass, was a woman with a familiar sweep of auburn hair. It was his ex-wife.
The romantic dinner hadn’t been a gesture for her. It had been a tasting. The “familiar” element in the photo wasn’t just a stolen recipe. It was the chef. He hadn’t brought her to a romantic restaurant to rekindle their spark; he had brought her to his ex-wife’s new, critically acclaimed bistro to sample the menu, using his wife as a unknowing focus group, all while the woman he’d once promised forever to was watching from the kitchen.
The photo, a testament to their love, was actually a document of his profound disloyalty. The familiar sauce on the plate was the ghost of his first marriage, served to her as a special.