Rachael’s jaw tightened. The heartburn roared into a full, greasy blaze.
Rachael Cavalli grabbed her phone, deleted Luca’s text without reading it again, and called Marco back in.
She stood in the gleaming pass of Vivace , her flagship restaurant, watching a busboy whisk the offending dessert toward a table of food critics from The Chronicle . The dish was perfect—airy mascarpone, espresso-soaked ladyfingers crumbled like dark earth, a single curl of dark chocolate—but its existence on her menu was a daily reminder of compromise. Of him . heartburn pt. 1 rachael cavalli
But then, something shifted. The pain clarified. It wasn’t just heartburn. It was a warning.
The heartburn stayed. But for the first time in months, Rachael Cavalli smiled. Rachael’s jaw tightened
The final plate of the night was a deconstructed tiramisu, and Rachael Cavalli hated it.
Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: Saw your new tasting menu. Still playing it safe, I see. —L. She stood in the gleaming pass of Vivace
A knock. Marco again, this time with a folded piece of parchment paper. “Delivery. From Fuoco .”