Updated Nov 20, 2025 • ~5 min read
Six months into living together, Bash’s past showed up uninvited.
They were at dinner—a rare date night at a restaurant two towns over—when a man approached their table.
“Sebastian Moreau,” the man said. French accent. Expensive suit. Sharp eyes that immediately assessed everything.
Bash went rigid. “Chef Laurent.”
Ivy looked between them. This was the chef from the phone—the one who’d offered Bash the New York job months ago.
“I heard you were still here,” Laurent said. “Passed up my offer for… what? A small-town restaurant and a girlfriend?”
“Fiancée,” Bash said automatically, then froze.
They weren’t engaged. He’d just lied. Why had he lied?
Laurent’s eyebrow rose. “Congratulations. Though I must say, I’m disappointed. You had real talent, Sebastian. Could have been something special. Instead you’re playing house in—where are we? Willowbrook?”
“I am something special,” Bash said coolly. “Here. With her. Building something that matters.”
“Provincial charm,” Laurent said dismissively. “I give it two years before you’re bored and bitter, wondering what could have been.”
“With all due respect, Chef—which is very little at this point—you don’t know anything about my life.”
“I know talent when I see it. And I know when it’s being wasted.”
“I’m not wasted,” Bash said. “I’m home.”
Laurent looked at Ivy for the first time. Really looked. “And you. You’re the baker. The one in the articles. Tell me—do you really think you’re enough to keep him satisfied? Professionally? Personally? Men like Sebastian need challenge. Competition. Not—” He gestured vaguely. “—domestic bliss.”
Ivy’s hands clenched under the table, but her voice was steady. “With all due respect—which is none—Bash doesn’t need ‘challenge’ from toxic workplaces and abusive chefs. He needs partnership. Support. Love. Things you clearly know nothing about.”
Laurent smiled. “Spirited. I see the appeal. But Sebastian, when this inevitably falls apart, my offer stands. You can still have a real career.”
“I have a real career,” Bash said. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we’re having dinner. Alone.”
Laurent shrugged and left.
The moment he was gone, Bash’s hands started shaking.
“Hey,” Ivy said softly. “Breathe.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—I called you my fiancée. We’re not engaged. I shouldn’t have lied.”
“Bash—”
“And he’s right. What if you deserve better? What if I’m holding you back—”
“Stop.” Ivy’s voice cut through his spiral. “That man is a toxic, manipulative ass who gets off on making people feel small. Don’t give him that power.”
“But what if he’s right? What if in two years—”
“In two years, we’ll still be here. Building our businesses. Building our life. Because this isn’t ‘playing house.’ This is real. What we have—what we’ve built—is more valuable than any Michelin star.”
Bash looked at her. “You mean that.”
“I mean it. Bash, you’re not wasting your talent. You’re using it to create something meaningful. To make people happy. To build a community. That’s not less than working in some pretentious New York kitchen. It’s more.”
His eyes were bright with unshed tears. “I love you.”
“I love you too. And for the record?” She squeezed his hand. “I wouldn’t mind being your fiancée. Eventually. When you actually ask instead of panic-lying to your old boss.”
Despite everything, Bash smiled. “Noted.”
They finished dinner, but the mood was different. The encounter had shaken something loose.
On the drive home, Bash said, “He was my mentor. For two years. I idolized him. Thought he represented everything I should aspire to.”
“And now?”
“Now I see he’s just bitter and cruel. Mistaking fear for excellence. Believing that making people suffer is the only way to create great food.”
“You’re not like him.”
“I used to be,” Bash admitted. “Before you. I was heading down that same path. Angry and perfectionist and convinced being an ass made me a better chef.”
“What changed?”
“You. You showed me another way. That you could be talented and kind. Successful and happy. That maybe—just maybe—joy was the secret ingredient, not suffering.”
Ivy’s throat was tight. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“It’s true.”
They pulled into their driveway, and before they got out, Bash turned to her.
“I want to marry you,” he said. “Not because of Laurent. Not because of pressure or expectations. Because I want to wake up next to you every morning for the rest of my life. I want to build this future we keep talking about. I want everything.”
“Is this a proposal?” Ivy’s heart was racing.
“No. When I propose, it’ll be better than this. Planned. Romantic. Perfect.” He took her hand. “This is me telling you my intentions. So you know. So there’s no doubt. I’m going to marry you, Ivy Sinclair. When the timing’s right. When I have a ring. When I can do it properly. But I’m going to marry you.”
Ivy was crying happy tears. “I’m going to say yes. Just so you know. When you ask. Whenever that is. The answer is yes.”
“Good to know.”
They sat in the car, holding hands, and Bash felt the weight of Laurent’s words fade away.
This was his life. This woman. This town. This love.
And it was more than enough.
It was everything.
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