Vincent Charbonneau had learned long ago to endure neglect. Growing up, he had been little more than a shadow in his parents’ eyes, forever eclipsed by his delicate, sickly sister, **Manon**. She had always been the priority, their precious doll made of glass, her every wish granted without hesitation. Meanwhile, Vincent had been left to fend for himself. His parents barely noticed him, except when they needed someone to care for her. He had been the forgotten son, a ghost in his own family.
When Vincent was fourteen, he had stopped asking for new clothes or school supplies. His parents would give him empty promises, only to forget once Manon so much as sniffled. So, he got a part-time job at a local restaurant, scrubbing floors and washing dishes, just to afford the basics. It was there, surrounded by the hum of the kitchen, the heat of the stoves, and the scent of food being prepared with care, that Vincent found something that was truly his: cooking.
He fell in love with the rhythm of the kitchen, the precision and focus it demanded. Unlike his home, where nothing he did ever seemed to matter, here, his effort yielded tangible results. Food was something he could control, something that didn’t betray him.
But then, like always, **Manon** decided she wanted what he had.
When he told his parents he dreamed of becoming a chef, they barely acknowledged it. It didn’t surprise him anymore. What surprised him was when, two weeks later, **Manon** announced that she wanted to be a food critic. The announcement was met with delight. They praised her for her ambition, for her “refined palate.” And, of course, they paid for her culinary school education without a second thought.
Vincent, meanwhile, had to take on multiple jobs, working late into the night to save for his own education. Every penny he earned, every hour spent working-he did it alone. His parents couldn’t even be bothered to help. **”It’s your choice to struggle,”** his mother had said dismissively one evening when Vincent asked for help with tuition. **”You should have picked a more practical career, like Manon.”**
Bitterness took root in Vincent’s heart, festering over the years. But he swallowed it down, as he always did, turning it into something sharp and precise in his work. He clawed his way through culinary school, sacrificing friendships, sleep, and any semblance of a social life just to prove to himself that he could. The kitchen became his salvation, and for a while, it was enough.
Then, in his final year of school, he met **Rody Lamoree**.
—
**Rody** was everything Vincent wasn’t. Where Vincent was quiet and guarded, Rody was open and carefree, with a smile that lit up every room he walked into. They met at a party Vincent had been dragged to by a classmate. At first, Vincent hadn’t wanted to go-he hated social gatherings, hated the noise and the forced conversations. But when Rody struck up a conversation with him, Vincent had found himself drawn in, despite his reservations.
They clicked in a way Vincent hadn’t expected. Rody, with his quick wit and infectious laughter, made Vincent feel something he hadn’t felt in years-light. They started spending more time together, sneaking away after classes to talk, sometimes meeting in small cafés where Vincent could critique the food, and Rody would make him laugh until his sides hurt.
For the first time in his life, Vincent had felt seen. Not as Manon’s brother, not as the forgotten son, but as **himself**. And when Rody had kissed him for the first time, Vincent had felt something he couldn’t name. Something that terrified him and thrilled him in equal measure.
But, of course, nothing good in Vincent’s life ever lasted.
—
Vincent should have known better. Should have realized that someone like Rody would never stay with him forever. He had always been a fool when it came to hope.
Manon had met Rody at a family gathering. It had been the first time Vincent had brought someone home-someone who mattered to him. He had been nervous, not because of Rody, but because he knew what his family was like. Cold, detached. They would find some way to ruin it, like they always did.
Manon had taken one look at Rody and decided that she wanted him too.
It had been so subtle at first, so well-masked behind her smiles and soft words. She would praise Vincent’s cooking while sitting a little too close to Rody. She would ask him for his help with “little things,” making sure to draw him into private conversations that Vincent wasn’t a part of. Slowly, she wormed her way into Rody’s life, and Vincent, always too cautious, didn’t say a word.
By the time he realized what was happening, it was too late. One evening, Rody had shown up at his apartment, looking guilty, looking **conflicted**.
**”Vincent,”** Rody had said softly, unable to meet his eyes. **”We need to talk.”**
Vincent had known then, before Rody had even said the words, that it was over. Rody had chosen her.
Manon always got what she wanted.
—
Years later, Vincent still felt the sting of that night. The betrayal, the heartbreak, all of it burned like it had happened yesterday. Rody and Manon had married, of course. His parents had been overjoyed, their sickly little princess had found herself a charming, strong man to take care of her. It was the perfect narrative, the perfect life-for everyone but Vincent.
He had distanced himself after that, throwing himself fully into his career. He had become the chef he always dreamed of being, working long hours, perfecting his craft. But even in the kitchen, he could never escape them. Manon would sometimes call, inviting him to family dinners or to see Rody, as if they hadn’t ripped him apart. As if they hadn’t left him hollow.
Every time, Vincent declined. He couldn’t stand to see them together, couldn’t bear to hear the fake sympathy in their voices. He’d rather work himself to death than be reminded of what he lost.
But tonight was different.
Tonight, after years of silence, Rody had called. Vincent’s heart had clenched when he saw his name on the screen, that familiar, dangerous hope bubbling up again. Against his better judgment, he had agreed to meet him for a drink.
—
The bar was dimly lit, the smell of cheap whiskey and cigarette smoke hanging in the air. Vincent sat at a small table in the corner, his hands clasped tightly in front of him, eyes fixed on the door. He hadn’t seen Rody in years. The last time had been at the wedding-Vincent hadn’t stayed long, only long enough to watch from the back as Rody said his vows, his hands intertwined with **Manon’s**.
Vincent clenched his jaw as the memory resurfaced, and just as quickly, he shoved it down.
When Rody finally walked through the door, Vincent’s breath hitched. He hadn’t changed much-still tall and broad, still effortlessly handsome. But there was something different about him now, something heavier, like the weight of the years had finally started to show.
Rody spotted Vincent and made his way over, offering a small smile as he slid into the seat across from him. **”Vincent.”**
Vincent nodded stiffly, his chest tight. **”Rody.”**
There was a silence between them, thick with unsaid words. Vincent waited, his mind racing, wondering why Rody had called him after all this time. Wondering what he could possibly want.
Finally, Rody spoke. **”Things… things aren’t great between me and Manon.”**
Vincent’s heart twisted. **Of course.** It always came back to Manon.
He said nothing, waiting for Rody to continue.
**”I don’t know what to do,”** Rody confessed, his voice low, strained. **”I thought… I thought maybe talking to you might help.”**
Vincent stared at him, the anger bubbling up again. **”You thought talking to me, after all these years, would help?”**
Rody’s eyes flickered with guilt. **”I know I hurt you, Vincent. I didn’t mean to-“**
**”Didn’t mean to?”** Vincent snapped, his voice cold. **”You left me for her, Rody. You chose her. Just like everyone else.”**
Rody flinched, but Vincent didn’t stop. **”What do you expect me to say? That I’ll forgive you? That I’ll help you fix your marriage? Is that why you’re here?”**
**”No-“** Rody started, but Vincent cut him off again.
**”You have no idea what you did to me.”**
Rody looked away, his hands clenched into fists on the table. **”I’m sorry.”**
**”Sorry?”** Vincent’s voice trembled. **”Sorry doesn’t change anything.”**
The silence between them was suffocating, heavy with years of pain and resentment. Vincent could feel himself unraveling, his carefully constructed walls finally breaking down after so many years of holding it all in.
He leaned forward, his voice low, dangerous. **”You ruined me, Rody.”**
Rody’s eyes met his, wide and full of something Vincent couldn’t quite place. Fear, maybe. Regret.
But it didn’t matter anymore.
Vincent stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. **”We’re done here.”**
Vincent stormed out of the bar, his heart pounding in his chest, his mind swirling with the memories of everything he had buried for years. The cool night air hit him, but it did little to soothe the storm inside him. He felt the sting of betrayal like it had just happened, as fresh and raw as the day Rody had chosen Manon.
He kept walking, not knowing where he was going, just needing to move, needing to escape the weight of it all. His breath was shaky, hands trembling at his sides. For years, he had been able to manage it, to compartmentalize the pain. But tonight… tonight was too much.
The nerve of **Rody**. To come to him after all these years, to ask for help like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t gutted Vincent and left him bleeding all over again. And **Manon**-Manon had gotten exactly what she wanted, hadn’t she? She always did. No matter how hard Vincent had tried to get away from her shadow, she always found a way to take what was his.
Vincent stopped walking, standing in the middle of a deserted street, his hands curling into fists. He felt sick, his stomach twisting with rage, grief, and something far darker.
**Why?** Why did it have to be this way? Why was it always her?
Vincent’s mind spiraled, thoughts colliding into one another, suffocating him in their intensity. His hands twitched with a violent impulse, his chest tight with the urge to do something-anything-to end the torment.
And then, for the first time in years, **he snapped**.
—
Vincent found himself back at his apartment, standing in his kitchen, staring blankly at the knives laid out on the counter. They gleamed under the dim light, sharp and precise, tools of his trade. But tonight, they felt like more than that. They felt like something else entirely.
He picked up the largest one, gripping the handle so tightly his knuckles turned white. The weight of it in his hand was comforting, grounding. His breathing slowed as he stared at his reflection in the blade. His dark eyes, empty and hollow, stared back at him.
His thoughts drifted to **Rody**, to the life he had built with Manon, the life Vincent should have had. The life that had been stolen from him.
It wasn’t fair.
It was never fair.
Without thinking, Vincent grabbed his phone, his thumb trembling as he scrolled through his contacts. His eyes fell on Rody’s name, and before he could stop himself, he hit “call.”
The phone rang once. Twice.
And then Rody answered. **”Vincent?”**
Vincent didn’t respond at first, his breath shallow, his grip on the knife tightening. His voice, when it came, was soft, almost calm. **”Where are you?”**
Rody hesitated. **”I’m on my way home. Why?”**
Vincent closed his eyes, a twisted sort of clarity settling over him. **”I need to see you.”**
**”Vincent, I-“**
**”Just meet me.”** Vincent’s voice was firmer now, sharper. **”At your place. Tonight.”**
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Then Rody sighed. **”Alright. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”**
Vincent hung up without another word.
—
The drive to Rody and Manon’s house was a blur, Vincent barely registering the streets as they passed by. His mind was focused on one thing-Rody. The man who had once made him feel alive, who had given him hope, only to rip it away.
When he pulled up outside the house, his pulse quickened. The lights were off inside, save for a faint glow coming from an upstairs window. It was quiet, still.
He stepped out of the car, the knife still tucked inside his coat, pressing against his side like a dark reminder of what he had come here to do. His footsteps were silent as he made his way to the front door. He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins, his heart pounding in his chest.
He knocked, once. Twice.
Moments later, the door opened, revealing **Rody**, his expression weary and confused. **”Vincent, what’s this about?”**
Vincent stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, his eyes scanning the familiar surroundings. He had been here before, once. Before everything fell apart.
**”We need to talk,”** Vincent said, his voice low.
Rody frowned, closing the door behind him. **”I thought we already did. Back at the bar.”**
Vincent turned to face him, his gaze dark. **”That wasn’t enough.”**
Rody ran a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. **”What more do you want from me? I told you I was sorry, Vincent. I know I hurt you, but-“**
**”But nothing.”** Vincent’s voice cut through the air like a blade. **”You don’t get to apologize and move on like nothing happened.”**
Rody’s eyes narrowed, his tone hardening. **”What do you want from me? What do you want me to say? That I regret leaving you for Manon? That I made a mistake?”**
Vincent’s breath hitched, a flicker of hope igniting in his chest. **”Do you?”**
Rody hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. **”I don’t know,”** he admitted, his voice soft. **”Things aren’t what I thought they’d be with her. But it’s too late, Vincent. We’re married. We have a life together.”**
**”A life that should have been mine.”**
Rody looked up, his eyes widening slightly as he took in the intensity of Vincent’s words. **”Vincent… you need to let this go. You’re only hurting yourself.”**
Vincent’s hand drifted to the knife tucked beneath his coat, his fingers brushing against the cold metal. His mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions-rage, grief, longing. But beneath it all, there was something darker. Something he couldn’t control anymore.
**”I can’t let it go,”** Vincent whispered, his voice trembling. **”She took everything from me, Rody. And now… I’m going to take something from her.”**
Before Rody could react, Vincent lunged.
—
The aftermath was quiet.
Vincent stood over Rody’s lifeless body, his chest heaving, his hands slick with blood. The knife lay discarded on the floor beside them, glinting faintly in the dim light. For a moment, Vincent just stared down at him, numb.
It was over.
But instead of the satisfaction he had imagined, all he felt was emptiness.
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