I always thought betrayal would come with warning signs, like whispers behind my back, a shift in tone, something to tip me off before the knife slid in.

But no.

Instead, betrayal came with a smile. With a hug. With the promise of friendship.

My name is Kera. I'm twenty-eight years old, and everything I have now, I built from nothing.

I was left at an orphanage as a baby. There was no note, no explanation. Nothing. Just an abandoned girl who grew up bouncing between foster homes, learning that while people wanted to be nice, the only person she could truly rely on was herself.

That was until Sam.

We met when we were eight, two kids with no families, clinging to each other like lifelines. We learned to cook together, sneaking into the orphanage kitchen at night to steal peanut butter or test recipes that we saw on TV.

We dreamed of becoming chefs, of running our own restaurant someday.

"One day, Kera," Sam said. "One day, we'll have big kitchens and lots of money! And we can buy all the food we want."

"I know," I said, smiling.

It felt good to dream. It felt good to look forward to something. To see a future that was bigger than we ever thought we could have.

And we worked for it, too.

We got into culinary school on scholarships and hopes. And, surprisingly, we graduated at the top of our class. We thrived on creativity and passion. On the days we felt like giving up, we pushed through. We pushed each other, and if we fell, we fell together.

"I'll always be here, Sammy," I told her one day after we ended up in the ER.

Sam had been too enthusiastic when chopping up herbs and had an incident with a knife.

"I know, K," she said, smiling through her painkillers. "It's together or nothing, right, sis?"

Eventually, we landed jobs at one of the best restaurants in the city. We didn't know how Lady Luck kept shining on us, but we were grateful that she did.

Side by side, Sam and I climbed the ranks, proving ourselves in the brutal, high-pressure world of professional kitchens.