After my credit was stolen and I was made the scapegoat, I quit my job at 33 and started a street stall. One bowl of the stomach-soothing tremella soup passed down by my grandmother brought the city’s youngest domineering CEO straight to my stall.
By day, he’s a ruthless business magnate. By night, he squats in front of my little stall like a loyal customer, complaining that my cooking isn’t good enough and my stall is too small. Then he turns around and pours money into opening a chain of shops. Finally, he corners me in an alley: “Boss lady, I’m buying the secret recipe and you, too.”
