I bought a restaurant with a secret ingredient only to realise that the secret ingredient is blood from my most loved person

 I bought a restaurant with a secret ingredient only to realise that the secret ingredient is blood from my most loved person

I never imagined I would write something like this, but the thoughts have been living in my head for too long, and maybe putting them into words will finally let me breathe again.

When I bought the restaurant, everyone thought I’d made the deal of a lifetime. It was one of those places people would line up for, a “legendary taste” kind of place. But the day I signed the papers and took over, everything changed. Customers stopped coming, the food didn’t hit the same, and every week I was losing more money than the last. I tried new suppliers, new recipes, even new staff, but nothing worked.

One day, I traveled to a different town for errands and saw the same franchise outlet—but this one was overflowing with people. Cars everywhere, families waiting outside with excitement. I stood in line like everyone else, wanting to understand what made their food so special while mine failed so badly.

When I finally tasted their meal, I froze. It was almost the same recipe… but sharper, richer, somehow alive with flavor. Crispier. Warmer. Like it carried something mine didn’t.

I asked for the owner. When he came, I quietly slipped out my franchise card. His eyes widened, then softened like he finally understood my problem. He didn’t explain anything, only said:

“Meet me at 2am. Alone. I’ll send the location.”

Looking back, I should have walked away.

The place he sent me to was hidden deep behind an old industrial area. But I wasn’t alone when I got there—several other franchise owners stood in a circle, all silent, all avoiding each other’s eyes. It felt more like a gathering than a meeting.

Then they brought out the snake.

Huge, in a way that didn’t feel completely natural. Its scales shimmered under the dim lights, and as it breathed, a fine powder spilled from its mouth. That powder… that was the “secret ingredient.” Everyone treated that creature with reverence, bowing their heads, whispering things I couldn’t catch. I didn’t want to join in—but when you see everyone else doing something with that much seriousness, fear pushes you to follow.

Then the room fell so quiet it felt like the air itself stopped moving.

A scream broke out—loud, sharp, and from somewhere we couldn’t see. Then another scream, a different voice. The third scream was closer. But the fourth… the fourth sounded exactly like my wife.

I felt something stab me in the chest, like my heart tried to jump out. My legs almost gave out. I kept looking around, trying to find where the sound came from, but nothing made sense. No one reacted. No one looked confused except me.

When I finally got home, the lights were already on. Family members were gathered, crying. And my wife—my wife was lying in bed, still. Gone. They told me she’d been bitten by a snake. That she screamed. That they tried to reach me but my phone was off.

They searched the house, the yard, everywhere, but the snake was gone.

I don’t remember much of the days that followed. The funeral. The whispers. The shock. But when I returned to the restaurant… the food suddenly tasted exactly like the successful outlets. Customers returned. The business flourished. To this day, people tell me my meals are “even better than before.”

And every time someone compliments the taste, that guilt moves inside me like a shadow.

It’s been five years. The restaurant is thriving. I smile for customers, shake hands with suppliers, and act like a proud owner.

But at night, when everything is still, I hear that scream again. The one that sounded like her.

I keep wondering—did I unknowingly give something up that night? Did that creature take more than its powder?

And the question that has lived in my chest like a wound I can’t close:

Did my success come at the cost of the person I loved most?

I still don’t have an answer. I’m not sure I want one.