And straight ahead, a grand staircase with ivory railings curves upward like an exposed spine, leading to the second level where the rest of his empire awaits.
“Holy shit,” I breathe.
Bastian’s hand rests on the small of my back. “Not bad, right?”
“‘Not bad’?! Bastian, this is—” I turn in a slow circle, trying and failing to take it all in. “This isincredible.”
Frank clears his throat. “We’re still finishing up some details. Trim work here and there. Light fixtures. But the bones are solid.”
“The bones are better than solid,” Bastian corrects. “This is exactly what I envisioned. Better, even.”
Frank walks us through every detail—the custom tilework in the sushi bar, the imported wood paneling in the steakhouse, the open kitchen design at the Italian concept. He’s thorough,almost obsessively so, pointing out things I wouldn’t have noticed in a million years.
Everything is perfect.
Tooperfect, maybe. I catch myself looking for problems out of habit, because until Bastian, there’s never been anything good in my life that I didn’t immediately overanalyze until it crumbled to ash in my fingers. I don’t even know exactly what I’m looking for—a loose tile? A flickering light? Justsomething.
But there’s nothing to be found. Just clean lines and beautiful finishes and the faint smell of fresh paint floating over everything, like a spritz of perfume right before a big night out.
“You okay?” Bastian asks as we pause in the wine bar.
“Yeah. Just… it’s surreal, you know? After all the disasters, seeing it actuallydone…I don’t even have words.”
He grins. “I know exactly what you mean.”
We round a corner and step through a set of double doors into one of the kitchens. There isn’t a fingerprint out of place in here. It’s all gleaming chrome, spotless and breathtaking.
Bastian walks toward the range slowly, almost reverently. He runs his hand along the stainless steel surface, and I can see the longing in his face. This is what he was meant for. Not board meetings and investor calls.This.The heat and the chaos and the creation of something beautiful from raw ingredients.
“You ever think about just saying ‘fuck it’ and becoming a line cook again?” I ask.
He laughs. “Every day.”
“So why don’t you?”
“Because someone has to keep the show running.” He glances back at me. “And because I’d miss you too much if I spent every night in a kitchen.”
My heart does a stupid little flip. “Kiss-ass.”
Frank coughs awkwardly to break up our moment of prolonged eye contact before it dissolves into its usual touchy-feely grab-assery. “So, uh, everything look good to you, Mr. Hale?”
Bastian tears his gaze away from me. “You did good, Frank. This is outstanding work. Truly.”
Frank’s shoulders relax one notch, but the tension still doesn’t leave his face entirely. “Glad to hear it. There’s just—there’s one more thing I wanted to show you. Upstairs. In the office space.”
“Lead the way,” Bastian says.
We take the service elevator to the fourteenth floor, where the administrative offices are housed. Frank unlocks a door at the end of the hall and ushers us into a corner office with huge windows overlooking the city.
“This’ll be your office,” Frank tells Bastian. “When you’re on-site, I mean.”
Like everything else here, it’s beautiful. Bastian does a slow circuit of the room and finishes at the window. He gazes at Chicago laid out below.
“Perfect,” he says under his breath. Then he turns back to face us. “Frank, I know I’ve been hard on you. Probably harder than I should’ve been. But you delivered. You really fucking delivered.”
Frank’s face does a complicated spasm. For a second, I think he might cry. But then he just nods again and says, “Thanks, Mr. Hale. That means a lot.”
But something still feels off. I can’t put my finger on it. Maybe it’s the way Frank keeps glancing at the door, like he’s expecting someone to walk through it any second.
