Lazlo spots it immediately, smirking over his tablet. "Ah, the smile. That's the construction hunk, isn't it? Our iron-fisted chef going all soft. Careful, Olivier, you might start comping lunches for the whole city next."
Antonio chuckles, wiping his hands on a towel.
I bark a laugh, masking the warmth. "Soft? Watch your mouth, or you'll be peeling potatoes till dawn." I fire off a few orders to the lingering prep team—"Restock the mise, rotate those stocks"—and grab my keys. "Gym. Hold everything down."
I know they see my tough guy act and don’t buy it. We’ve been together for too long, there’s too much respect between us. And I’m cool with it. It takes a lot to form real bonds in this industry, and in the shape of Lazlo and Antonio I know that I’ve struck gold in a way that many chefs can only dream of.
But now it’s time to leave them. I need some Olivier time.
They salute mockingly as I head out, the cold biting as I slide into the Porsche.
The drive clears my head, radio low. Gym time: essential release.
The place is quiet mid-afternoon.Perfect.
Locker room quick change, then straight to the weights. Bench press to start: warm-up sets, then heavy, plates clanging as I push, chest firing.
Squats next, bar loaded, legs driving up with controlled power.
Deadlifts finish—back tight, grip iron, each rep shedding the day's stress.
Sweat pours, muscles swell, endorphins flood my system and I’m feeling good.
By the end, I'm pumped, sharp.
The shower steams hot, and I feel ready—commanding, in control.
For the restaurant. Forhim.
Home by late afternoon, the apartment is welcoming as always. It's my sanctuary above the restaurant: exposed red brick walls warmed by recessed lighting, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the city skyline, now twinkling as dusk falls.
The open-plan living area flows seamlessly too. Sleek Italian kitchen with marble counters and pro-grade appliances gleaming under pendant lights, a massive leather sectional couch facing a fireplace with a modern gas insert flickering softly.
Bookshelves line one wall, stocked with cookbooks, novels, a few framed awards. To be honest, I’m in the game for the love of food not the awards, but I can’t deny that it makes me feel proud to see what I have accomplished. And even better that I know how many negative people and jealous chefs will be fuming at my success too. Maybe I haven’t always gone about things the right way, especially in my younger years when I was cocky, loud, and a little arrogant at times. But I always had Laurent looking out for me, guiding me—and he told me that with success would come rivalries, bitterness, and spitefulness from others.
Shit. I won’t lie. To this day I still smile sometimes at knowing how those stuck up chefs who thought all they had to do was show up can’t get over my success as a newcomer to the industry with no family ties.
Anyhoo…
The terrace beyond the glass doors overlooks the street below, strung with subtle lights for evenings out there. Minimalist but luxurious—dark woods, neutral tones, pops of color from fresh herbs on the counter and art on the walls.
But no clutter.
Everything has purpose. It's impressive without trying too hard, a reflection of discipline and good taste. But I also know that it’s missing something. Hell, a few wooden building blocks or even stuffies wouldn’t look that out of place here…
I prep dinner methodically: chicken breasts marinated in olive oil, garlic, lemon zest, and herbs; quinoa cooked fluffy; broccoli steamed crisp; a side salad with feta, tomatoes, cucumbers.
High protein, balanced.
Fuel for a hard-working boy.
And now candles ready, jazz playlist queued low.
Eight on the dot—the buzzer goes.
“Punctual,” I chuckle to myself. “Must have been the spanking.”
I open the door, and Danny stands there, towering in the frame, freshly showered, hair damp, in dark jeans and a t-shirt that strains over his chest. Nervous energy radiates from him, those fidgeting hands, quick smiles, and darting, innocent eyes.
