Prologue
DELANEY
“What the fuckhave you done to me?”
The words crack through the office like a whip.
I freeze, one hand still on the stainless-steel desk, the world narrowing to Marcus’s furious face. His cheeks are flushed, dark eyes wild, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle twitch.
My heart is pounding so hard it hurts.
“What are you talking about?” I manage, even though my throat is dry. “What did I?—”
“This.” He snatches his phone off the desk and jabs at the screen. “This fucking disaster.”
He shoves it toward me.
The glare makes everything blur. Then the headline comes into focus.
Michelin Starred Maestro Marcus Hale Accused of “Blurred Boundaries” With Obsessed Sous Chef?
Underneath, a grainy photo of us outside his building. Too close. Too familiar.
Another shows us slipping through the back entrance. Below that, an even worse shot—my back against the walk-in door, his hand in my hair, mouths inches apart.
And the one that knocks the breath out of me: Me on my knees on the prep-kitchen tiles, laughing at something he’s saying, his hand tangled in my hair. The angle is terrible; it looks like something else entirely.
Enough to ruin me.
My own staff headshot is right there beside his.Delaney Rivers, sous chef.
I look younger in the photo. Fresh. Hopeful. My stomach turns.
“I didn’t…” My voice comes out thin. “I didn’t tell anyone. I swear, I?—”
“Don’t insult me.” Marcus tosses the phone onto the desk. It skids across a stack of invoices and stops at the edge. “I told you from the very beginning: you keep your mouth shut. You keep this quiet. That was the deal.”
“I did.” My hands are shaking. “Marcus, I have never said anything. I didn’t tell my friends, I didn’t even tell my mother, I didn’t?—”
“Then how,” he snarls, “did some bottom-feeding blogger end up with pictures of you on your knees in my kitchen?”
“I was not…” The rest of the sentence dies in my throat. There’s no point arguing about the angle of a photo. “Maybe someone from staff, maybe one of the line cooks?—”
“Oh, of course.” His laugh is sharp and ugly. “It’s always someone else’s fault with you.”
I stare at him. “When has anything beenmyfault?”
“When you climbed into my bed,” he says coldly. “When you decided that fucking your boss was a good way to climb the ladder.”
The words hit harder than the headline.
“Climb the ladder? That’s not fair.” Heat stings the back of my eyes. “You’re the one who came onto me. You’re the one who kissed me first. You told me you?—”
“I told you what you wanted to hear,” he cuts in. “Jeez, Delaney. You’re not a child. You knew what this was.”
The floor is tilting. “I thought this was real.”
“Real?” His lip curls. “You really think I’m going to blow up my career, my restaurants, because you got attached? Because you caught feelings like a fucking cold?”
