For the next two hours, I worked with Ezra and the venue to clean up the mess, both literally and figuratively. Medical assistance arrived in record time. Their preliminary diagnosis was food poisoning, and they sent the severest cases to the hospital for IV fluids. Everyone else went back to their hotel for some much-needed rest and recovery. Michel got sick too, but my father, Hollis, and I had mysteriously been spared.
“This is what happens when you rely on a Laurent,” my father said, his lips white with fury. “They’ll ruin everything if you’re not careful.”
The Laurents had as much at stake as we did, but I couldn’t summon the strength to argue. I could only go through the motions with mechanical calm and watch helplessly as our beautiful, meticulously planned launch—the one we’d spent over nine months and countless sweat and tears perfecting—went up in flames around us.
CHAPTER 40
Sebastian
I POURED MY FIFTH GLASS OF WHISKEY AND SET IT ONthe counter. The amber liquid gleamed beneath the dim lights.
My mouth watered, but I left it untouched, as I had the previous four glasses. They were lined up in a row like an army of enemy soldiers, waiting for me to break.
It would be so easy. One sip, and I’d feel better. One glass, and the endless nausea churning through my gut might go away. Five glasses? I’d sink into oblivion, my worries nothing but a distant memory.
So easy,a dangerous voice purred in my mind.
My reflection fractured in the crystal facets of the tumbler. He stared back at me, daring me to pick him up.
The drinks were a test I’d set up to torture myself, and I almost failed. I got close enough to brush my fingertips against the glass, but I caught myself in the nick of time.
I tore my hand away and closed my eyes, my jaw tight.
No.The rest of my life was falling apart, piece by miserable piece, and my impulse control was the only control I had left. If I gave that up, I’d have nothing. Be no one—although being no one might be better than being me at the moment.
It’d been five days since the catastrophic launch. The official cause of the guests’ sickness: food poisoning from the meat lasagna. Maya, Neal, and Hollis Miller had all selected the vegetarian option, which explained why they hadn’t fallen ill.
Thankfully, the guests all recovered with no long-term effects, but their subsequent reviews had been, understandably, scathing.They’d eviscerated me, the launch,everything. The coverage and resulting public backlash were so bad that we were on the brink of scrapping the entire line. Months of hard work and millions of dollars down the drain—because of me.
I sank onto the couch, shame igniting in my chest.
The launch disaster had further frozen the already icy relationship between my father and Neal. Both our companies were in full crisis mode, and when I’d talked to my mother on Sunday, she’d been distraught. She tried to hide it, but my family’s second fall from grace had turned her into an outcast amongst her so-called friends. Another major loss in her life—also because of me.
My fault.
My fault.
My fault.
The familiar mantra pounded through my head. Bile coated my tongue. I could weather the backlash myself, but I couldn’t stand it affecting other people too.
My family. The Singhs.Maya. They’d believed in me, or at least relied on me, and I’d let them down because I’d been delusional enough to think I could be a fucking chef.
So what if I liked cooking? So what if some people told me I was good at it? The universe wasn’t subtle, and I knew how to take a hint. Between the Le Boudoir incident and this latest catastrophe, I was done. Every time I ran a kitchen, tragedy struck.
Obviously, my deal with my father was null and void. I’d be lucky if the board didn’t force me out of the company altogether, though at this rate, it’d be safer for society if I never left the house again.
I tipped my head back and stared at the ceiling. I’d drawn the curtains so only a sliver of sunlight illuminated the den. The air reeked of whiskey, and the room was dark and depressed, just like me.
A part of me recognized I was wallowing in self-pity, but screw it. I was allowed to wallow after the absolute shit show that was the past week.
My phone buzzed with a new message. I ignored it the same way I’d ignored the dozens of other messages I’d gotten since Friday.
Margaux had left me five voicemails, and my friends had all reached out, but I didn’t feel like talking to any of them. I was too humiliated.
I couldn’t even bring myself to see Maya. She was the only person who might’ve made me feel better, but she had her own fires to extinguish. I’d fucked up, and I’d dragged her reputation through the mud with me.
She didn’t deserve that. I didn’t deserveher.
