My mind wandered back to Friday night, its focus torn between the way she’d eviscerated me, her subsequent apology, and, strangely enough, Xavier’s insistence on setting her up with Killian. I’d had three nights to think about it, and it was still the stupidest idea I’d ever heard.
Not that I thought about it a lot. It just so happened to pop up now and then, like an annoying little gnat that couldn’t take a hint.
I lowered my hand and tapped my pen against the table until my father’s glare forced me to stop.
Half an hour later, the meeting finally, blessedly ended.
I pushed my chair back and headed straight for the door, but my father stopped me before I could escape.
“Sebastian. Let’s talk.”
Dammit.I eyed the exit with longing. “About?”
“Your proposal.”
My gaze snapped up to meet his, and it took all my willpower to keep my expression neutral. “And?”
I’d submitted my proposal months ago. This was his first time acknowledging it, so I wasn’t getting my hopes up. But maybe…
“It’s not a good idea.” He stood and walked over. He was technically two inches shorter than me, but he’d towered over me my entire life, his shadow stifling my every attempt to break free. “You’re too valuable as CMO. One day, you’re going to lead this company, and you can’t do that if you waste your time toiling away in a kitchen instead of here. Making the decisions.” He rapped his knuckles against the table.
A slow, bitter burn simmered in my gut. “Waste my time? That’s an interesting way to devalue the work your entire company is built on.”
“I’m not devaluing it. Theactualchefs? They’re meant to be running kitchens, not boardrooms. You’re the opposite.” My father’s eyes flashed. “You have an MBA, for fuck’s sake. I didn’t pay for all that schooling only for you to chop vegetables and grill meat for the rest of your life.”
The burn solidified into a white-hot flash of fury. “I also went to culinary school. There’s more to the job thanchopping vegetablesandgrilling meat. You, of all people, should know that.”
I’d convinced my parents to let me attend culinary school so I could “get a better understanding of the craft side of the business.” In reality, I’d gone because Iwantedto. Learning knife skills and different cooking techniques was infinitely more interesting than earning a boring MBA.
They’d agreed, as long as I graduated top of my class from business school first, which I had. I took more pride in my culinary degree than my MBA, but the former would be a waste if I didn’t use it.
“It doesn’t matter. No is no.” My father’s face hardened. “Don’t forget what happened the last time you insisted on running a kitchen. It’s a miracle we survived.”
His words landed like a punch in the gut. A lifetime of practice kept me from visibly betraying my emotions, but inside, my chest tightened to the point of suffocation.
Years ago, I’d overseen the soft opening of one of our restaurants in the city. It’d been my first time taking charge of the food, and it’d ended with a high-profile guest literally dropping dead in the middle of dinner.
The coroner had attributed his death to anaphylactic shock from a peanut allergy. I was ninety-nine percent sure we hadn’t prepared his food anywherenearpeanuts—he had to have been exposed elsewhere—but it didn’t matter.
The remaining one percent of uncertainty had sent mespiraling, and the resulting media frenzy had tanked our stocks until the public’s short attention span and our aggressive PR efforts dragged the company back from the brink of disaster.
It’d taken dozens of therapy sessions—plus a few less healthy coping mechanisms—to dull the horror of that night.
I’d put on a brave face for the world, but my father knew how hard I’d fought to step foot in a kitchen again without panicking.
Heknew, and he still used it as a weapon against me.
My hands curled into fists. I wanted to slam them into the table just so I had something solid to push back on, but if I did that—if I showed any outburst of emotion—he’d win.
“Seb.” My father’s frown melted into a sigh. “I’m not trying to be the bad guy here. You might hate me for this now, but you’ll thank me in the long run.”
“Don’t,” I said, my voice sharp. “If you don’t want me to be a chef because you feel it’s beneath the Laurent name, then stick to that. But don’t try to justify it as some act of benevolence. This has always been about your ego, nothing else.”
His eyes flashed again. “You have no fucking idea what this is about.”
“Then enlighten me.” When he fell silent, I barked out a rough laugh. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
I walked out. He didn’t stop me, but his words followed me down the hall and out onto the sidewalk, where even the sun couldn’t ward off a sudden chill.
