If I succeeded in making this launch a success, per the criteria listed in our contract, then I’d be a chef after my six-month post-launch transition period.
The prospect was exhilarating—and terrifying, now that the stakes had been upped. The launch was no longer just a matter of reputation; my entire future rode on it going off without a hitch, and that wasn’t even touching on what my being a full-time chef would actually mean.
But I’d cross that bridge when I got there. Right now, I had to figure out how to make a fucking frozen foods rollout the talk of the town.
“I can’t believe I’m working overtime on Halloween eve because of fucking Derek.” Maya stared at the ceiling. “I hate him. I hate you. I hate my life.”
“Don’t tell me you’re giving up.” I handed her an open bag of chips. She plucked one out and munched on it. Even her chewing sounded morose. “It’s not even midnight yet.”
We were lying side by side on the office floor. It was half past eleven, and the building was empty except for us. Even thecustodians had gone home for the night.
We’d been cooped up in here since lunch, trying to figure out a fun, innovative way to launch the collaboration. Eventually, Maya got tired of sitting and dragged some yoga mats from the employee wellness center and into the office.
I’d hoped the literal change in perspective would jog a few ideas loose, but so far, no dice.
“Think, Maya, think.” She pressed the pads of her fingers against her closed eyes. “A dinner party is too basic, but a gala for frozen foods looks desperate. Maybe we can take the guests on a themed cruise? Hire celebrities to hand-deliver the products to their houses? Fly them to Paris for a celebration at Versailles?”
I didn’t bother shooting down her ridiculous suggestions. A blanket of static had engulfed my brain, stifling any thoughts beyondI need sleep.
Between today’s brainstorming session and the all-nighter I’d pulled yesterday to finish turning Derek’s notes into viable recipes, I was all tapped out.
Despite my exhaustion, I was invigorated by the process. Derek gave me the bare-bones ideas, but they were my recipes. My creations. I’d stitched them together, ingredient by ingredient, and fuck, it felt good. It made me feel like a real chef.
Whatdidn’tfeel so good was the subsequent burnout and our current creative rut.
“I think we’re done for the day,” I said, even though I was the one who’d pointed out how early it was a minute ago. “Maybe we’ll come up with something after we get a good night’s sleep.”
“No. It’s been two weeks since Michel told us to make this the event of the season. We can’t delay anymore, and we’re close. We just need a little inspiration.”
Exhaustion dragged my eyelids closed. “Call me when you find it.”
“Don’t fall asleep.”
“I won’t.”
But I was fading. Before I knew it, my mind slipped into that nebulous territory between lucidity and unconsciousness.
It was paved with cobblestones and the brisk chill of Prague during winter. I couldn’t see anyone around me, but I felt the cold press of a gun against my head.
Then the scene blacked out, and I was no longer in Prague but in a kitchen, surrounded by the shouts of my staff as we prepped for a soft opening. I looked down, and my stomach lurched with horror at the sight of my bloodstained hands. The thick, viscous liquid dripped onto the floor and formed a rapidly spreading pool around my feet.
My breath shallowed. My heart broke into a gallop, and I was gripped with the all-consuming sense that I needed to leaveright now. If I didn’t open my eyes and sit up, I would drown. The blood was already up to my ankles, but no matter how much I willed myself to move, I couldn’t.
My fault.
My fault.
My fault.
My breaths grew scarcer. The floor seemed to tilt beneath me, and—
“Seb? Sebastian!” Firm hands grabbed my shoulders and shook me loose from my nightmare.
My eyes cracked open. Bile coated my throat, and I was afraid I might throw up if she kept shaking me like that.
Maya’s face hovered over mine. “You’re sweating,” she said.
It took me a second to find my voice. “I dozed off.”
