He demands excellence and something fierce inside me rises to meet it. I push harder. Faster. I want to prove I can deliver exactly what he expects.
Because when he finally gives that rare nod of approval, when he tells me I have done well, when he praises me and says good girl, the rush is unreal.
Like standing on a podium with gold around my neck.
It is his voice.
His command.
His quiet dominance which resonates with something primal inside of me.
It’s him. Only him.
Liquid heat pools between my legs. My nipples tighten. No, no, no. I cannot admit to being so attracted to this man that I’ll do anything he asks of me. Though, if I’m being honest, that’s one of the reasons I’ve stayed on in my job. It’s why I put up with his bossiness. And that’s so very unprofessional.
I’m a sous chef with who’s worked high pressure kitchens. My last job was with a very well-known restaurant in London. I know what I’m doing. Still, the absolute authority in his voice, and the fact that he’s my boss, makes me doubt myself.
I pivot, then make my way to him. Coming to a stop in front of him, it feels like I’ve been called to the principal’s office. Or for an audience with the devil himself.
"I came in to show you something."
"You did?" Had not been expecting him to say that.
He pulls out his phone, swipes it, then turns it around and shows it to me. For a few seconds, I don’t understand what I’m seeing, then my jaw drops. "Is that… Is that—" I’m unable to complete my sentence.
"It is."
"But how—?" I look on in horror as our earlier interaction in the kitchen plays out on his phone. "Who uploaded it to social media?" Then I remember the junior chef filming us. "Was it Ross?" Realization dawns.
Of course, it was him. He has a social media following. And he manages The Edge’s online presence.
His jaw hardens. "He’s gone."
Right. Okay.
I can’t look away from the screen. The numbers are moving too fast. "A million views in half an hour?" I gasp.
"And counting." James swipes the screen into black, sliding the phone back into his pocket with a finality that makes my stomach turn.
"That’s a disaster." I swallow hard, feeling the weight of it. "My career is over."
"Or…" He drops his tone into a smooth, calculating pitch. "It’s an opportunity."
I ignore that.
I don't want to know how his clinical mind is already turning my ruin into a win. "I look like I’m having a psychotic break. The comments… I can only imagine." I swallow.
"They haven’t been complimentary.”
“You’re being kind. I’m the villain, aren't I? The unstable chef who couldn't take the heat." I wring my hands.
He hesitates, and that silence is worse than any insult. My heart sinks. He doesn’t need to read them aloud; his hesitation tells me everything. I’m not just a viral clip—I’m the internet’s new favorite target.
I sit back down on my upturned carton heavily. "That’s it, I’m definitely not leaving this…this…walk-in fridge." I look around the blue-light lit space. "There’s enough here to eat for me to survive for months, if I’m judicious. Not the fresh meat, but I could eat the tomatoes and the edible fruits and vegetables. And I can manage with this set of clothes and?—"
"Stop," he commands.
I press my lips together hard, clamping down on the impulse to snap back. The words are right there, bubbling in my throat, but I keep them locked away.
