“That number is very specific.”
“Yes.”
“She is very specific.”
I look toward the door she walked through.
“Yes.”
Julien’s voice lowers. “This is going to be a problem.”
I hand the folder to Amélie as she approaches.
“It already is.”
Then I turn back toward the kitchen, because the room is still mine, service is not finished, and whatever Serena Cole has just done to the air inside Maison Holt will have to wait until the last plate is cleared.
Service closes cleanly. The kitchen breaks down. Julien gives me three looks I ignore and one delivery note I sign without reading twice because I am still capable of functioning, despite evidence he would enjoy using against me.
By the time I reach the penthouse, the city is dark and warm, with the Seine moving below the windows like it knows how to keep secrets. I go straight to the kitchen. That’s what I do when a thing refuses to settle.
I open the refrigerator, take out eggs, butter, mushrooms, herbs, and a heel of cheese, then close the door without knowing what I am making. That alone tells me enough. I do not cook without intention. I do not move without a plan. Tonight, I break both rules before midnight.
The pan warms. Butter melts. Mushrooms hit heat and give up their water. I add salt, then tarragon at the end because apparently I have decided to become insufferable even in private. I stand at the island and eat from a plate I did not plan. The facts arrange themselves without kindness.
Maison Holt has had a strong first week. Serena Cole, the critic from Palate, has just eaten the full menu under another name. She’s also the woman who’s been haunting my dreams and thoughts for the past week. The woman whose body I had in my possession for one night, and who I fucked until the sun came up—all before either of us knew what this would become.I didn’t create the professional conflict on purpose, but Ididcreate the tarragon dish with full knowledge of it.
Thatmatters.
I set the fork down. There’s only one honest move.
***
The next morning, I call Claire before the restaurant opens. She answers on the second ring.
“Damien, if this is about the revised press language, I removed every emotional adjective you hated.”
“It is not about the press language,” I say.
Claire goes silent for half a beat.
“That tone is expensive. What happened?”
“I need you to arrange contact with Serena Cole at Palate.”
Claire does not speak.
Then she says, “Please tell me you are not calling a critic.”
“I am.”
Claire’s voice sharpens. “To complain?”
“No.”
“To manage?”
“No.”
