Diana calls before I finish my coffee. That alone tells me the morning has already become dangerous.
The cup sits beside my laptop, half full and cooling too quickly. My curtains are open, and Le Marais looks deceptively gentle beyond the window, all pale rooftops and warm light and delivery vans moving through narrow streets as if nothing professionally catastrophic has happened. My cream card from Maison Holt sits on the desk beside the laptop, covered in tiny handwriting, crossed-out panic, and the most inconveniently honest food notes of my career.
I stare at Diana’s name on the screen for one full ring. Then I answer.
“Tell me you’re sitting down,” Diana says.
I close my eyes. “Good morning to you too.”
“No,” Diana says.
“This is not a good morning. This is an extraordinary morning.”
My stomach tightens. I don’t speak. Diana continues before I can decide which version of caution belongs here.
“Claire Marceau contacted my office.”
The name means nothing to me, but her tone does.
“Who is Claire Marceau?” I ask.
“Damien Holt’s communications director,” Diana says.
“Or publicist. Or handler. Or whichever title terrifyingly competent French women use when they’re preventing famous chefs from ruining their own lives.”
My hand closes around the edge of the desk. I already know where this is going. I hate that I already know.
Diana says, “Holt wants a formal sit-down.”
I look at the cream card.
At the crossed-outOh no.
Attarragon/fish/peaswritten in the smallest hand I could manage.
Diana’s voice sharpens with professional excitement. “Serena, do you understand what this is? He does not do this. No interviews. No chef mythology. No controlled pre-opening profile. Nothing. If he’s requesting a formal conversation after your anonymous meal, we have a structure. We can build the piece around the restaurant, the refusal of narrative, and then the rare decision to speak. It’s an angle no one else has.”
“Diana,” I say.
She stops.
That is why she is Diana.
One word, and she hears the problem before I put it on the table.
“What happened?” she asks.
I sit down slowly.
The room feels too warm.
“I need to tell you everything,” I say.
Diana is quiet for one beat.
“Then tell me everything,” she finally says.
So I do. I tell her about the market first, because sequence matters.
