Diana is quiet for a moment. “I believe you.”
That almost undoes me.
Not because it is soft.
Because it is earned.
“Understood,” I say.
“Then write me something extraordinary,” Diana says.
The professional command steadies me.
I sit straighter. “I will.”
A beat passes.
Then Diana says, “And Serena?”
“Yes?”
“Be careful.”
The call ends a few seconds later, but I keep the phone pressed to my ear after the line goes quiet.
The room comes back slowly.
The desk. The laptop. The cold coffee. The cream card covered in evidence. The Paris morning outside the window.
Be careful.
I set the phone down and look at the card again.
I have been careful my entire professional life.
Careful is the reason I have a career.
Careful is the reason chefs hate reading me and still read me. Careful is the reason Diana trusts me. Careful is why I can sit alone in a dining room and disappear without losing a single thing that matters.
I pick up the card and run my thumb over the crossed-out words:
Oh no.
This time, I don’t cross anything out. I reach for my laptop and open a new document. The title comes first:
Maison Holt — Working Notes
I stare at the blank page, then begin typing the most objective sentence of my life. I delete it before the period. Then I call Sophie. She answers with her face too close to the camera, one eyebrow already raised like she’s been waiting for me to call.
“Bonjour!” Sophie says.
I close my eyes. “Good morning, Sophie.”
“Uh-oh,” she says, as she anticipates what the look of dread on my face actually means.
I proceed to spend the next fifteen minutes giving her a full rundown of everything that has transpired. She is quiet for the entirety of the story. Then she takes a deep sigh and begins speaking.
“You slept with the chef you’re reviewing,” Sophie says, each word sharper than the last, “and now he’s called the magazine and wants a sit-down, and you have to be objective about his restaurant while also having already—”
