Three days since my mother destroyed everything. Three days of lying to Elsie, telling her I'm just stressed about the gala.
Pretending that everything's fine, that her surgery is still happening. That I haven't spent every spare second frantically googling things like "legal ways to make money fast" and "how much can you sell a kidney for."
The hope in her eyes guts me fresh each morning.
The math haunts me like a particularly vindictive ghost.
I've run it backwards, forwards, upside down, in Spanish. The answer never changes: I need forty-five thousand dollars in one month. And unless I suddenly develop the ability to shit gold or become a hedge fund manager, I'm fucked.
At Lumière, I throw myself into prep work like it's my new religion.
Brunoise the vegetables. Blanch the asparagus. Reduce the sauce. Don't think about the money.
Portion the proteins. Don't think about Elsie's face when she finds out.
Sharpen the knives. Don't think about—
"Delacroix."
Maxwell's voice cuts through my spiral, and I realize I've been holding the same inventory clipboard for... how long?
"Sorry, Chef. Just mentally organizing the produce order."
"You're a terrible liar." His grey eyes do that thing where they see straight through my bullshit. "Whatever's happening in your personal life, leave it at the door. We have a full house tonight."
Right.
Because my personal life is so easy to compartmentalize when it's currently on fire.
"Yes, Chef."
When gala day finally comes, the St. Regis ballroom looks like God's jewelry box exploded and someone decided to add canapés.
I'm wearing Scarlett's "emergency hot dress"—a black cocktail number that clings to curves I usually hide under chef's whites. The neckline dips low enough to be interesting, the hem hits high enough to be dangerous.
I feel like a food service professional playing dress-up in the adult's section.
But then I see them and… Jesus Christ on a cracker.
Maxwell in charcoal that makes his grey eyes look like storm clouds about to do unspeakable things. Jared in navy Armani that should be illegal and Kobe in black that screams 'I've won awards and broken hearts on two continents.'
They turn simultaneously as I approach, and the weight of their combined attention steals the breath from my lungs.
Maxwell's jaw tightens visibly as Jared's champagne glass freezes halfway to his lips. Kobe releases a low whistle that earns him a sharp elbow from his cousin.
"Down, boy," Jared mutters.
"What? I'm appreciating art." Kobe grins at me, amber eyes warm. "You clean up spectacularly, Rae."
Is it hot in here, or did I just spontaneously develop the ability to self-immolate?
I should network. I should focus on making connections that might somehow help my impossible situation. Instead, I drift through conversations without absorbing them, my mind trapped in endless calculations of money I don't have.
"You look stunning."
I turn to find Jared beside me, his voice low enough that only I can hear.
"The dress, I mean…" Pink creeps up his neck, and oh my god, is Jared Spencer blushing? "Not that you don't look good in chef's whites. You look great in those too! I just meant—"
He stops, runs a hand through his honey-blonde hair in frustration.
"Christ, I'm usually better at this."
The sight of confident, polished Jared Spencer fumbling over his words loosens something in my chest.
"You're doing fine," I say, and mean it. "Thank you. It's borrowed, actually. Scarlett insisted I couldn't wear my one nice blouse to the event of the season."
"Remind me to send her flowers." His smile does dangerous things to my pulse. "Are you enjoying yourself? You seemed… distracted earlier."
"Just taking it all in. It's overwhelming, being surrounded by this much talent and influence."
"You belong here, Raegan." He says it with such conviction I almost believe him. "Your talent earned your place at this table. Don't ever doubt that."
Before I can respond, a shadow falls over us.
"Jared, my boy. Monopolizing the prettiest chef in the room, I see."
Calculator Eyes from the VIP table materializes like a bad omen in an expensive suit. Up close, he smells like too much cologne and dubious intentions.
"Armand." Jared's warmth evaporates, replaced by barely concealed distaste. "I didn't realize you'd be attending."
"Couldn't miss it. The Michelin committee likes to keep our fingers on the pulse of the industry."
His gaze slides to me, and I suddenly understand what meat feels like at the butcher shop.
"Armand Beaumont. Investor and Michelin executive." He captures my hand, holding it longer than appropriate. "I remember you. Someone so young, so dedicated to her craft. Tell me, does all that focus leave any time for... personal pursuits?"
What the actual fuck?
Jared opens his mouth, but someone across the room waves him over with the urgency of someone whose yacht is on fire.
"Excuse me," he says tightly. "I'll be right back."
Don't leave me with the predator, I want to scream, but instead I smile like this is fine, everything's fine.
I'm definitely not about to have a panic attack in designer shoes I can't afford.
"My career is my priority," I manage, trying to extract my hand without making it obvious I'd rather gnaw it off than let him keep touching me.
"I suspected as much." His eyes glitter with something that makes me want to shower in holy water. "A woman this driven, this untouched by distraction—there's a particular quality to such dedication. An innocence, if you will."
The word innocence lands like a blow.
He can't possibly know, right?
"I can always tell," he murmurs, as if answering the question in my eyes and confirming my horror. "It's a gift."
It's a nightmare, that’s what it is.
I don't know how, but this creepy bastard took one look at me and somehow catalogued the fact that I'm a twenty-four-year-old virgin who's been too busy surviving to worry about getting laid.
"You're uncomfortable," he observes. "Don't be. I admire ambition in young women. It's so... malleable."
"I should find Chef Maxwell," I say, searching desperately for an exit.
"He's watching us right now." Armand's smile makes me want to call an exorcist. "Has been since I approached. Quite protective, isn't he? Interesting."
Then Maxwell is there, materializing like he was summoned. "Raegan, I need you. Kitchen emergency."
His hand presses against my lower back, and even through the thin fabric, his palm burns hot enough to leave a mark. The touch is possessive, protective, and completely inappropriate, and I've never been more grateful for anything in my life.
"Of course, Chef." Relief floods my voice.
He guides me away without acknowledging Armand's existence, his hand steady against my spine until we're safely out of predator range.
Then he releases me like I'm radioactive, his expression carved from granite.
"Thank you," I whisper.
He nods once, searches my face for a moment like he wants to say something else, then disappears into the crowd.
Near midnight after the gala has ended, I stand in the shadows between marble columns, waiting for my Uber and trying to process the entire surreal evening.
The click of expensive shoes on marble makes my spine stiffen before Armand steps into the dim light like the villain in a horror movie who won't stay dead.
"I have a proposition," he says without preamble. "Cash. Untraceable. Upfront."
The number hits me like a physical blow.
It's more than I need. It would solve everything.
"One night with you." He says it like he's ordering coffee. "I ensure Lumière receives a glowing Michelin review regardless of merit. You get your money. Everyone wins."
"That's—"
"If you're amenable to a longer arrangement, I'll fund your own restaurant within two years." He steps closer, and I smell that disgusting cologne again. "I maintain a collection of young female chefs I mentor. Very... personally. You'd be in excellent company."
Collection.
Like we're trading cards. Like we're things to be acquired and displayed.
"Consider it. But this stays between us. If anyone learns of our conversation… the consequences for you and your precious Lumière would be most unpleasant.”
He presses a business card into my frozen hand, his fingers lingering against my palm.
“I have considerable influence, Ms. Delacroix. I can make or break careers with a single review."
He walks away, leaving me holding his card like it's a live grenade.
Fifty thousand dollars. More than enough to save Elsie's future.
I look down at the card. Armand Beaumont. Private Investment. A phone number that might as well be the gateway to hell.
Fuck…