The package arrives Friday morning like a threat wrapped in tissue paper.
I stand in my bedroom, holding up what Armand calls "lingerie" but looks more like a virgin sacrifice starter kit.
White lace so sheer it's basically a suggestion. Straps designed to frame rather than cover. A thong that's literally just dental floss with delusions of grandeur. The note attached makes me want to shower in bleach:
Wear this. I want to unwrap you myself. - A
Fuck. This. Entirely.
I stuff the offensive scraps back in their box and shove it under my bed like it's radioactive waste. Which, emotionally speaking, it is.
Elsie needs this, I tell myself for the thousandth time. Elsie needs this more than you need your dignity, more than your first time to mean something.
The day stretches ahead of me like a sentence I'm serving.
I can't eat. Can't focus. Can't think about anything except what waits for me.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Armand's calculating smile, feel his gaze traveling down my body like I'm merchandise he's already purchased.
Elsie needs this. Elsie needs this. Elsie needs this.
The mantra carries me through the shift, through changing into my chef's whites, through the endless prep work that usually grounds me. But today my hands won't stop trembling, and the knife feels foreign in my grip.
The restaurant is unseasonably quiet for a Friday. No large reservations, no chaotic rushes, no blessed distraction from the countdown ticking inside my skull.
"Delacroix."
Maxwell's voice cuts through my spiral like a hot knife through butter. He's standing in his office doorway, looking like sin in chef's whites, those grey eyes unreadable.
"Need your palate. New dessert menu. Now."
I follow him into his pristine workspace, hyperaware of how small the room feels with both of us inside it. Multiple desserts are arranged across his desk in neat rows, each one a miniature work of art.
"Taste everything," he commands, gesturing at the spread. "Tell me what works and what doesn't. I need honest feedback, not flattery."
The first spoonful is dark chocolate and cherry with smoke, and the moan that escapes me is absolutely obscene.
Maxwell's entire body goes rigid.
"Again," he says roughly, his voice dropping an octave. "Tell me exactly what you taste. Every note, every layer."
He picks up the next spoon himself, and my brain short-circuits as he brings it to my lips. His eyes are locked on my mouth as I close around the silver, and the air between us becomes electric.
"Cardamom," I breathe once I've processed the explosion of flavor on my tongue. "And something floral beneath it—rose, maybe? The sweetness balances the spice perfectly."
"Good palate." His dark gaze lingers on my bottom lip. "You have exceptional instincts, Delacroix. I've always thought so."
The third dessert is a deconstructed tiramisu, layers of mascarpone and espresso-soaked ladyfingers arranged like fallen dominoes. When I taste it, cream catches at the corner of my mouth.
I try to find it with my tongue, and Maxwell makes a sound like he's been punched in the chest.
"Hold still," he orders, voice barely controlled.
His thumb reaches out and wipes the cream away, the pad of his finger rough against my skin. Then—maintaining eye contact the entire time—he sucks it off his finger.
His thumb reaches out, wipes the cream from my lip with agonizing slowness. Then, maintaining eye contact that burns straight through to my soul, he brings his thumb to his mouth and… sucks it clean.
Holy Mother of God.
My underwear spontaneously combusts and the air between us combusts.
I'm gripping the edge of his desk so hard my knuckles ache, and he's looking at me like—or is it just my delusional mind—he wants to clear everything off this surface and show me exactly what I've been missing for twenty-four years.
Every nerve ending in my body ignites simultaneously.
I want to climb him like a tree. Want to bury my fingers in that jet-black hair I've dreamed about gripping between my legs. Want to feel those forearms I've fantasized about pinning me against this very desk and—
"Am I interrupting something?"
Jared's voice shatters the moment like glass.
I spin toward the doorway, my cheeks burning with guilt that has no logical source. He stands there in his expensive suit, storm-blue eyes moving between Maxwell and me with an expression I can't decipher.
How long has he been standing there? How much did he see?
And worse—why do I want that flash of dark fire in his eyes to be jealousy?
"Just finishing up the tasting," Maxwell says smoothly, though a muscle in his jaw twitches. "What do you need?"
"Raegan." Jared's storm-blue eyes lock on mine. "My office. Now."
It's not a request. It's barely even words. It's just pure command, and my traitorous body responds like he pulled a string.
I follow him down the hallway on legs that feel like jello, watching his shoulders flex with barely contained... something. Anger? Jealousy? The urge to throw me against a wall?
Please let it be option three.
He closes his office door with deliberate control, then does something that should be illegal: removes his suit jacket in one fluid motion, revealing a shirt that's definitely tailored to make women stupid.
Then he rolls up his sleeves.
Fuck.
Forearms. Tanned, strong forearms with just enough hair to make my mouth water. A watch that costs more than my entire existence. Hands that look like they could either sign million-dollar deals or make me forget my own name.
"Armand Beaumont," he says, and my blood turns to ice. "He's shown interest in you."
Oh God, he knows.
He knows everything. He knows I'm about to—
"He asked about your experience as a chef, your background, your career aspirations. And I saw him give you his card at the gala."
Jared leans against his desk, arms crossed, biceps straining against his shirt in ways that should require a warning label.
"Are you planning to leave us, Raegan? Has he made you a better offer?"
"No! God, no. I would never…” Relief floods through me so fast I almost laugh. Lumière is… I only took his card to be polite to someone so important to the restaurant's future."
Jared studies my face for a long moment, then nods slowly.
"Good. Because I'd hate to lose you, Raegan. Maxwell has told me how you helped secure Heinrich Vogler's wines through his wife. You've proven yourself invaluable."
"I made mistakes before that," I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "I'm sorry for any trouble I caused, and I swear this restaurant is extremely important to me. I would never allow anything on my part to negatively affect it."
Even if it means sleeping with an investor, I think but don't say.
"You have nothing to apologize for." Jared's voice softens in a way I've never heard before. "I can see how devoted you are to your work. How hard you try. How much this place means to you."
He pushes off from the desk and closes the distance between us.
My breath catches as he reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, fingers lingering against my cheek. The touch is so gentle, so unexpected from someone who usually maintains professional distance, that my eyes actually burn with tears.
"You're special, Raegan," he murmurs, looking into my eyes with a tenderness that makes my chest ache. "I hope you know that. Brilliant. Talented. Beautiful in ways that have nothing to do with appearance, though that's..." he swallows hard, "...that's exceptional too."
I want to scream with joy at his attention.
I want to cry at the impossibility of anything between us.
Then Jared seems to realize what he's doing and steps back abruptly, color rising in his cheeks.
"Shit. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have— That was inappropriate of me, given our professional relationship, and I…"
He says, suddenly awkward, and runs a hand through his honey-blonde hair, messing it up in a way that makes him look younger, more vulnerable.
"I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me."
I bite back a smile at seeing this new side of him—not just the rare warmth, but genuine confusion. Jared Spencer, always composed, always in control, stumbling over himself because he touched my hair.
"It's okay," I whisper, even though nothing is okay.
In five hours, I'm going to let Armand Beaumont destroy everything these men might ever see in me.
But as I leave his office and return to the kitchen, the smile fades from my lips.
I wish everything could be different. I wish I weren't just a simple sous chef, an inexperienced virgin from a broken home, someone unworthy of men like him.
Or I wish he could be just a single man. Without the famous bloodline, without a reputation to protect, without a fiancée waiting in the wings.
But wishes don't pay for surgeries.
And in six hours, I have an appointment I can't afford to miss.