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“She fired him?” Jordan asked, intrigued.
“Oh, not quite.” V let the silence hang before delivering the blow. “She stole from him. Took credit for a dish he developed. Passed it off as her own. When he tried to call her out on it? She ruined him. Blacklisted him from every major restaurant in the city.”
That part wasn’t entirely a lie. There had been a sous chef who left Amélie, but not under scandalous circumstances.
But V knew the power of suggestion.
Jordan whistled. “That’s a bold claim.”
V leaned back in her chair, sipping her wine.
“And yet, you and I both know how dirty this industry is. No one plays fair. The question is, do you want to break this story first or let someone else do it?”
Jordan laughed. “You know I can’t resist a juicy exposé. But I’ll need more than just a story. Got any sources?”
V smirked. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll make sure you get a few ‘anonymous’ confirmations.”
Jordan hummed in approval. “Then consider it done. This’ll be on every foodie’s radar by the weekend.”
V ended the call, satisfaction curling through her like smoke.
Scarlett Lane wouldn’t even know what hit her.
7
SCARLETT/ CHRISTIAN
SCARLETT
The kitchen was a war zone.
The rhythmic clang of pots and pans, the sharp hiss of meat hitting the grill, the barked orders between my chefs—it all blended into a chaotic symphony.
On any other day, would have felt like home. But today? Today, it was fraying the last bit of patience I had left.
I moved between stations, checking plating, adjusting seasoning, and making sure the front of house was keeping up with the influx of reservations.
Ever since the news broke about my partnership with Valen Enterprises, Amélie had been packed.
People who had never set foot in my restaurant before were suddenly eager to “experience” my food, their curiosity likely fueled by the whispers of a billionaire’s involvement.
And with that curiosity came scrutiny. Every dish had to be perfect.
Every detail had to be flawless. There was no room for error.
I wiped my forehead with the back of my wrist, exhaling sharply.
My sous chef, Marc, shot me a look as he plated a delicate salmon dish.
“You need to breathe, boss,” he said, barely looking up.
“I’ll breathe when service is over,” I muttered, grabbing a tasting spoon and sampling the sauce on a beef dish.
It needed more acidity. I nodded toward the station.
“Hit it with a splash of red wine vinegar,” I said.
Marc smirked but followed my order. “You’ve been extra tense since the announcement.”