Page 52

And no matter how much I tried to carry some of the weight for her, she kept pulling away.
I wasn’t having it.
I found her in her office at Amélie, staring at a stack of invoices, but I could tell she wasn’t actually reading them.
She was lost in thought, her fingers gripping the edge of the desk like it was the only thing grounding her.
I knocked on the doorframe. "Scarlett."
She startled, looking up, and for the briefest second, something flickered in her eyes—guilt? Worry?
Then it was gone.
"Christian," she said, straightening. "What are you doing here?"
I closed the door behind me and leaned against it. "I could ask you the same thing."
She frowned. "I work here."
I studied her. "And when was the last time you actually took a break?"
Her lips pressed together. "I don't have time for a break."
I pushed off the door and walked toward her. "Scarlett, talk to me. You’ve been different lately."
She shook her head. "It’s just everything happening all at once. I need to stay focused."
I didn’t buy it.
I took her hands in mine, forcing her to look at me. "Is it me?"
Her eyes widened. "What? No!"
"Then what is it?" My voice was low, steady, but there was an edge of frustration I couldn’t hide. "You’re shutting me out."
Scarlett exhaled, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. When she opened them, there was something raw in her gaze.
"I just… I don’t know how to?—"
Her phone buzzed.
Scarlett tensed, glancing at it like it was a viper ready to strike.
I sighed. "Ignore it."
She looked at the screen, her expression tightening. "I can’t."
Something in my gut twisted.
"What happened?" I asked, bracing myself.
She swallowed hard. "There’s a problem with the event."
I didn’t need to ask which event.
Tonight was a big deal—one of the most high-profile charity galas in the city, with Scarlett and Amélie in charge of catering.
A flawless service would reinforce her reputation, solidifying her place among the top chefs in the industry.