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A disaster?
That would be catastrophic.
Scarlett grabbed her coat, already moving. I followed her out the door.
The venue was chaos when we arrived.
Guests were murmuring, staff members were scrambling, and I caught sight of one of Scarlett’s sous chefs arguing with a manager near the kitchen entrance.
Scarlett stormed inside, and I was right behind her.
"What the hell happened?" she demanded.
Her sous chef looked pale. "Someone tampered with the main course."
Scarlett’s entire body went rigid. "What do you mean tampered?"
The man swallowed. "The ingredients were switched out. The sauce—there was something off. We only caught it because one of the servers noticed a strange smell."
My jaw clenched.
Scarlett rushed to the plating station, lifting a ladle of the sauce and bringing it to her nose.
The second she caught the scent, she recoiled.
"Son of a bitch," she muttered.
I stepped beside her. "What is it?"
Scarlett’s hands curled into fists. "Someone sabotaged our dish."
I didn’t need to ask who.
Victoria Snow.
This wasn’t just about making things difficult for Scarlett anymore. This was a public, calculated humiliation.
"How bad is it?" I asked quietly.
Scarlett exhaled sharply. "Bad. If we don’t have a replacement, we’ll have to tell the guests their meals aren’t coming."
I glanced at the dining hall. A room full of the city’s elite, waiting to be impressed.
The press was already here, cameras flashing. This was exactly what Victoria wanted.
Not on my watch.
I turned to Scarlett. "What do you need?"
Her shoulders were tense. "We have backup ingredients, but it’ll take time. And we’re already behind schedule."
"How much time?"
"At least forty-five minutes."
I nodded. "Then we stall."
Scarlett looked up at me, uncertainty in her eyes.