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“That girl came from nowhere. She is nothing,” Henley sputters, his face turning red.

“That girljust took your job. Turn in your apron, chef. You’re finished here.”

Suddenly, the whole kitchen is gaping in our direction, the tension thick and the air silent. I look up at Greyson in shock. Certainly he doesn’t mean what I think he means?

“You can’t do this,” Henley protests, his eyes scanning the gathering crowd for someone who will take his side. Unlike this morning, he finds himself completely alone. This kitchen is vicious, and as soon as the others smell the blood in the water, loyalty means nothing.

“It’s my kitchen,” Greyson snarls. “I can do whatever the fuck I want. Now take off your goddamn apron.”

Huffing in outrage, Henley rips off his apron and throws it at Greyson’s feet. “You’ll regret choosing her,” he warns, wagging his thick finger in my direction.

“Oh I don’t think so,” Greyson retorts with a smile, even as his voice drips with venom. “You see, people who come from nothing have more potential for greatness than an entitled little twat like you could ever even dream of.”

With a sharp string of expletives, Henley stomps out of the room, a small round of scornful applause sending him on his way.

Greyson looks at me with a strange sort of pride in his eyes. “Congratulations, Flores. You’re Grey’s new pastry chef.”

If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this was Greyson’s plan all along. In all honesty, Iwasn’tready when I applied for this position six months ago. But after suffering under Greyson’s impossibly high expectations and not so tender instruction for so long, I realize I’ve never been more confident in my ability to fucking kill it in this kitchen.

Chapter Eighteen

ANGÉLICA

Ifidget with the short hem of my white sundress, feeling uncomfortable and self-conscious like I usually do when I’ve made an effort rather than just hopping out of the shower and throwing on some comfortable clothes. I’ve had an uneasy relationship with my body since I was fifteen. I quickly learned that emphasizing the newly filled out areas that made me feel beautiful and grown up attracted the worst sort of attention from people who suddenly recognized me as more than a child. I’ve hated my full tits and hips ever since, unable to escape the subconscious guilt that they were to somehow blame for what happened.

Now I’m smart enough to know that nothing I could have done ornotdone would have stopped a predator from claiming what he wanted. Some people have such an expanse of darkness inside them that you can’t escape the evisceration of being in their orbit—like a black hole snuffing out any fragments of light. I’m lucky that I finally found my way out, but I can still feel the heavy pull of the darkness clinging to the edges of my mind, shapeless shadows waiting for their chance to take form.

When my thoughts are quiet, the darkness slumbers. But when my mind is loud and chaotic, the darkness creeps in through the cracks and latches on to every single thought, tainting them just like he tainted me.

Lately though, my mind has been more peaceful than ever. And it wasn’t until after I had the panic attack in the pantry that I realized why.Greyson. Something about Greyson’s commanding presence keeps the darkness at bay. Don’t get me wrong, he’s been brutal and takes torment to a whole new level, but he keeps me busy, productive, and organized. There’s no chaos when he’s in control. I haven’t sought out pain because there haven’t been any moments where I feel like I’m dying without it.

My first brush with pain in months was when he decided I needed it. He knows me so well it’s terrifying.

Five minutes. I have five minutes to talk myself out of this before he arrives. I check my reflection in the mirror one more time. I’m self-aware enough to know I’m pretty, but years of trying to hide it mean I don’t have the skill to enhance my natural features when I want to.

I’ve kept my hair down, letting my long, thick curls flow down my back instead of tying it up. My freckles are on full display as usual, but I added a bit of highlighter to my cheeks and nose in addition to my blush, and it shimmers in the light. My lips are tinted a soft, rosy pink that matches the polish I threw on my nails last minute. I paired white Converse with my dress because I refuse to wear uncomfortable shoes when I’m used to being on my feet all day. I don’t look like a bombshell, but I look presentable, and that is the best Greyson is going to get.

Two minutes. Shouting a quick goodbye to my roommate, I run outside to meet Greyson before he has the chance to be subjected to my dingy apartment again. The first time he saw where I live was entirely non-consensual, and I’ll be damned if he thinks he’s going to get a second look at my dildo collection.

He never mentioned anything, but I’m sure this area of South Side is vastly different from the posh places he’s used to. I’ve been poor my whole life, so the rundown buildings and cluttered yards don’t bother me so much. But I can’t imagine the owner and executive chef of the most expensive restaurant in Chicago wants to spend much time on these streets.

Greyson pulls up in front of the apartment complex exactly on time, his red fucking Maserati sticking out less like a sore thumb and more like an enormous middle finger to every person he passes. Embarrassment warms my cheeks, and I rush over to meet him as soon as the doors lift into the air like wings. I hope no one sees me getting into the car that likely costs more than most people will make in a decade—I don’t want my neighbors deciding that my shitty apartment might be worth ransacking.

“Drive,” I plead, slinking down into the smooth, leather seats to stay out of sight. The windows are so tinted it probably doesn’t matter.

“Hello to you, too,” Greyson answers with a laugh, putting the car into gear and speeding down the road with a loud roar of the engine. “That color suits you, angel.” I look up to find his eyes appreciatively raking over the tight white bodice pushing up my tits before sliding down and honing in on the bare skin of my thighs. “Pure and innocent.”

“You always wear black,” I remind him, appraising his black pants and his tight, black button-up that’s been rolled half-way up his arms to show off tattooed serpents writhing around thorns and flowers. He looks even more gorgeous than usual, and I have to ignore the liquid heat that starts to build in my core. “What does that make you? Wicked and deviant?”

“Without a doubt,” he agrees, his smirk never faltering.

His fingers flex tightly around the leather steering wheel, and I’ve never seen such a mundane gesture filled with so much sexualtension. I kind of wish those strong hands were wrapped around my throat, pressing just enough to make stars flicker across my eyes. I swallow hard against the arousal thickening in my mouth and try to distract myself from the urge to bend down, undo his pants, and run my tongue over his piercings to see how they feel—how he tastes when he’s wet for me. Fuck, we’ll be lucky if we even make it to dinner.

“Did you find it okay?” I mumble just to divert my thoughts before instantly remembering my own stupidity. He’s already made a trip to my apartment this week.

“I know the neighborhood,” he answers, keeping his eyes on the road. “Grew up a few streets over.”

That’s—surprising. Englewood isn’t the kind of place you escape easily, and most of the people I know here never have. “Probably weren’t driving a Maserati back then.”