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Savannah

I stare at the email on my phone, and holy shit, I’m not dreaming. This is real.

“Savannah Brooks, we’re thrilled to offer you the chance to cater our wedding! We loved your restaurant, Lemons, and can’t wait for you to work your magic at our Christmas wedding.”

“Fuck.” My voice comes out louder than expected, and I look around to see if anyone in the café heard me.

No one’s paying attention.

I grin and quickly reread the message. My restaurant is finally getting noticed. Not just noticed, but loved . I’ve been working my ass off for this, and it’s happening. My name is about to be everywhere.

I think about Mom, and my smile falters. It’s been almost a year since she passed. There were days I wasn’t sure I’d make it through. But I did. I’m still here, still standing, and now…I’m killing it. She’d be proud, right? Hell, I hope she’s watching.

I can hear her now, telling me not to get a big head. That makes me smile.

The phone rings, and I snatch it off the table. It’s Layla, my business partner and best friend. She is also my sous chef. “Did you see the email?”

“I did,” I say, barely containing my excitement. “We got our first booking!”

“You’re famous, babe. Lemons is about to be the place everyone’s dying to get a table at,” she says. There’s a clattering sound on her end of the call. She’s probably still at the restaurant, bossing the kitchen staff around. “You realize this is huge, right?”

“Oh, I know. I know . Celebrity wedding? This is the gig.”

“And you deserve it. You’ve been working non-stop. You didn’t even take a break after…you know.”

I sigh, pushing thoughts of Mom aside. “Yeah, well. No time for breaks in this business.”

“Have you talked to your dad yet?” she asks.

Layla, more than anyone, understands how complicated my relationship is with my father. He decided long ago that his career as a sports agent for the football team, the New York Bears, was way more important than my mom and me. He even missed her funeral for a big game. Granted, they had been divorced for three years before she died, but still.

Who chooses a career over family?

“Not really. Last I heard, he was in LA.”

Layla sighs. “What a jerk! Still, don’t burn out before you actually cater this wedding, okay? We’re trying to get investors now. Don’t fuck it up.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Layla.”

“You know what I mean.” She pauses. “But really, you’re doing amazing. Your mom would’ve been so proud.”

There it is. The thing I was avoiding. I swallow, my throat tight. “I hope so.”

“She would. She is .”

I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Okay, enough of this sad shit. Foodie Weekly is still coming by for the interview tomorrow, right?”

“Are you excited?” she screams. “You are officially on the list for Best Chefs in New York. ”

“I’m excited but also a little nervous.”

“Don’t be, and I’ll be there in case you need someone to bounce ideas off of. You’ve got this.”

“Thanks, babe . Now, this wedding. Let’s talk about the menu. We need Christmas things on the menu. Oh! We can make mulled wine!”

Layla whispers something to someone on her end before answering me. “Right. You know this couple’s super bougie. They’re gonna want all the fancy stuff. I’m thinking we up the ante with the appetizers. We definitely need to order more gold leaf for decoration when we plate this stuff up.”

“I was thinking the same. We could do something like…” My phone buzzes with another email. “Hold on, I’ve got something else.”

“Another booking?”

“Not really. They were just informing me that the wedding will be broadcast on some news channel.” I bite my lip, trying to stop the panic bubbling up in my chest.

“Sav,” Layla says, her voice sharp, cutting through my spiraling thoughts. “Listen to me. You’ve got this. You’re one of the best damn chefs in New York. This wedding is gonna be perfect , and investors will be begging to throw more money at you. Think of it this way: this wedding is all the marketing that we could ever ask for. It’s basically free publicity.”

I take a deep breath. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

“I’m always right. Now, how about you start planning the most epic fucking wedding menu ever and show them they’ve got nothing to worry about.”

I smile, feeling a little lighter. “Epic fucking wedding menu. Got it.”

“That’s the spirit. Call me later, okay? We’ll brainstorm.”

I hang up and lean back in my chair, staring at the café ceiling.

I’ve got this.

I pull up my notes app and start jotting down ideas. Fancy hors d’oeuvres, custom cocktails, edible flowers—everything these rich people eat with their pinkies in the air.

I refuse to let this slip through my fingers. This wedding is going to be perfect. Lemons is going to thrive. I’m going to thrive.

Mom, I hope you’re watching, because I’m about to take over the world. Everybody is going to know my name.

***

The wedding day is perfect.

I stand at the back of the venue, staring out at the sea of white roses, silver accents, and candlelight flickering in gold holders. Everything looks like it belongs in a glossy magazine spread.

There are Christmas trees stationed all around, beautiful seasonal wreaths hanging in place, and all the right trimmings for a Christmas wedding.

There’s even a string quartet playing some classical bullshit in the background. Very bougie , just like I expected.

Lemons, my baby, has pulled this off.

I had almost died when I realized that I had to plan not only a celebrity wedding, but a celebrity Christmas wedding, but it had all come out right in the end.

I glance at Layla, who’s standing next to me, biting her lip as she checks the guest list one more time. “You nervous?” she asks, nudging me.

“Nah,” I lie, my heart pounding. “Piece of cake.”

Layla smirks. “Piece of cake, huh? You’re catering a celebrity wedding with more A-listers than the Oscars. No pressure.”

I snort, trying to act cool, but my hands are practically vibrating. “Just another Saturday, right?”

Right.

The bride, Olivia Harper, a Hollywood actress who can cry on cue, and her groom, Ethan Jameson, a British pop star with the face of a Greek god, are at the center of it all. They look like something out of a fairy tale— if the fairy tale involved two ridiculously famous, ridiculously rich people getting married for the cameras.

And the guests? God, it’s like scrolling through Instagram, except they’re all here . In person. With faces I’ve only seen on screens.

Models, actors, athletes—everyone who’s someone is sitting at the pristine white tables, waiting for the first course. My first fucking course.

“Sav,” Layla leans in, “focus. The appetizers are being plated.”

I snap out of it. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good.”

Layla looks at me sideways. “Don’t blow this. We need this to be flawless.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

She rolls her eyes. “Get it together, boss.”

I walk back toward the kitchen. The team is in full swing, plating everything with military precision. The smells are heavenly, even if I do say so myself.

Mini truffle risotto balls, oysters with champagne foam, edible flowers that cost more than my rent used to before I started Lemons. Bougie as fuck.

Everything looks perfect. Is perfect.

I tweak the cheery red and green plaid napkin under a dish that’s waiting to go out on a server’s tray and then smile at them.

Holiday weddings are so romantic. I would love to have a holiday wedding. Then you’d never have to remember when your anniversary was.

How perfect would that be?

But that’s the thing about perfect—it never fucking lasts.

The food poisoning starts about halfway through dinner.

At first, it’s subtle. A few guests excusing themselves, heading for the bathrooms, nothing that sets off alarm bells. I don’t even notice until Layla comes rushing up to me, her face pale.

“Sav,” she hisses, “something’s wrong.”

I blink. “What?”

“People are getting sick. Like... really sick.”

My stomach lurches. “No. No fucking way.”

She grabs my arm. “I’m serious. I just saw Olivia’s assistant throwing up in the bushes. And two of the groomsmen haven’t come back from the bathroom.”

I stare at her, my brain struggling to catch up. This can’t be happening. Not today. Not at this wedding.

“Check the food,” I whisper. “Go check the food.”

Layla’s already ahead of me, running back to the kitchen. I stand there, frozen for a second, my heart racing. Then I snap out of it and start moving, pushing through the guests, dodging around a large, golden reindeer statue near the door, trying to stay calm as I head toward the bathrooms.

What I see makes my blood run cold.

People in Christmas finery are slumped against walls, pale, sweating, some even vomiting into fucking decorative vases with sleigh bells hanging around their necks. The smell hits me like a freight train, and I have to swallow hard to keep my own dinner down. What. The. Fuck.

I rush into the kitchen, almost crashing into Layla. She’s white as a sheet. “Sav, it’s the fish. The fucking fish.”

“The fish?” I repeat, my voice high and panicked. “What about it?”

“It’s bad, Sav. It’s gone bad .”

I grab the counter, my knees weak. “No. This...no. We checked everything. We always check everything.”

Layla looks like she’s about to throw up herself. “I know. But something went wrong. I don’t know what, but...it’s bad.”

“How many people?” I ask, my voice shaking.

Layla swallows hard. “A lot. And it’s spreading.”

I close my eyes, trying to breathe, trying to think. But all I can see is my career going up in flames. This wedding was supposed to be my big break. It was supposed to put Lemons on the map, make me a household name.

And now I’m the chef who poisoned everyone at a celebrity Christmas wedding.

Fuck.