It was from the chef.
* * *
Two Years Earlier…
I slip inside the kitchen quietly, but Chef spots me instantly, glancing over his shoulder with that look that says he already knows what I want.
“You want to learn?”
I gaze at the trays lined with white ramekins, the air thick with the scent of chocolate and cream.“You’re making soufflés.”
“Mini soufflés,” he says.“For tonight’s dinner.I’ll walk you through it.”His smile turns sly.“In exchange.”
I sigh, already knowing what that means.“Now?”
He tilts his head toward the pantry.
His bonuses.That’s what he calls it.He once told me he likes my bonuses better than the yearly trips to a private island that my father gives him.
I suppose that should make me feel good.It doesn’t.
It’s quick, mechanical.I focus on the cool shelves at my back, the faint scent of dried herbs and onions, the way the dim light hums above us.His body is sweaty and coarse, and I breathe through my mouth to block the smell.
His dick is disgusting.It tastes like salt and dirt, and he holds my head, fucking my mouth.
I don’t gag anymore.Though sometimes I have to pretend if someone likes it.But I tamed that reflex long ago.I had to in order to get through it all.
When it’s done, I wipe my hands on the towel hanging by the door, and he’s already at the counter, cracking eggs.
“You start with the whites,” he says.His tone changes when he talks about cooking.“You have to beat them just right.Too soft, and it collapses.Too stiff, and it breaks.”
I watch as he whisks in a perfect rhythm, the egg whites turning glossy, peaks like snow-capped mountains.
“Do you watch those cooking competitions?”he asks, a little grin on his face.“On the Food Network.It’s my guilty pleasure.Hell’s Kitchen, Cutthroat Kitchen.Half those guys couldn’t make a decent soufflé if their lives depended on it.”
My father doesn’t let me watch much television anymore, but I watch cooking whenever I can.“You’d win,” I say, massaging his pride a little.I’ve learned what to say and how to say it to bend men to my will.It helps sometimes.They’re a little less cruel.
He laughs and folds the chocolate mixture into the egg whites with deliberate motions.“Here,” he says, handing me the spatula.“Gentle.Don’t deflate it.”
I copy his movements, careful not to rush.For a moment, I forget where I am, who I am, and why I’m here.Instead, I’m preparing soufflés for my own restaurant.In Paris, maybe.Or Spain.Or the US.
The soufflés bake, filling the kitchen with a smell so rich it almost makes me dizzy.I help Chef clean up the kitchen.
When the soufflés are done, Chef pulls them from the oven.
“I made an extra.”He slides one toward me, powdered sugar falling in a soft drift across the top.“Taste.”
I break the delicate surface with a spoon.Steam rises as I lift the bite to my mouth and blow on it to cool it.Then I taste.The texture is light but decadent, the chocolate melting against my tongue.“It’s perfect.”
“Take something,” he says.“From the kitchen.A gift.For my best student.”
“What?”I ask.
“You heard me.I’m feeling generous today.”He looks at me, licking his lips.“And well-satisfied.”
Disgust boils in my stomach, but I tamp it down.
He’s offering me something from his kitchen, and I’m not going to give up this chance.
