It's going to be brutal. But that's the difference between being a neighborhood spot people love and being somewhere the world comes to find. I've always known that. I've just never let myself say it out loud.
That's the thing I have to sit with. I've held myself back. Kept the ambition small enough to be polite, quiet enough not to embarrass anyone, including me. It's part of why James got further than I did, even though he started on the journey to be a chef after me. Not talent. Not luck. Just that he wanted it and didn't apologize for it. And I did.
Watching him changed something for me.
I want the star. I want to earn it in my own kitchen, with my name onthe door, without anyone else's reputation carrying mine. I want to do it on my own merit.
James had to learn to say what he feels. I had to learn to say what I want. Turns out, those are the same lessons.
Chef bosshole: I’m in agony. Help. Me.
That last message pushes all other thoughts from my head
My heart rate spikes. What happened? Is he okay? I jump up, in such a hurry that my chair overturns. I don’t bother righting it. I grab my handbag and, waving to the foreman who’ll lock up when they finish work for the day, I rush out.
Instantly, the car, which James insisted I use, slides to a stop in front of the curb.
As always, the chauffeur manages to time his arrival with when I leave the restaurant. I don’t want to know how much James pays him. It’s the one thing he refused to compromise about. He was going to pay for a car service to ferry me around and be on stand by for me, whether I agreed or not. I realized I couldn’t win this, and gave in.
I slide into the car’s luxurious interior, appreciating the feel of the soft, buttery leather. "Take me home, please."
I snap on my seat belt, then message James.
Me: I’m on my way.
The message isn’t read. And there’s no reply. Did he hurt himself? I try James’ phone, but it rings and keeps ringing, then goes to voicemail.
My heart slams into my rib cage. The blood thuds in my ears. Why isn’t he answering his phone? Is he lying unconscious somewhere? Is that why he’s not answering? I keep trying his phone, and each time, it goes straight to voicemail.
By the time I unlock the front door to our penthouse, I’m frantic. I shove the door open, and drop my handbag, jacket and keys on the entryway table.
"Honey? Where are you?" There’s no answer from James.
"Malice?" I look around for the cat but don’t see her. Which is unusual. Malice always greets me when I come home.
My pulse rate goes through the roof. My stomach seems to hit the floor.
"James?" I call out.
My voice echoes around the apartment. I race up the stairs and down the hallway to our bedroom.
"James?" I push the door open and come to a stop. James is sprawled out on the bed, wearing only a pair of black briefs. With a rose held between his teeth.
Next to him, is Malice. She has a collar made of roses around her neck.
My gaze backtracks to my husband, anxiously checking him out. I examine him from head to toe and find he’s fine. No wounds. No sign of being hurt. And his cheeks are a healthy color. His biceps seem even bigger, and his pecs more defined than usual. Which means, he must have worked out today. Some of the tension drains from me.
"Are you okay?"
He removes the rose from his mouth. "No I’m not."
Concern squeezes my chest again.
"What’s wrong?" I cross the floor to stand next to him.
He pulls me in by my wrist.
I squeal. Overbalance and fall into him.
