“Lies!” His face was growing red with anger. “She planned this, hoping for mercy.”
“Auguste, stop this,” Chef Parnaud called. “You are embarrassing yourself.”
“Me?” He tapped his proud chest before pointing directly at her. “When they manipulated all of us? You tell that slut that a new chef will never make her restaurant one of the greats. She’s always been a second-class chef with an adequate restaurant, and your role here will not change that. Nanine’s willneverwin a Michelin star.”
She looked him straight in the eye, not flinching as he stood, doing his best to intimidate her with his height. God, she wanted to strike back. How dare he call Nanine that? Butshe reined herself back and took a breath. He was breathing hard, his dark eyes glittering. He wanted her to fight back so he could keep punching.
“You’ve said your piece,” she said flatly, purposely not calling him Chef Dassault—a term of respect he did not deserve—while lifting her chin in a show of silent challenge. “My colleagues will escort you out.”
“I’m not finished,” he shouted back like an errant child. “You will never win a Michelin star while I live. Not at any restaurant in France, and for this insult tonight, I’ll ruin anyone who aids you. On this I vow.”
The punch of the threat went through her, but she managed to hold his predatory gaze. “Then we must hope for your sudden departure from this life.”
“You’re just like her!” He shook his pudgy finger in her face. “Proud. Haughty. Impossible. You are nothing!”
“Thank you for the compliment.” She snapped her hand toward the doorway. “Now, get out of my restaurant.”
He drew breath in his giant chest and spewed a litany of insults at her before storming out. She sought the numbness of her past, which she’d reached for as a child to cope with her drunken father’s bellowing.
Turning to face the remaining guests, she swallowed thickly. “I regret tonight has come to this. If you would like to remain here as our guests in the good faith you mentioned, you are welcome, but of course, I understand if that is not possible now.”
Monsieur Flaubert leaned heavily on the table. “I too am sorry. I have only made matters worse when I was hoping to right a wrong…”
Chef Parnaud clapped him on the back. “Now, Christophe, you only did what you felt was honorable. We shall have a brandy and forget this unpleasantness. Chef Madison, it would be an honor to stay for dinner. Chef Bocuse would be proud that you have his knife.”
She nodded tightly, trying to ignore the pain inside her from Dassault’s words. Compliments after altercations were so French.We went to war. Someone lost. Someone won. Now we will drink brandy and speak of other things.
She was never winning a Michelin star in France while he was alive.
Worse: he’d ruin anyone who tried to help her.
Which meant she’d have to leave Kyle and her family, just as she’d feared. They all were creating the businesses of their dreams—even her old mentor’s upcoming restaurant was in firing range of Dassault’s vengeance. Given Auguste's threat, her greatest fear was that even her leaving might not be enough to stop him now.
Oh God, why had she let herself believe someone like her could have everything she wanted?
