Her brain turned to spaghetti.“What?”
He raised his fist in the air. “Chef Auguste Dassault is bragging that he’s fixed it so Nanine’s won’t win a star. Again. He spoke of a long-standing vendetta between him and Nanine Laurent and this restaurant.”
So Silver’s allusion had been a sign after all. Her whole body started to shake. “Where did you hear that?”
He looked off, his jaw locking before he met her gaze straight on. “I was at another chef’s house for a small dinner party recently. Dassault was there. I heard it straight from his mouth. The bastard.”
Her insides started to shut down, like someone was clicking off all the lights in the restaurants in town one by one. All her hard work…
“At first, I thought he was just being an asshole, but since that night, I’ve been asking around. From what I’ve heard about his feud with Nanine, he’s not lying. He did it before, and it sounds like he’s managed to pull it off again. Which affects you.”
The last spark of hope for that star died inside her.
William Silver had been trying to warn her. She should have listened and stopped being stupid.
“Thanks for telling me, Rico.”
He gripped her arm, his rage obvious. “If there’s anything I can do…”
She gave a harsh nod and turned away. He left, and Nanine’s chandelier gave a mournful clang of its chimes as his footsteps faded from the kitchen.
Pierre flew over, landing on the counter, his black eyes searching hers with concern. She didn’t pat him on the head when he shuffled closer. She could not stand being touched by anyone right now.
“Ça va?”
“No, Pierre. Everything is not all right. The world is a bad, bad place.”
Her dream was dead in the water, her Spicy New Reality as flimsy and worthless as the piece of paper it was written on. She’d been a fool to believe that people like her could have what they wanted.
She got to dream big. Work until her hands bled. But there was always a ceiling.
People like her didn’t get to win.
She pulled off her chef’s apron, balled it up in her hands, and threw it at the laundry bin. Her shot missed—of course it did—and she stomped over to snatch it up and dunk it. She marched over to the dishwasher rack where pots and pans were drying and started putting them away, slamming them on the shelves.
Then she turned to the vegetable bin and started grabbing onions. Her record for cutting onions when she was upset was twenty. She ended up chopping thirty-one, until she finally curled over her cutting board, letting the onions release the tears stinging in her eyes.
Pierre landed next to her and started crying his heart out. She patted him on the head, her heart breaking apart all over again.
“We aren’t getting a star,” she whispered in the silence.
Happy freaking Valentine’s Day.
