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I don’t belong.
I don’t want to belong.
Not even for a second.
Fuck, if someone puts a chastity belt on me, I’m going to scream.
Because I know, without a doubt, the only way Trent Aldridge would let me inside permanently is as someone serving him.
Hard pass.
Gail adjusts a painting as we pass. It didn’t even look crooked in the first place, but she shifts it no more than a centimeter at the furthest edge and continues walking as if this is normal for her.
“Mr. Aldridge brought a chef in from a Michelin-star restaurant, and well . . .” She trails off, heeled toes pounding the hardwood floors at a pace nearly impossible for my short legs to keep up with. “Chef likes to be called that.”
“Um. Okay.”
She laughs, which is a sound I don’t expect from her. So, naturally, it’s the driest laugh I’ve ever heard.
“Believe me when I warn you,” she says, stopping to blow away nonexistent dust from a nearby surface. “You don’t want to piss off Chef.”
“Got it. Don’t piss off the chef.”
My comment is met with a passive expression, and I have a feeling Gail doesn’t do emotions. That’s okay. Supposing she treats me fairly, we’ll have no issues.
Maybe we can even be allies.
“How many people does Mr. Aldridge employ?” A hundred? A million? The entire state of New fucking York?
“There is Chef. Michael, the driver. His personal assistant, Allison. He also has Brandon, who runs security. Christina cleans the place, but she’s on leave for personal reasons. There’s also me and now you. Seven total. But often more. It really depends on where he is going or who he is working with. Sometimes, Brandon brings in more security, and it gets crowded.” Her lips turn down at the end, like the idea of people invading her territory displeases her.
“Why does one man need seven employees?” I mumble under my breath, and the moment I do, I realize that she could probably hear me. Meh, good thing I don’t care.
We were getting off on the right foot. I would hate to ruin that. Maybe Gail can be a good person to have on my side in this house.
Sure enough, her response is fast—and in defense of her boss. “He’s a very busy man, and he works with many important people.”
“Sorry. That was rude of me to ask.”
“It’s okay,” she says in a tone that implies it isn’t. “I’m sure this is quite the change. I’m not exactly certain what landed you in this position but know that Mr. Aldridge is usually a fair man.”
Fair.
My brows shoot upward.
I take what I said before back. Gail will never be my ally. Not with the way she waxes poetic about the devil that is Trent Aldridge. I want to roll my eyes at her, but I know that will not do me any favors with someone who is, technically, my superior.
I have to at least try to be friendly.
Also, it’s not her fault. Truly, she probably doesn’t know what he’s done to me. I’m sure to the rest of his staff, he’s wonderful. Not a manipulative ass who canceled my present and is holding my future hostage.
I follow Gail into the kitchen. The place is massive, like everything Trent owns and does. It’s made of dark, earthy materials. Surprisingly welcoming. The ranges are top-of-the-line. All eight of the burners are in pristine condition. Every technological advancement I can think of seems to be here, from the newest blenders to a cutting-edge scale.
A set of shiny fridges line the opposite wall. An actual wall of machines. I’ve never met anyone who owned more than a single fridge.
One man.
Three fridges.
Maybe that’s where he hides all the bodies.
I walk the row, realizing one of them is a freezer, another a fridge for food, and the final one covered with a clear glass door. I peer inside. Rows of drinks cover every space. Bottled water, seltzer, and pricey liquor that hammers in the fact that he doesn’t need my inheritance at all.
He just wants revenge.
Revenge for something I had nothing to do with.
I sigh, turning back to the rest of the kitchen. From what I can tell, it’s fairly clean, and I’m thankful it won’t be hard work.
That’s what I think until I round the island and find myself standing in front of the sink.
“Jeez,” I say before I can stop myself.
“Chef uses a lot of dishes.”
“You think?” How is this dude not five hundred pounds?
“This is from this morning’s light breakfast.”
Just breakfast? All this from one meal?
“How many meals a day does Chef cook?”
“Breakfast and dinner. Mr. Aldridge spends his lunch in the office, where I assume his assistant purchases his meals on his behalf.”
Two meals a day.
A light breakfast, she said.
Fuck my life. I found the cure for world hunger, and it’s in this guy’s kitchen.
