Chapter 25
RHETT
The quick, unplanned pop-up in Phoenix was not my idea. Desman had called the night before Vegas. A chef in Phoenix was begging for us to serve a meal. And since we technically had a couple of days between Vegas and LA, it was a go.
We were serving a traditional turkey dinner elevated to fine dining standards, but still recognizable as the comfort food people craved this time of year. We were using several members from the Vegas team since there wasn’t a lot of time to screen Phoenix locals.
I should have been in my element. But I couldn’t focus. Not when Clementine was moving through the kitchen like a ghost. She wasn’t talking to me, but that was nothing new. She wasn’t talking to anyone. She wasn’t suggesting additions to the menu or adding to a recipe. She was like a drone.
She’d been off since Vegas. Not her cooking. That remained flawless. But everything else had changed. Her usual confidence had hardened into something brittle and defensive. She avoided eye contact and kept conversations strictly professional. She barely said a word to anyone else in the kitchen.
It was driving me fucking insane.
I watched her now as she plated the brussels sprouts with mechanical efficiency.
She had each portion down to an art. Like a carbon copy on every plate.
Her posture had changed. She kept her shoulders squared and her jaw set like she was bracing for impact.
The other students gave her a wide berth, sensing the invisible wall she had erected around herself.
What the hell was her problem?
I replayed that night in Vegas a dozen times, trying to figure out where I had gone wrong.
The service had been flawless. It was easily one of the best we had on the entire tour.
Sure, there had been that moment with the dessert disaster, but we recovered beautifully.
The press coverage had been stellar and we took in a lot of money.
Desman had been thrilled with the donations.
So why was she acting like I personally insulted her entire bloodline?
The last plates of the main course went out at exactly eight-thirty, leaving us with a brief lull before dessert service. I used the opportunity to check each station.
“Hartley,” I called out as she headed toward the storage tent with an empty serving platter. “I need to see you for a minute.”
She paused, her grip tightening on the platter. For a second, I thought she might ignore me entirely. Then she nodded curtly and continued toward the tent, leaving me to follow.
The storage area was cramped and dim, lit only by a single work light strung from the tent’s center pole. Boxes of extra plates and glassware were stacked along the walls, creating narrow pathways between towers of supplies.
“What did you need, Chef?”
The formal title grated against my nerves.
“What’s your problem?” I asked, cutting straight to the point. “You’ve been acting like I kicked your dog.”
Her eyebrows rose slightly, the first genuine expression I’d seen from her all evening. “My problem?”
“Yeah, your problem. The attitude, the cold shoulder, the way you’re treating me like I’m radioactive. What’s your deal, Hartley?”
“You,” she said simply.
“Me? What the fuck did I do?”
“Really?” She stepped closer, her composure cracking just enough to let some heat through. “You’re really going to stand there and pretend you don’t know?”
“I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.” And I didn’t. That was the most infuriating part—I genuinely couldn’t figure out what had triggered this dramatic personality shift.
“Vegas,” she said, like it should explain everything. “The dessert. The interview after the service.”
It took me a second to connect the dots. “The interview? You’re pissed because of the interview?”
Her laugh was sharp and bitter. “Oh, you do remember. I was starting to think you’d completely erased it from your memory.”
“What about it?” I was genuinely confused now. “It went great. The diners loved everything, the press was fantastic—”
“You took credit for my dessert.” The words came out flat and accusatory. “I saved your ass when Jeremy fucked up, and you stood up there and talked about your creative vision like you planned it all along.”
I stared at her, trying to process what she was saying. “Are you serious right now? You’re upset because I didn’t mention you by name in a press interview?”
“I’m upset because you lied!” The careful control cracked completely. Fire blazed in her eyes. She was pissed. “You stood up there and talked about your inspiration when five minutes earlier you were having a complete meltdown because you had no idea what to do!”
“That’s how kitchens work, Hartley.” I could feel my own temper rising to meet hers. “The executive chef gets credit for everything that comes out of his kitchen. He also gets the blame. That’s the hierarchy. That’s the way it’s always been.”
“Bullshit.” She stepped closer. “It wasn’t about hierarchy. It was about you taking something I created and claiming it as your own. You didn’t just accept credit—you actively lied about how it came to be.”
“I didn’t lie about anything. I talked about the dish itself, the flavors, the techniques—”
“Your creative vision,” she repeated mockingly. “Your innovative approach. All words you used to describe something I made up on the spot while you were screaming at Jeremy.”
The accusation hung between us like a challenge. Part of me knew she had a point. I did get carried away in the interview. But admitting that felt like giving ground I wasn’t prepared to surrender.
“You think you deserve a fucking medal for doing your job?” I shot back. “You think you’re the first cook to ever improvise under pressure? Welcome to professional kitchens, sweetheart. This is what we do.”
“Don’t call me sweetheart.” Her voice was deadly quiet now. “And don’t talk to me like I’m some naive little girl who doesn’t understand how the industry works.”
“Then don’t act like one!” The words came out harsher than I intended. “You’re throwing a tantrum because you didn’t get a pat on the head and a gold star for doing what any competent cook should be able to do.”
“A tantrum?” She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You think this is a tantrum? You have no fucking idea.”
We were standing too close now, the small space forcing an intimacy that made the air between us feel charged and dangerous.
“Then enlighten me,” I said, my voice dropping lower. “Tell me what this is really about.”
“It’s about respect.” The word came out like a punch. “It’s about you treating me like I matter, like my contributions have value beyond just following your orders and staying out of your way.”
“You want respect? Earn it. Do the work, pay your dues, and maybe in a few years—”
“A few years?” She interrupted. “I’ve been working my ass off for months.
I’ve proven myself in every single service, tackled every challenge you’ve thrown at me, and saved your precious dessert course when Jeremy fucked up.
But none of that matters because I’m just Desman Hartley’s daughter, right?
Just some spoiled little princess who bought her way into your kitchen? ”
I had wondered, in my less generous moments, how much of her spot on this tour was merit and how much was her father’s influence. Desman Hartley opened doors that stayed locked for other people.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. It’s written all over your face every time you look at me.” She was breathing hard now, her chest rising and falling with the force of her emotions. “You think I don’t belong here. You think I’m just playing dress-up until I get bored and go back to my trust fund.”
“Maybe you are.” The words slipped out before I could stop them. “Maybe this whole thing is just an expensive hobby for you.”
I saw the blow land, saw the way her face went white around the edges. But she didn’t back down.
“Fuck you,” she whispered, her voice shaking with fury.
The tent felt like it was shrinking around us. We were close enough to touch, close enough that I could see the rapid flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat. For a wild moment, I thought she might actually hit me.
Instead, she stepped even closer, close enough that her breath ghosted across my face when she spoke.
“You know what I think?” she said, her voice soft and dangerous.
“I think you’re scared. I think you see how good I am, how much potential I have, and it terrifies you because you know I could be better than you.
So you tear me down, make me feel small and grateful and dependent, because the alternative is admitting that maybe I earned my place here. ”
“You want to know what I think?” I matched her volume, my voice barely above a whisper. “I think you’re exactly what I said—immature, entitled, and completely out of your depth. You had one moment of inspiration in Vegas, and now you think you’re Gordon fucking Ramsay.”
“At least I’m not a coward who fucks around with his students and then pretends it never happened.”
The words hung between us like a lit fuse.
“That was a mistake.”
I watched the words hit her like a physical blow. Her face went very still, and for a moment I thought I saw genuine hurt flash across her features before the anger slammed back into place.
“A mistake,” she repeated flatly.
“Yeah. A fucking mistake. I should have known better than to get involved with someone so goddamn immature. Someone who can’t separate personal shit from professional reality.”
“Immature? You want to see immature? I’ll show you immature.”
Before she could elaborate on that threat, I pressed on, driven by some self-destructive impulse I didn’t fully understand.
“You know what? You’re right about one thing.
You are just Desman Hartley’s daughter. Without his name, without his connections, you never would’ve gotten within a mile of this opportunity.
Your spot should have gone to someone who actually earned it, someone who worked their way up from the bottom instead of having everything handed to them on a silver platter. ”
The silence that followed was absolute. I knew immediately that I had gone too far. The words had been designed to hurt. I could see from the devastation that flashed across her face that I had succeeded beyond my intentions.
She looked like I slapped her. Hell, maybe it would have been kinder if I had.
“Fuck you,” she whispered, but there was no heat in it now. Just exhaustion.
“I know you want to,” I heard myself say, my voice cold and distant even to my own ears. “But that door is closed.”
It was a cheap shot, a final twist of the knife after I already delivered the killing blow. I wasn’t even sure why I said it, except maybe to prove to myself that I could still cut her.
The effect was immediate and devastating. Her face crumpled for just an instant before she got control of herself, but I saw the tears gather at the corners of her eyes before she turned away.
“Clem—” I started, but she was already moving toward the tent flap.