Chapter 27
RHETT
Ihad never been a fan of LA. The city sprawls out like a fever dream, all palm trees and smog and pretty people. It’s too busy, too kooky, too full of people chasing dreams that were probably better left as fantasies.
“Oh my God, I love Hollywood!” Simone pressed her face to the window like an excited kid.
“Look at those hills! And the sign—you can actually see it from here! I’m so glad we have a few days to explore.
I need to hit Rodeo Drive. I heard there’s this amazing vintage shop in West Hollywood that all the stylists shop at.
I want to pick up a few cool things. Maybe I’ll find some old Hollywood starlet castoffs. ”
She bounced slightly in her seat, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. For Simone, every city was an adventure waiting to happen. It was endearing, usually, but today it felt grating against my already raw nerves.
Clementine sat in the far corner of the back seat, as physically distant from me as the car’s dimensions would allow.
Treating me with the kind of polite professional courtesy you’d show a stranger.
No warmth, no acknowledgment of our shared history, good or bad.
Just cold, efficient interaction when absolutely necessary for logistics.
It was driving me fucking insane.
Conroy shifted uncomfortably beside me. “I’ve got an appointment with a specialist this afternoon,” he said, breaking the silence. “Going to start some physical therapy, see if we can get this thing sorted sooner rather than later.”
“That’s smart,” I replied, grateful for something normal to focus on. “How’s the pain level?”
“Manageable.”
Conroy had been my right hand for too long. I was struggling without him. The idea of him being sidelined permanently was almost too much to contemplate.
“Whatever you need,” I said. “Time off, modified duties, whatever.”
“I’m meeting up with an old friend for drinks,” Simone announced, pulling out her phone to check messages.
Which meant tonight would be just Clementine and me. I felt equal parts anticipation and dread. We needed to clear the air, needed to address what had happened in Vegas before the tension between us poisoned the entire rest of the tour.
For whatever reason, I didn’t like the idea of her being pissed at me. It wasn’t just that she was pissed at me. She was furious.
I glanced over at her, taking in the sharp line of her profile as she stared out her window. She looked tired, older somehow than she had just a week ago. There were shadows under her eyes that makeup couldn’t quite hide, and her mouth was set in a line.
I had done that to her. My words, my cruelty, my inability to handle the complicated mess of feelings she stirred up in me. It made me feel like shit.
The hotel was everything I expected. If they screwed up and only gave us two rooms, I wouldn’t be all that upset.
It would mean she had to talk to me. The lobby was filled with too many mirrors, staff who smiled with their mouths but not their eyes.
We checked in with the usual efficiency. No drama. No messed-up reservations.
“I’ll see you all in the morning,” Clementine said to the group, her tone pleasant and professional. She didn’t look at me directly, but I caught the deliberate way she included me in the collective dismissal without singling me out.
At least she wasn’t letting on there was drama. I appreciated that.
I watched her walk toward the elevators, acting like the professional chef she was becoming. But I knew her well enough now to see the slight stiffness in her shoulders.
When I looked back, both Conroy and Simone were staring at me.
“What?” I asked.
Simone shook her head. “I’m going to my room.”
“You should fix that,” Conroy muttered.
I ignored them both and headed for the elevators.
The afternoon passed with me in my room. I handled business and did everything I could not to let the guilt eat at me.
By evening, I couldn’t stand it anymore.
I found myself standing outside her room at seven-thirty, my hand raised to knock but frozen by second thoughts.
It was uncharted territory for me. The whole feeling of genuine remorse and the need to make amends felt weird.
I spent most of my adult life convinced that showing weakness was the fastest way to lose respect in the kitchen hierarchy.
But this felt different. I knocked and waited.
The door opened to reveal Clementine in casual clothes, jeans and a soft gray sweater. She looked comfortable, settled in for the evening. I realized I was probably interrupting whatever quiet night she had planned for herself.
“Oh.” Her expression fell immediately when she saw me. “What do you need, Chef?”
“I was wondering if you wanted to grab dinner,” I said. “There is supposed to be a good Italian place a few blocks from here, or we could try—”
“No thank you,” she interrupted, already moving to close the door. “I’m going to stay in tonight. Order room service, maybe catch up on some reading.”
The dismissal was polite but final. I felt something close to panic flutter in my chest. This might be my only chance to fix what I had broken. She was slipping away before I could even try.
“Clem, wait.” I stepped closer to the door. “I know I took things too far. I wanted to apologize.”
She paused, her hand still on the door handle. “You’re about four days too late,” she said finally, and started to close the door again.
I moved without thinking, putting my foot against the door frame to stop it from shutting completely. “I’m hot-headed, I know that. And I say things in the heat of the moment that come out wrong. I’m sorry, Clem. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
For a long moment, she just looked at me. I could see her processing my words, weighing them against whatever internal scale she used to measure sincerity.
“Yes, you did.”
“No, I—”
“Oh, shut up, Rhett.” She rolled her eyes, and for the first time in days, there was real emotion in her expression instead of careful blankness.
“Nobody says the kinds of things you said to me unless they’re trying to hurt someone.
You can tell yourself you had angelic intentions, but you and I both know that’s bullshit.
You wanted to cut deep. You did. With surgical precision. ”
The words hit me like a slap because they were true. In that moment in the storage tent, when I had seen the hurt and defiance in her eyes, I had wanted to wound her. I had chosen my words specifically for their ability to cut deep, to find her most vulnerable spots and press hard.
“You wanted to hurt me, so you went for what you knew would devastate me most. My relationship with my father, my place in this industry, my worth as a chef. You didn’t just criticize my work or question my abilities—you attacked the very foundation of who I am.
And you knew that because I was dumb enough to tell you.
Because I thought you were actually a friend. ”
I opened my mouth to deny it, but the words died in my throat because she was right, and we both knew it.
“Goodnight,” she said. And then she slammed the door hard enough that I felt the impact through the floor.
I stood in the empty hallway for a moment, staring at the closed door and feeling like I’d just fumbled the most important play of my career. The apology didn’t matter because she’d seen straight through to the ugly truth underneath.
I had wanted to hurt her. And I had succeeded beyond my wildest intentions.
Well, shit.
The hotel bar was designed to look like an old Hollywood speakeasy, all dark wood and dim lighting and bartenders in suspenders who probably had headshots in their back pockets.
It was exactly the kind of place that would normally make me want to find the nearest dive bar, but tonight I didn’t have the energy to be picky.
I ordered a whiskey neat and found a corner table where I could nurse my drink in peace. The alcohol burned going down. It did nothing to ease the knot of guilt in my chest. I wasn’t used to feeling this way. I hated feeling like I had fucked up something important and wasn’t able to fix it.
Usually, kitchen drama was like weather—intense but temporary, quickly forgotten in favor of the next crisis.
But this felt different. Personal in a way that professional conflicts never were.
I was halfway through my second whiskey when I noticed them. Two men in expensive suits, sitting at the bar but clearly more interested in watching me than enjoying their drinks.
They approached my table with the confident swagger of men who had never been told no. I braced myself for whatever bullshit was coming my way.
“Voss,” the taller one said, sliding uninvited into the chair across from me. His companion remained standing, a not-so-subtle intimidation tactic that might have worked on someone who hadn’t grown up dodging criminal types.
“Do I know you?” I kept my voice level.
“Not personally,” the seated man replied. “But we know you. More importantly, we know your family. How’s daddy doing these days? Still enjoying his extended vacation courtesy of the state?”
Ice flooded my veins. Nobody knew about my father. Or my connection to him. It was my most closely guarded secret.
“I think you have me confused with someone else,” I said carefully.
“Lucky Luke must be going stir crazy. He never was one to sit still for too long.”
“You need to leave me alone,” I said, standing slowly. “I’m not looking for trouble. Just having a drink.”
“Oh, but trouble’s looking for you,” the tall one said, rising to match my movement.
The man had chosen the wrong day to test my patience.
Something snapped inside me. Years of buried shame and resentment, decades of running from my father’s reputation.
I was sick of the constant fear that his sins would catch up to me.
Add in the bullshit with Clem and I was spoiling for a fight.
White-hot rage made my vision blur around the edges.
Before I knew what I was doing, I was on my feet, my hands twisted in the man’s expensive shirt, pulling him close enough that I could smell his cologne and see the excitement flickering in his eyes.
“Don’t you ever talk about my father again.”
But even as the words left my mouth, I realized I had made a mistake. The man wasn’t afraid—he was thrilled. His pupils were dilated with anticipation. His breathing quickened like someone about to get exactly what they wanted.
He wanted me to lose control. Wanted me to throw the first punch in a crowded hotel bar where security cameras would capture every second. Wanted to turn me into the kind of man my father had been—quick to anger, slow to think, always one bad decision away from ending up behind bars.
The realization hit me like cold water. I released his shirt and stepped back.
“Smart boy,” he said, straightening his clothes with deliberate care. “Smarter than your old man, anyway.”
I turned and walked away without another word, leaving my unfinished drink on the table. Adrenaline made my hands shake as I jabbed the elevator button for my floor, and I clenched them into fists at my sides.
It didn’t matter if I changed my name and distanced myself from the family, people had long memories. There was no running away from the past.