Chapter 2
RAINA
Iwasn’t this nervous on my first day at The Kane.
In fact, I had that kitchen under control the minute I stepped in there.
The kitchen at Haus of Sin, however, feels different.
It’s another world, with a different energy, and it feels like the only ones who were thrilled to see me here were Alex, Max, and Vincent.
The others watch me closely through hooded eyes and whisper to one another with contempt and maybe a smidgen of pity.
I’m the only curvy woman on the premises: Whether I like it or not, I stand out.
“Good morning,” I say as I greet Matthew, the sous chef. “I’m Raina Redford. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Only he and I will be working in this kitchen, along with two servers and a dishwasher. Given the small but exclusive crowd we’ll be serving, it made sense to keep it simple.
Matthew turns from one of the stainless-steel counters with a sour look on his face. “Hey.”
Silence follows—the awkward kind.
Matthew is the tall and lanky type, his white uniform hanging loosely over his wiry frame. His brown hair is cut short, and his nails are clean—which is something I always look for when I’m dealing with new people in the kitchen.
“You’re Matthew Benson, right? My sous chef.”
“Matty. Yeah.”
“Matty. You can call me Raina, of course,” I reply with a smile.
“Okay.”
He turns away and resumes his handiwork. There’s a basket of red onions that need to be chopped. At first glance, I notice he’s going for the julienne cut. His hands are quick and skilled, and in perfect control of the Japanese blade.
“We should go over the menu for tonight before you do any prep work,” I say, looking around.
The kitchen is superb, furnished and equipped to meet a chef’s exacting standards.
It’s clean and spacious, and generously lit, with white marble and stainless-steel surfaces coming together like pieces of a harmonious puzzle.
Every tool in the chef’s box is within my reach.
There are giant refrigerators and cold and frozen storage rooms to my right, while the ovens and stoves occupy the wall to my left.
Whoever worked this kitchen before knew what they were doing. It’ll make my job and my adjustment here that much easier.
Matty keeps chopping.
“Excuse me,” I say, raising my voice a little. “Can you maybe press pause on the chopping while we talk about tonight’s menu?”
“Chef Matisse left a menu for tonight, in case the new hire couldn’t hack it,” Matty bluntly replies without even turning around. “We’re covered.”
My blood begins to boil. “Matty, stop.”
He sighs and sets the knife down, then fetches a printed menu from underneath a fridge magnet and hands it to me. “See? We’re covered.”
“Did I do something to upset you?” I ask, opting for the peaceful approach first.
“Listen, I know who you are,” Matty replies with a nonchalant shrug. “I’ve heard of you. And I’ve got more years in the kitchen than you. We’ve got a few weeks left of this winter season, and I just want to get to the end of it with full pay and five-star reviews for my service.”
I can’t help but chuckle dryly. This attitude is familiar to me.
More than once, I’ve come across people who doubted me or my skills in the kitchen—which always struck me as ironic, since the kitchen is where most chauvinists say women belong.
But if Matty wants to play this game, I can rise to the challenge.
“My professional history aside, allow me to ask you something,” I say. “What happened to Chef Matisse? Why did he leave?”
Matty gives me a hard look. “I don’t know. He said there were some personal issues he needed to deal with.”
“Well, I know. And I think you also know, but you’re too embarrassed to say it out loud. The man had a serious drinking and gambling problem, and it was beginning to affect his performance here. He left you to carry most of the workload until Alex noticed,” I reply.
His eyebrows pop up. “It wasn’t that—”
“That bad?” I interrupt. “It was inappropriate for a kitchen of this caliber. Now I don’t care whom you worked for before, and I don’t care how many years you have over me either.
I’m the head chef, and today is my first day on the job,” I tell him as I rip the printed menu to shreds.
“Our new guests arrive tomorrow night. You and I will go over my menu proposals for the welcome dinner. Your input is more than welcome. I promise you I will always listen to what you have to say.”
Matty blinks a few times, somewhat dazed but also not convinced of my assertion. He can’t exactly fight me on it either. I just pointed out that he works under me. It’s not like he’s got any other choice.
“What about the onions?” Matty mutters.
“The ones you’ve already cleaned and chopped? Bag them and throw them in the freezer. I’ve got a mousse recipe they’ll be perfect for,” I reply.
He gives me a wry smirk. “No wonder they didn’t like you at The Kane.”
“You have no idea why I left The Kane, Matty. It had nothing to do with my job performance or my ability to work with the team.”
Matty scoffs and goes back to the work table and bags the chopped onions before he puts them in a freezer drawer, then stashes the others back in their chilled basket in the pantry.
“You’re mad that Chef Matisse left,” I conclude.
“I just think he’s irreplaceable. I’ve worked under him for long enough to deliver under his signature, but the bosses wanted a new head chef, so… here we are.”
It makes sense now. Matty had hoped that he might get full charge of this kitchen, then I came along and ruined everything. No wonder he’s miffed and cranky, and trying so hard to be unimpressed while simultaneously being adverse to any kind of change. But it’s fine. I can work with this.
I’ve dealt with worse.
“Sounds like you’ve got your hands full over there,” Vivian says, when I call her as I walk around the estate, admiring and observing the architectural details while I listen to her words of encouragement.
During trying times, it usually takes a phone chat with my best friend to get my head back in the game, especially when uncertainty and self-doubt sneak up on me.
“But you’ve handled yourself well in environments more hostile than that,” she adds. “I mean, remember the internship at Maison LeFevre?”
“Oh, that was culinary hell on earth,” I groan softly, almost rolling my eyes at the deluge of unpleasant memories her words make me recall. “I think I gained about ten pounds from the stress alone.”
“But you pulled through. By the time you were done with that place, you got glowing reviews and a letter of recommendation that got you into Studio Palate, right?”
“The pot of gold at the end of my rainbow,” I say with a laugh.
The east wing of the estate is private and off-limits to Haus of Sin’s elite guests. They have the west wing all to themselves. But the east wing isn’t the staff quarters either. Our rooms are on the top floor on the north side of the building, which makes me all the more curious about this part.
All I see are sprawling hallways with decorative side tables and portraits of famous theater artists. The lighting casts a golden glow over the oil paintings, almost bringing them to life. Peonies overflow out of every stylish vase in sight; their scent brings a smile to my face.
There’s a library up here, as well as private offices and a few other rooms I’ve yet to look into. Since I have this evening off, a little self-guided tour is just the ticket. The better I know this place, the more I understand what Haus of Sin is all about.
“Tell me about it,” Vivian says. I can hear her computer keyboard clacking in the background. She’s pulling another late one at the office. “I thought the place was some snazzy urban myth or something.”
“Oh, it’s real,” I reply, “and probably more than anything either of us expected. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it, to be honest. It’s invitation-only, insanely exclusive, and the pricing is… let’s just say there are way too many zeros on their invoices.”
“Well, okay, but what do people do there?”
“The filthy rich? They come in, eat fancy foods, and drink rare wines and liquors. They each get assigned a host of their choosing, who caters to their whims and pleasures.”
“Pleasures?”
“The whole package, Viv. It gets sexual; they have private playrooms, saunas, hot baths, sensory massages, and all that jazz. I think they spring for a minimum of orgasms per day or something.” I laugh lightly. “Like a quota.”
Vivian chuckles. “Oh, like dominance and submission, right?”
“From what I’ve heard, yes. The hosts are identified by their choice of forest animal: Deanna, the Fox; Delia, the Deer; Alicia, the She-Wolf… wait, there were two more.”
I pause in front of a beautifully sculpted wooden door at the very end of the hallway. A hint of jasmine reaches my nose. It’s coming from inside. “Elise, the Nightingale, and Ruby, the Red Cardinal.”
“They sound pretty cool, actually.”
“Most of them are. I mean, we don’t interact much. I try to keep some distance. They seem like they’re always… I don’t know, turned on, ready to seduce. It’s a little weird.”
“Or they’re simply uninhibited by nature, which is not something you can relate to.”
I can always count on Vivian for her truth bombs. She’s right.
“And the guys, they’re the same,” I add with a smile, eager to change the subject. My cheeks burn red-hot. “Asher, the Stag—”
“Oh, wow.” She laughs quietly.
“Wait, there are four more, hold on, give me a second.” I pause again to remember their names while Vivian keeps laughing. “Roderick, the Bear; Magnus, the Wolf; Sylvan, the Snake; and Marco, the Raven.”
“And the guests actually dig this stuff?”