Chapter 6
Freya
What started as a nightmare has really taken a turn.
Being stuck in an elevator in a power outage would normally be terrifying on its own.
But add to that a stuck-up rich prick who hates me and a brutally handsome man with a black eye and bloody knuckles, and it turns into what should be a scenario from hell.
Since sitting on the floor, I’ve had all the worst possible outcomes of this situation running through my head. So far, these two seem harmless. Let’s just hope they stay that way.
I tried sending a text to Amelia, but it won’t go through. The compartment was stifling at first, probably from all the adrenaline and panic, but since we’ve relaxed, the chill from the elevator shaft has seeped in.
Once our laughter has subsided, I pull my jacket back around my shoulders. The man to my left, Archer, notices me shivering.
“Here,” he says, handing me his wool coat.
“No, please don’t,” I argue, but he won’t hear it. He drapes the heavy fabric over my legs, and I stop arguing. My skirt wasn’t long enough, and if I hadn’t left in such a rush, I would have had time to put on a pair of stockings instead of running around Paris in January with bare legs.
“Thank you,” I mumble, glancing up to meet his gaze.
My goodness, he’s handsome, in a rugged, rough-around-the-edges sort of way.
He has unkempt curls the color of black coffee and warm olive-toned skin.
There’s bruising around his left eye and swelling around his top lip.
That and the busted condition of his knuckles have me curious to know why he does this to himself.
Archer strikes me as one of those very laid-back and carefree type of guys, which is slightly incompatible with the image he presents. He is a walking enigma, multilayered and one of a kind. It draws me to him even more.
The elevator shifts with a loud banging from below, and I let out a yelp as I reach a hand out in both directions. “What was that?”
There are voices somewhere in the distance, and the three of us go silent as we listen for what they’re saying.
“They said they’re getting help,” Julian says.
Suddenly, I realize that he’s gripping my hand comfortingly, his thumb stroking the soft skin of my wrist. On my other side, Archer is cupping my opposite hand in both of his, squeezing me tightly as if he’s tethering me to the ground.
“We’ll be out of here in no time,” he says with a reassuring wink.
I want to be out of this elevator more than anything; I do. This past hour has felt like eight, and I just want to feel solid ground under my feet again.
But…I must admit, this is almost nice. Julian isn’t being a total jerk. And this hunky brunette is holding my hand, making me feel sort of special.
I’m just saying…there could be worse people to be stuck in an elevator with.
“Talk to me, Chef,” Archer says, giving my hand a quick pulse.
Leaning my head back against the wall, I smirk at the nickname. “I’m not a chef, at least not a head chef. Not yet.”
“Bullshit,” Archer snaps. “I tasted those things you made. You’re a chef.”
“I said not yet,” I argue playfully.
This time, it’s Julian who speaks up. “But you will be.”
Hearing him say that catches me off guard, mostly because the whole reason I’m in this stupid elevator to begin with is to fight for my job back. And now he’s just going to say it like that. As if this near-death experience miraculously changed his mind.
“He’s right,” Archer says, backing him up. “It’s all about mindset, Freya. If you want to be a chef and you’re working on your goals to be a chef, then call yourself one, for fuck’s sake. Say it. Say ‘I’m a chef.’”
With a scoff, I shake my head. “I’m not going to say that.”
“Yes, you are. Say it.”
Dammit, he’s cute when he’s a persistent pain in the ass.
“Fine. I’m a chef.” It’s little more than a mumble, and it feels strange to voice those words, but at least it stops him from hounding me.
“Better,” Archer says. “Now talk to me, Chef.”
I realize what he’s doing. With my hand still clutched between his two giant palms, he’s trying to distract me while the crew downstairs works on getting the elevator back up and running. And I hate to admit it, but it’s working.
My right hand is still in Julian’s, which is only slightly uncomfortable since the start of our relationship was so rocky.
If someone had told me when I was picking up custard off the Kades’ dining room floor that I’d be holding hands with Julian in an elevator hours later, I would have called them a liar.
But here we are.
And sure, his hand does feel sort of nice.
“What do you want me to talk about?” I ask Archer.
“Tell me about your dreams. If you could cook anything anywhere, what and where would it be?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” I say, looking up toward the mirrored ceiling. “I’d cook my own menu in my own restaurant.”
“What would be on your menu?” Archer asks, nudging in closer to me.
“It would be an Indian fusion restaurant,” I say wistfully. “I love taking things I grew up on—flavors and foods my mom made in our kitchen—and combining them with the French techniques I fell in love with in culinary school. Like kokum-glazed scallops with shaved fennel and pink peppercorns.”
Archer hums, eyes closed, already picturing it.
“That sounds amazing,” Julian mutters under his breath.
“Duck confit samosas with fig chutney.”
“Stop,” Archer groans.
“Chili-guava macarons.”
“You’re killing me. Please.”
I laugh softly, but there’s a weight behind it. I glance down at my lap as I speak, letting myself sink into the vision that’s lived in my head since I was thirteen.
“Growing up, I used to feel split in pieces. An Indian girl living in California, named after a Norse goddess. Too Indian for my school friends, too American for my relatives in Punjab. But food always brought the pieces together. My mom used to make dal while I practiced croissants, and somehow, our kitchen didn’t fall apart.
It made sense. It felt like me. And now I want to create a place that does that—blends stories and cultures on every plate. ”
Even with tears moistening my eyes, I see it all so clearly. Handwritten menus. Bright, joyful colors pressed against gilded accents. Brass lamps like the ones my biji had in her living room. The scent of toasted ajwain and masala chai in the air.
“There’s poetry in that, you know? In how food carries memory. It carries history. I want my restaurant to feel like that. Like a conversation—between old worlds and new ones.”
Julian shivers with my hand still gripped in his, so I gently tug him closer. He inches toward me until our legs are touching. Archer does the same on the other side, all three of us silently agreeing that body warmth is more important than decorum.
“So what’s stopping you?” Archer asks. “Open your restaurant. You obviously have what it takes.”
At this, I scoff loudly. “What’s stopping me?”
“Yeah,” he says, his teeth starting to chatter.
“A little thing called money, Archer. I need funds to lease the location and money to buy the furniture and food and supplies and decor. I don’t have a spare restaurant just lying around.”
He turns his head toward me, and when I do the same, our faces are mere inches apart. Close enough to see the nearly black hue to his eyes.
“That’s it?”
I roll my eyes and look away. “Yeah, that’s it.”
“The only thing standing between you and your dream restaurant is money?”
“It’s the thing often standing between everyone and their dreams, Archer.
Most of us have to actually work for things, you know?
And some of us have to work even harder than others.
” My voice is laced with humor, but beneath that is a hint of resentment.
Neither of them will probably ever know what that’s like—work.
Nothing in my life has ever been handed to me, and certainly nothing in my parents’ lives was ever handed to them.
My dad is still farming at fifty-nine, and my mom is still teaching at a university.
They came to the United States as children with nothing, and now they are thriving, something they did all on their own.
They might not have an inheritance to pass down to me or my brothers and sisters, but what they did pass down was more fulfilling—work ethic.
One that I wonder if these boys will ever grasp.
“What about you?” Julian asks, changing the focus of our conversation to Archer.
“What about me?”
“Well, you asked her to spill her dreams and secrets, so why don’t you go now?” Julian’s voice still has a rasp to it and a biting tone that makes him sound almost evil.
Archer only smiles, a cunning grin that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand. “Me? That’s easy. I don’t have any dreams or secrets.”
“Everyone has dreams and secrets,” Julian retorts.
Archer drags in a heavy breath and lets it out with a moaning sigh. “Okay…let’s see. Well, I already told you my family owns an aviation company.”
“No, you didn’t,” I say, interrupting him.
“Yeah, you only said they built a company that you inherit your money from,” Julian adds.
“Well, now you know.”
Watching Archer’s expression, I can see a hint of hesitance—or is it shame—on his face when he speaks about his father and brother’s business. It makes me wonder if he feels some sort of obligation or disappointment that he’s not also in that business.
“But that’s not your dream,” I say, giving his hand a squeeze.
“God, no.”
Julian and I don’t speak, letting Archer finish. It takes him a moment, turmoil brewing behind his eyes as he stares straight ahead, focusing on nothing at all.
“There’s a fighter in Paris I’ve been trying to find. He has a mean reputation, worse than you can imagine. Worse than I’ve ever fought before. Right now, that’s my dream. Find him and beat him.”
The muscles in my brows knit together as I stare at this beautiful man with scars and bruises dirtying his perfect face, and I try to understand him, but I can’t.
“Why would you do that?” I whisper.
“Because I want to prove I’m the best.”
“What makes you think you would win?” Julian asks.
Archer only smiles. “Because I always win.”
“No one always wins,” Julian argues.
“I do.”
They glare at each other, fire burning between them as if they’re speaking a language I don’t understand.
“So you…fight people for fun?” I ask, breaking the tension.
“Yes,” Archer replies casually.
“Boxing?”
“Not quite.”
“What do you mean not quite?” He doesn’t make sense to me, and I don’t understand why I want him to so badly. There is something so mysterious that he feels just out of reach. I’ll never fully know Archer, and after today, he’ll be out of my life forever.
But it breaks my heart to see someone so stubbornly intent on winning a physical fight to prove his worth. It’s not my place to tell him that’s not going to fill the void inside him. That’s something he’ll have to figure out on his own.
“It doesn’t matter,” Archer mumbles quietly, turning his gaze away, so I don’t push the issue. When I glance back at Julian, I notice the way he’s watching him, not with disdain or hatred, like I would expect. But with curiosity…and maybe even compassion.
In the last couple hours, something shifted between the three of us. I feel it, and I’m starting to think they do too.
“Okay, you go now,” Archer says to Julian.
“I already told you…I own a club.”
“Dreams and secrets, fancy pants. Let’s hear ’em.”
I giggle to myself at hearing Archer’s nickname for Julian, but it’s clear by his forming scowl that Julian is not as amused.
“You did say everyone’s got dreams and secrets,” I add, turning toward Julian. We’re all nestled so close, my head falls easily to Archer’s shoulder, and he doesn’t bother nudging me away. I stare down the length of our legs, all pressed together as I wait for Julian’s answer.
After a moment of contemplation, he mumbles quietly, “I wish I had a dream. But the truth is I’ve never cared about anything before. I don’t care about the club the way Jack does. Or anyone. I try, but it all just feels so…empty.”
Tears forms in the corner of my eyes, so I turn my gaze downward to hide it. I’ve never heard someone sound so lonely before. Because that’s what it is. Julian has cared for himself for so long, he’s lonely.
I hear the lies in his words, and I don’t believe him for a second. He cares, but he’s too afraid to admit it. He probably cares more than he can handle.
“That’s why I started fighting,” Archer says, glancing toward Julian. “To feel something. Something that couldn’t be just handed to me.”
Julian nods, his eyes on Archer. Then he lifts a hand and gestures to his own face. “Unfortunately, I’m too good-looking for fighting.”
Archer laughs, his deep chuckle echoing in the small space. “That you are, pretty boy.”
“Sounds to me like you both need drive. You poor, pitiful rich boys,” I say, patting both of their legs.
“We are pitiful,” Julian mumbles as he moves to lying with his head on my leg.
The compartment grows quiet again, and the sounds from down the shaft grow louder, which means they’re working hard to get us out.
With my head against the wall, I close my eyes and start to drift off, thinking about my restaurant to calm my mind.
I imagine the decor, colorful and elegant.
I picture the hostess booth at the front, the mural painted on the wall.
I can practically feel the gold cutlery in my hands and the magenta napkins with gold embroidery.
When the compartment shakes again, I let out another yelp, opening my eyes and clinging tightly to each of them.
The three of us are clutched together, huddling under Archer’s wool coat, shivering like one freezing body.
The mixed scent of their cologne fills the space, and instead of pushing them away, I pull them both closer.
They are complete strangers, and yet they’re not. I’ve lost track of time since we got stuck in here, but in just these short hours, I’ve gotten to know them both better.
Julian shivers on the floor, so I run my nails through his blond hair to try and settle his nerves.
Archer drapes his legs over mine and turns his body toward me, pulling me tightly to his chest. With his head resting against mine, the three of us cling to each other for warmth.