Chapter 21
Freya
“Move faster, Kapoor! Those canapés should be plated by now.”
“Yes, Chef,” I mutter through gritted teeth.
The kitchen is in chaos—nothing but movement, heat, and noise.
Blades clattering against cutting boards.
The metallic clang of pans hitting burners.
The sizzle of oil spinning up in angry bursts.
And yet it seems no matter how fast I move, I can’t please this head chef.
As I frantically dice scallions, sweat drips down my temples and the back of my neck, beneath the stiff collar of my jacket.
I grind my teeth as the chef barks more frantic orders at the others in the kitchen.
Inhaling through my nose and trying to calm myself, I slide the finely chopped greens into a metal bowl.
“Let’s go, Kapoor!” he shouts again.
I really should know better than to snap back. But the bite of my last name spit out like an insult has my fingers gripping the knife just a little too tight.
“What do you think I’m doing?” I argue, feeling the eyes of the other cooks in the room, glancing my way in surprise.
Suddenly a shadow looms over me from behind, then the sharp, condescending click of the chef’s tongue. “What did you just say to me?” he asks.
Heat surges up my throat, a mix of humiliation and fury burning in my chest. I have been at this for hours, exhausted and frustrated. And now I have to stand back and watch as he criticizes my hard work.
“Pathetic,” he sneers, plucking one of the delicate tartlets off the tray and holding it up like a disappointing school project.
“This pastry is too thick. The garnish is sloppy. And this?” He flicks a microgreen like it’s personally offended him.
“This is amateur work. Do you even know what ‘delicate’ means, or is your English as bad as your French?”
My body aches, my head throbs, and suddenly, for the life of me, I can’t understand why I’m standing here letting this ignorant prick talk to me like this. Nothing I do will ever be good enough for guys like him. Not here, not ever.
I glance around the kitchen, an unbearable hum of stress vibrating in my bones. And I make a promise to myself. My kitchen will not be like this.
“Fine,” I snap. “You think it’s amateur? Then do it yourself.”
With one swipe, I let the tray of canapés fly to the ground. A collective gasp fills the kitchen.
“I don’t need this shit anymore. I quit!” I shriek as I tear off my jacket.
“You can’t handle the heat? Then get out of the fucking kitchen!” the chef shouts back at me as I march away from him.
And maybe I’m overreacting, but it’s not just this guy. He isn’t special. He’s no different from a dozen others, back in California and here. Years of hearing backhanded comments about my skills in the kitchen.
Are you sure you can cook French cuisine, Freya?
We don’t want it to be too spicy, Freya.
They’re all the same. Asshole, racist chefs on some egotistical power trip, and they all treat me the same. They treat all women, especially women of color, the same. And I’m sick of it.
As I stomp through the kitchen toward the door, one of the female cooks at the back smirks at me and whispers, “Bravo.”
Grabbing my things from my locker, I shove them in my backpack with a huff and burst through the door and into the morning air.
That kitchen will be just fine without me.
There are enough talented cooks in there to make it work.
And the event we’re catering for isn’t as high class as that chauvinistic chef wants to believe it is.
I was practically killing myself all morning for nothing.
Tossing my purse over my shoulder, I make my way toward the Métro line. My hand itches to reach for my phone and text Julian and Archer to tell them what I’ve done, but I’d rather do it in person. Besides, I’m still too strung out on this entire incident.
Ever since Julian and Archer offered to invest in my restaurant, I’ve been questioning myself and if taking the money is the right thing to do. I want to work for it. I want to earn it. I want it to be my accomplishment.
And now, after telling that asshole chef that I quit, I know that taking this money and opening my own restaurant is my accomplishment. I have earned it. I have worked tirelessly for years, underappreciated, underrecognized, in someone else’s kitchen, and now it’s my time.
I have no shame for letting them invest in the restaurant, because I know what they are really investing in is me.
I have proven my integrity, my work ethic, my passion, and just how much I want this. The good I’ve put into the universe is coming back to me. The universe brought these two into my life, and it’s rewarding me for everything I’ve done so far.
I earned this, and I’m going to celebrate it.
I practically run the entire way to the Métro and from it to Julian and Archer’s apartment building.
I don’t think I’ve ever been more eager to see them.
I can already picture Julian standing in his kitchen, watering the collection of plants along his window, feeding Onyx on the kitchen counter, ignoring just how gross and unsanitary that is.
The doorman recognizes me immediately, giving me a smile and a nod as he opens the door for me, ushering me inside. I feel like a sweaty, gross mess, still in my uniform, black T-shirt, black pants, ugly sneakers. But I don’t care, and I know they won’t either.
In fact, I’m so excited to get to them, I take the elevator. My frustration has turned into excitement and exhilaration. When the doors open, I step inside, punching the button for the sixth floor, Julian’s apartment.
In some ways, this feels like the first day of my life, finally letting go of those menial jobs that don’t pay enough and work me too hard. My future is suddenly stretched out before me, within my grasp, and all I have to do is reach out and take it.
Today, I pick my restaurant. Tomorrow, we can shop for the things to go in it.
I know there are many tiresome months ahead, dealing with licenses and permits, and I won’t pretend that breaking into the culinary scene in Paris will be easy, but it’s only a matter of time before those doors open, and I’m living my dream.
Bouncing on the balls of my feet, I wait for the elevator to deliver me to the top floor, and when the doors open, I practically jog to Julian’s front door, rapping my knuckles on it excitedly. But when the door opens and it’s Archer standing behind it, I freeze, my jaw hanging open in surprise.
“Oh, hey, Chef,” he says in a sleepy tone, as if he’s just woken up. His hair is still matted from the pillow, his eyes still swollen from sleep.
Suddenly there’s a flurry of emotions bubbling up inside me that I can’t quite identify. Jealousy. Bitterness. Betrayal.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, glancing behind him to see where Julian might be.
In only a pair of sweatpants, Archer runs his fingers through his mess of brown curls. “Uh, I crashed here last night.”
“You guys were together without me?” I stammer, hating the way those words sound as they come out of my mouth. I sound insecure and jealous. I don’t like it.
He stutters uncomfortably again. “Why don’t you come in?”
Suddenly, worry floods my mind like a toxic fume.
What if they are more into each other than they are into me?
What if they don’t want me to be a part of this at all?
What if I’m the third wheel? My mind is racing through every interaction we’ve had.
That can’t be true, right? They both want me. I’m part of this.
As I step into Julian’s apartment, I glance around as if I’ll somehow be able to sleuth the clues and put together exactly what happened between the two of them. Did they have sex without me? Is this because I said I wasn’t ready?
“Who was it?” Julian asks before stepping into the living room with wet hair like he’s just gotten out of the shower. His eyes find me and widen with shock.
“It’s Freya,” Archer says slowly and uncomfortably.
The first thing I really notice is that Julian appears more apologetic than Archer, which is a bit surprising. He reaches a hand toward me. I don’t even have to ask what’s going on. He can read it on my face.
“Nothing happened,” he says in a defensive tone.
My brows furrow as I stare at him.
Behind me, Archer adds, “Well, some things happened.”
“What kinds of things?” I ask.
“Not sex,” Julian replies, as if that makes everything okay.
Not sex could be a lot of things. Not sex could be admissions of love. Not sex could be intimacy that I’m not a part of.
Suddenly, this threesome-throuple situation feels far more overwhelming than I think I can manage. “Am I interrupting?” I’m slowly moving back toward the door without realizing it.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Archer says as he rushes to put his body between me and the exit. “Of course you’re not interrupting.”
“Then what is happening?” I ask with a quiver in my voice.
“Last night, I was just—I was having a rough night, so I went to the club to find Julian, and we…” His voice trails off, and I have to squeeze my eyes shut, because the image and the knowledge are all too hard, too much to bear.
“You know what? I don’t want to know,” I argue. “I think that this is just too complicated. Three people in a relationship. I don’t know how to do this without feeling jealous when you two are together without me. I just—I need to leave. I don’t think this is going to work.”
As I reach for the door, Archer grabs my hand and tosses me over his shoulder. I shriek as the room turns upside down.
“Archer! Put me down!”
“No, I’m sorry,” he replies. “I’m kidnapping you.”
“Archer, I’m serious,” I cry, clinging to his body.
He eventually deposits me on the couch, dropping me with a bounce. Then, kneeling on the floor between my legs, he holds my chin in his finger. The loose hairs from my bun are in my face, and I stare through them at the infuriatingly handsome man in front of me.
“Are you always so intense?” I snap.