Chapter 35
Harper
Wow, he said please. He’s being polite. And he asked, no, requested I join him. Which should alert everyone that something's wrong.
Did I say wrong? I mean, something has changed.
On the other hand, I'm grateful he didn’t order me to walk over, as he would have if I were part of his team.
Which leaves me in a bit of a pickle.
Because I am. But also, I'm his wife.
This working together while being married to each other is going to be trickier than I expected.
Very aware of the curious looks of the others in the kitchen, I smooth back my hair, making sure it’s all tucked under the skull cap I wear at work. Then I walk over to him. When I reach him, I turn to face the kitchen.
Every single person in the kitchen is staring at us.
Other than Henrik, no one knows why the two of us were supposed to have the first part of the day off. I swallow. I knew this moment was coming, but standing here at the center of the brigade’s attention is deeply uncomfortable.
I begin to edge to the side, hoping to put a little distance between us.
James doesn’t allow it.
His arm comes around my shoulders. He pulls me firmly against him, tucking me into his side as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
An audible gasp runs through the room.
My cheeks burst into flames.
As the only woman in the kitchen, one of the youngest members of the team, and the sous chef, I already have more to prove than anyone else here. I worry how this will look to the others. My stomach knots with nerves.
Once they know we’re married, what will they think?
That I slept with the boss to get my position?
That my authority in the kitchen is a joke?
My pulse thuds at my temples. My heart batters my ribs.
No.
I’m not going to panic. I have nothing to defend. Nothing to feel guilty about.
I put in the hours. I fought my way through some of the most demanding kitchens in the country to get here. I earned my place on this brigade.
I lift my head. Square my shoulders. Draw in a steady breath.
I know my worth. I’ve worked too hard to get here.
I raise my chin, decision made to take control of the moment. “James and I are married.”
This time, there’s pin-drop silence. For a few seconds, the team stares at me. Some of them seem not quite able to digest what I said.
Then as realization dawns, the expressions on their faces shift from incomprehension to surprise, to some of them wearing smirks.
"As of today, Harper is my wife. She’s also my sous chef. She has more than earned her spot. If any of you treat her with disrespect, you’re off the team."
He glances around the room, intent on his face. His jaw is set. His eyes are flinty. No one’s going to mess with what he says. At least, not when he’s in the restaurant. And when he isn’t? I’m strong enough to stand up for myself.
There’s silence again. And speculation on most faces. I can almost hear them thinking out loud about what this means for the team. Once again, I decide to take the lead.
"As many of you are aware, James is looking to recruit a head chef for his new restaurant in London."
I look around the team, making sure to meet their eyes.
"My marrying him does not mean he’s going to give that position to me. I wish it were that easy, but it’s not.”
I glance at Mark.
“I’ll compete for the position with external talent. As James’ wife, I expect to be tested twice as hard.”
A couple of people chuckle.
I take a step forward, and James releases me. He must realize I need to face the kitchen on my own terms. I need to redraw the lines yet keep them the same. It’s the only way to keep my dynamic with the team.
"If I get that position, it will be because I outcooked everyone in this room, including the man I married."
Nervous laughter. Then, Mark walks over to us. He holds out his hand. "Congratulations."
I walk into James’ penthouse at Hyde Park. It’s my new home.
I’m so exhausted, I can barely put one foot in front of the other. That service, combined with the stress of having to break the news of our marriage to the kitchen—plus, it's my wedding day!— did me in. He ordered us a car to get here, and I half-napped on my way over.
It’s a huge, luxurious space.
For a moment, my curiosity pushes aside the exhaustion that’s been sitting in my bones all day. I step farther inside and slowly turn in a circle, trying to take it all in.
There’s no missing the monochrome severity of the place. Or the size.
It’s massive. At least five times the size of the apartment I technically still share with Briar and Freya.
The scale of it makes me feel oddly small.
Back home, every corner was filled with something familiar. Freya’s books stacked in untidy piles, Briar’s mugs cluttering the counter, the couch that sagged in the middle because we all curled up there too many times.
Here, the air feels different. Still. Quiet.
Too quiet.
Instead of the warm, lived-in comfort of our apartment, James’s place feels almost clinical. Severe. Like the man himself.
Dark walnut floors stretch across the room, polished to a muted sheen. The walls are painted a gunmetal gray, so flat they seem to swallow the light rather than reflect it. A massive gray sectional faces what must be a hundred-inch television mounted on the opposite wall like a black void.
There’s no coffee table to soften the space. No rug. No paintings. No photographs.
No color anywhere.
Just gray. More gray. And the occasional gleam of black or steel.
I shiver.
The impersonal atmosphere unsettles me in a way I can’t quite explain. I tuck my handbag closer to my side and glance toward the staircase that rises to the upper floor where the bedrooms must be.
This is where I live now.
The thought lands strangely in my chest.
On the far side of the room, a long kitchen island stretches across the space like a minimalist altar.
Behind it sits a professional-grade range that belongs in a restaurant rather than a home. I suppose, it makes sense. This is the apartment of a Michelin-star chef.
But why does it feel so…empty?
He stands by the doorway with his hands in his pockets, quietly watching me take it all in.
I can feel his gaze on me. He never misses anything. I’m sure he’s studying my reactions to his home.
I try not to show how out of my depth I feel.
Instead, I look around more carefully, trying to understand the space. Trying to see if the details of his home will tell me something more about the man I’ve married.
Flanking the range are seamless gray cabinets, their surfaces so smooth, they almost look like a single, continuous wall. Everything concealed. Everything hidden. Everything controlled. Just like the man, himself.
Every surface gleams.
Every line is knife straight.
Every angle deliberate.
It feels less like a home and more like a high-end hotel suite—expensive, pristine, untouched.
As if no one lives here. As if James simply passes through between shifts.
Which probably isn’t far from the truth.
A small ache spreads through my chest. The apartment I shared with my sister and my niece was cramped and messy.
But it was home.
This penthouse feels too far removed from reality. Too sterile. Too much like a temporary pitstop.
The only warmth in the entire apartment comes from the city lights glittering through the floor-to-ceiling glass doors that span one entire wall.
Beyond them, a balcony overlooks London.
I step closer to the windows, drawn to the view.
There’s a meow, and the next moment, something warm does a figure eight around my legs. Strike what I said earlier. Warmth in the apartment also comes from a cat. James’ cat.
James Hamilton, terrifying chef, known for reducing grown adults to tears with his scathing criticism of their dishes, has a cat?
"You have a pet?" I crouch down slowly. The black cat with white paws watches me with suspicious blue eyes, tail twitching.
"She’s a rescue."
I extend my hand, knuckles first, letting her sniff.
She stays still, clearly considering how to react.
“Watch out, she's not—"
She headbutts my fingers and rubs against my palm.
"—friendly." There's genuine surprise in his voice.
I scratch behind her ears, right in that sweet spot, and she leans into it, purring.
"What's your name, gorgeous?" The baby voice comes out automatically. I can't help it with cats.
Wow… James. Hamilton. Has. A. Cat.
Who'd have thought the Ice Commander would rescue something this small and vulnerable?
"Her name is Malice."
"Malice?" I look up at him, disbelieving. "You named your cat Malice?"
"I found her in the alley behind The Edge. Maybe a few weeks old, half-starved, hiding near the bins. When I picked her up, she sank her claws into my hand and drew blood." His mouth quirks slightly. "She's lived up to her name ever since."
"Just like you," I mutter under my breath.
"Excuse me?" The tips of his ears go white.
"I said she's beautiful." And she is, with her sleek black fur, those piercing blue eyes, and a small, jagged scar across her pink nose that only adds character. She's purring now, properly, that deep rumbling sound cats make when they're truly content.
Then she jumps up and sinks her claws into my calf.
"Ow!" I wince on reflex.
"Malice. No." James' voice drops to that commanding tone that works on his team in the kitchen.
The cat freezes. Looks at him. There's a moment of silent standoff. Alpha predator versus tiny predator. Somehow, James wins.
Malice releases my leg, sits back on her haunches, and starts grooming her paw like she meant to do that all along.
"She does that when she's happy," James says. "Overstimulation. She doesn't know her own strength."
Malice ignores this, gives me one long, slow blink. The cat equivalent of "I love you," then stalks toward the kitchen with her tail high.
James follows, like this is routine. She's waiting by her bowl. It’s stainless steel, pristine, clean.
There’s also a cat water fountain that probably cost more than my last paycheck.