Chapter 38 The Truth Isn’t Yum
The Truth Isn’t Yum
— T ODAY —
Leaving Barb in the room, I walk downstairs. Ian has a couple of hours of work to do, and I miss him. I miss him so much, it makes me wonder what exactly awaits me after tomorrow, once the ICCE is over and we go back to our hometowns. We haven’t properly discussed it besides his brief attempt at making me spill the truth about his dad, but we’ll need to make some decisions, possibly a compromise or two, sooner than later.
I walk through the hall, filled to the brim with people, then along the small corridor and into the kitchen, immediately halting as I notice wide shoulders, dark hair, an even darker aura around him. William fucking Roberts.
He turns around, his brows slightly rising as he takes me in. “Amelie.”
“I’m just—” I take a step back. “I’ll come back later.”
“Please, come in. We’re bound to have a conversation anyway, don’t you think?”
Are we? Can’t we just never talk? Never look at each other again? Can’t we simply pretend the other doesn’t exist and go about our lives?
No, we can’t. Because of Ian. And though I hate this man, I love Ian more.
Hyperaware of the danger, I make my way to the kettle, urging my legs to cooperate. Once I’ve poured my tea, I lean my back against the counter and turn to William.
He’s cooking something—fish, by the look of it. And badly, by the smell of it. “Just making one of my specialties for Julia Banks. Have you met her? Lovely English chef.”
The muscles of his back and arms strain against his dark shirt as he whips the pan back and forth. God, the flame’s so high, he’s basically murdering that piece of salmon. When he turns to me, I shake my head.
“She’s a big fan of my saumon .”
“Probably because the burned bits cover most of the actual taste.”
With a chuckle, he turns to me. “Hmm. It looks like my son didn’t change your mind about our restaurant, then.” He turns the stove off and sets the salmon on a plate, then adds asparagus and roasted fingerling potatoes. He mirrors my position on the other side of the island, arms crossed and a friendly expression that quickly disappears. “So, what are we going to do about this?”
God, the audacity of this man. He speaks as if we’re part of the same team, as if we’re “together” in this. We’re not. We’re as against each other as one could be.
“Nothing?” He nods. “Well, I’d much rather have you out of Ian’s life. You certainly don’t deserve him, since you didn’t choose him when given the chance.”
“And you deserve him?”
He smiles. “I’m his father.”
“Parents need to deserve their children too.”
He steps forward, his arms uncrossing as he studies me with interest. “Your mom. She left you, didn’t she?” When I say nothing, he nods. “Right. And I can’t imagine growing up with Hammond was that much fun.”
“What’s your point, William?” I ask, barely containing a hiss.
“Your mother abandoned you. Your father is—well, Le Dictateur, and your fiancé left you the day of your wedding.” His sharklike eyes run over me, scanning me so deeply, it’s almost as if he can see under my skin. “You’re damaged. Insecure, broken. That’s probably why you were unable to accept my son’s love when it most mattered.” I flinch, but he continues as if he’s not even talking to me. “Do you have any idea how badly you broke his heart? You’ll hurt him again, Amelie, and after his mother, then that wretched woman he made me hire, then you, he’s been through enough.”
I look down at the metal counter with a sigh. God, do I wish this man were just evil. Plain evil. If he were, I would have told Ian everything the moment I figured out who his father was. But he’s not. He cares about his son greatly. He’d do anything for Ian, and I’m sure from where he’s standing his actions are more than justified. His son got his heart broken by Ella, then lost his mom right after that. And then I did what I did.
“I have no intention of hurting Ian. But I know you think I will anyway, and hell, I might. I can’t see the future.” When his jaw sets, I tuck some hair behind my ear and whisper, “But he’s not weak. He’s not this broken, defenseless person you make him out to be. He doesn’t need you to fight his battles, and if he knew how you do it, he’d be appalled. Because your son is good.”
“I agree.” He lightly taps his hand on the counter. “And because he’s so good, he deserves someone who chooses him from the get-go. So you’ll break it off. He’ll find someone better, and—”
“William,” I interrupt. I straighten, then calmly study his cold smile. “I won’t leave Ian’s life. There’s nothing you can do, nothing you can threaten me with that would make me go away. In fact, I’m only willing to lie about what happened between you and me because I don’t want your son to lose you. That is as far as I’ll go to accommodate you. For him. Only for him.”
“He’ll never marry you,” he taunts. “Especially not after the number you did on him. He’s done with all that, Amelie.”
“I don’t care.”
A grim shadow passes over his face. “Really? And what happens five years from now, when all your friends are married and you want to wear a pretty white dress?”
“Your son gave me the perfect dress already,” I say as I slowly stir my tea. “I’ll just wear it for him.”
“Amelie—”
“I thought I smelled rat,” comes from the kitchen entrance. Both William and I turn around, and my father slowly makes his way to us, his glare not focused on me for once. “I should have known it was the work of a Roberts in the kitchen.”
Barely holding back a chuckle, I glance at the honey-brown liquid in my mug.
“Hammond,” William says, returning to his piece of salmon. “Aren’t you a little too old for these games?”
“ Bien s?r. Amelie?”
“What, you want me to roast him?” I ask with a sly smile. “He’d probably end up burning that too.”
William comes closer, the smell of his cologne nauseating, especially together with the fish he’s holding. “Did you tell your father about our dinner, Amelie?”
Holy fuck. I feel my dad’s wide eyes scan the side of my face and, gripping my mug tighter, I prepare for his face to turn red and his voice to sharpen as he scolds me.
“If you touched my daughter—”
“ Dad ,” I squeal. “A professional dinner is what he means.” If it’s in the celestial plan that I should die of a stroke, I can’t think of a better moment. Unfortunately, nothing happens as my face reaches the temperature of burning briquettes. “And anyway, if he did touch me, you’d know, because I would have scrubbed myself raw.” I turn around. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
My phone beeps and, after taking it out of my pocket, I glance at the screen.
Ian:
Come to my room, beautiful?
Saved by Ian again.
Releasing a pent-up breath, I set my tea down and leave the kitchen. I don’t feel like Earl Grey now anyway; maybe whiskey. Whatever solution Ian and I settle on for our future, it’ll have to be far away from his father, or I’ll end up giving myself an ulcer.
Pushing the thought to a remote corner of my brain, I climb the stairs and glance down at my phone. The two hours he needed to take care of work might just be worth seeing his name on my screen again.
God, how I’ve missed it.
The hotel is as busy as always, even more so today, with the guest lecture William Roberts and my father will bestow upon us in half an hour. Maybe there’s a way I can avoid it altogether without Ian getting suspicious.
When I knock on his door, he shouts that it’s open, so I quickly make my way in. He’s sitting on the armchair by the window, his eyes hard as he studies me with a less than pleased expression.
My heart skips a beat.
“Hey…” I tentatively step forward, stopping after a couple of steps. “What’s up?”
“What happened between you and my father, Amelie?”
I swallow, bile rising up my throat as I try to keep a blank expression on my face. He caught us. He knows what’s going on, and now he’ll lose everything. His father, his restaurant, and eventually me.
“Nothing,” I whisper as I sit on the bed. “Wh-why do you ask?”
“You know my father. You’ve met him before today.” He stands, then walks up to me. He’s the most serious I’ve ever seen him, though also strangely calm, while there’s sweat running down my back and a whole herd of horses in my chest. “Do you really think I haven’t noticed how distressed you were when you met him? Not hateful, not angry, not hostile. You were afraid—more than that, you were terrified.”
“No, Ian—” I attempt, but he raises his hand.
“Spare me.” His neutral expression shifts to anger. “You were terrified. As you were after talking to Ella. And as you are every time I ask you about your restaurant’s failure.”
My head spins, and he turns away as he walks to his open suitcase on the luggage rack. He grabs something out of it, and when he drops it on the desk, my heart stops.
Yum magazine. The glossy cover with a picture of me and my restaurant stares back at me, familiar and disturbing, as heat creeps up my neck and cheeks.
“I asked Ella for her copy.” He crosses his arms and stares at me for a few seconds. “Imagine my surprise when she mentioned she cooked dinner for you and my father about four months ago.”
Oh, fuck.
My heart beats out of my chest, sweat dampening my upper lip as my hands shake. I’ve seen Ian upset before, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to deal with the shitstorm that’s about to hit me.
I stand, the muscles of my legs shaking with adrenaline and fear, and go to him. Grabbing hold of his arm, I whisper, “Ian, whatever she said—nothing happened, okay?”
“Nothing?” he asks.
“ Nothing ,” I repeat slowly, staring deep into his eyes. It looks like the dinner is all he’s aware of, and if I keep it that way, then my deal with William stands. I can still protect Ian. “He wanted to bury the hatchet. We had dinner. That’s it.”
“Are you sure nothing happened?” he asks, and this time uncertainty makes my head spin. He knows more than what he’s telling me—but how?
Stepping to the side, he grabs the magazine and sits down. He scrolls through the pages, then folds it and clears his voice. “?‘Amelie Preston, daughter of Hammond Preston, has failed in her first business venture. The thirty-year-old woman, who’s been working for her father, arguably the biggest chef of fine French cuisine in the country, is now closing down Amelie’s Bistro after merely two months of activity.’?”
“Ian…” I whisper, my fingers trembling as I grip the desk.
“You’re right. We don’t need the introduction. We know who you are.” He hums, his eyes scrolling through the lines of text. “?‘Her opening was pushed four times, costing her most of her bookings. According to various sources, her restaurant didn’t get approved for a liquor license, then was given an insufficient grade by health inspectors.’?”
I press my lips together tightly, the humiliation still making me feel like I’m being roasted on high flames.
“Curious, don’t you think?” he asks. “You’re not a newbie. I’m sure you’ve cleaned a kitchen a billion times before. You must have seen plenty of inspections too. Even weirder that you were denied a liquor license.”
God, I’m going to faint.
“?‘Amelie finally managed to open her restaurant a month after she originally intended to,’?” Ian keeps reading. “?‘More than a few of us were surprised when the previous member of La Brasserie’s successful kitchen got bombed with negative reviews, bringing her Yelp score to 1.8.’?”
Once Ian sets the magazine down on his thigh, I sit on the edge of the bed, my hands on my lap as my eyes burn a hole in the floor. No point in trying to lie more, not until I know for a fact how much of this he’s put together.
“1.8, Amelie. I’m pretty sure Burgerman scores higher than that,” he says. When I say nothing, he resumes reading. “?‘The critics’ opinion didn’t go much better, with four different insufficient scores across the board.’?”
He throws me a dubious look, then continues reading. “?‘And proving herself unprepared for all that running a restaurant entails, her lack of marketing skills and inability to promote her new restaurant quickly sank her, resulting in an embarrassing ordeal for the pristine line of Preston chefs.’?”
He snaps the magazine closed, then sets his consuming gaze on me. “Then the article goes on to speak poorly of your personal life. Which, if you ask me, they deserve to be sued for. Being left at the altar hardly has anything to do with your skills as a chef. But anyway…” He takes his phone out of his pocket. “Guess what? My dad’s real close with the director of Yum magazine, so I called him. I asked who the critics were, and he could only remember two. Interesting fact?”
Let me guess. They’re friends of his father.
He nods as if he’s read my mind. “And you know what else? Danny—that’s my dad’s friend at Yum magazine—said he remembered the article, because when they do these kinds of stories, they always gather comments from people who’ve eaten at the restaurants to back up their articles.” His face softens as he lightly smiles. “Congratulations, Amelie. Not one single person who they reached out to had anything bad to say about you. They had the meal of their lives at Amelie’s Bistro.”
A sob shakes my shoulders, then another, and another, until I’m gasping for air and drowning in tears. My chest clenches painfully at every new memory crowding my mind. At the panic that rose inside me when the first reviews came, at the sleepless nights spent hoping it was all just a bad dream and not me crashing against a wall at full speed without the power to stop it.
The weight on the bed shifts, and Ian’s lips trail along the side of my head, one of his hands touching my cheek and the other one pressing me against him. He holds me there, in that same position, until I cry all my pain out, until my wails turn into soft whimpers, my face so bloated I can barely see and a persistent pain settling in my temples.
“If, when you say ‘nothing happened,’ you mean you didn’t kiss him, sleep with him, use my father as a rebound after Frank, I believe you,” Ian eventually says as he hands me a tissue. “But it’s time to tell me the truth, Amelie, because something definitely happened.”