Chapter 15 #2
I might not be ready to battle it out with him yet, but I need to be prepared when I do.
I need my arguments airtight, my reasoning unassailable, my passion organized into something he can't dismiss as emotional or impulsive or the product of his daughter being too young to understand how the business works.
I stifle a yawn and take a sip of tea, the lavender fragrance rising with the steam, warming my hands through the ceramic mug. I pull my cardigan tighter around my shoulders and flip through the pages again, making another note in the margin.
There's a balance in keeping the classics that regulars love while bringing fresh energy, new perspectives.
There's nothing wrong with a comfortable favorite, but the menu should change with the seasons.
It should have the stable favorites, but also the flexibility to highlight what's available at the markets right now, what the farmers are most excited about.
And a bit of soul wouldn't hurt either. Some heart underneath all the technical precision.
I doodle a small sketch in the corner of the page, a plating idea for the cassoulet I'm not ready to give up on. Maybe if I can prove to him that it works, that it's refined enough for the flagship, that it won't alienate the clientele, he'll reconsider.
The sound of the kitchen door opening snaps me out of my thoughts and I look up, heart jumping into my throat, half-expecting to see Alex coming to check on me because he noticed I was still here.
It's Olivier.
What the hell?
"Uh, hi," I say, unable to keep the surprise out of my voice. I set down my pen and straighten up. "Sorry, I'm working right now. This area is staff only, you're not supposed to be back here."
"Come on, Isabelle. Don’t be such a stickler for the rules." He steps fully into the kitchen and immediately stumbles slightly, catching himself on the doorframe with one hand. His tie is loosened, his shirt untucked on one side, his eyes unfocused. He's massively drunk.
My spine straightens immediately. "You need to leave, Olivier. Right now. As I said, I'm working and this isn't a space for guests. Staff only."
He rolls his eyes, waving a hand dismissively. "Relax, Isabelle, you're so uptight. I just wanted to say goodbye. I'm leaving tomorrow morning, as you know. I thought we should talk before I go."
He's such a repulsive man. Clammy and entitled, with that insufferable 'my family has lawyers on retainer and I've never heard the word no' energy radiating off him.
A spineless little weasel in expensive clothes.
Add him to the fucking list of things my father thinks are good for me, right alongside the gutted menu and the New York restaurant I'm apparently not trusted to actually run.
"And," he continues, taking a few unsteady steps further into the kitchen, one hand trailing along the counter like he needs it for balance. “You know, I've been trying to see you all week. But you won't see me. You won't even give me the time of day. Even your dad sees me. Your dad likes me."
I stay where I am, keeping the island between us like a barrier.
"Well I don't really care what my father thinks, so there's your first mistake.
As I said, I'm not interested in you. So we don't need to say goodbye.
You should really learn to accept the word no.
It might serve you well in the long run. "
His eyes widen and his face flushes darker, red creeping up from his collar. "Don't fucking accuse me of—"
"I'll do as I please," I cut him off, keeping my voice level. "Now kindly get the hell out of my kitchen before I call security."
He shakes his head and laughs. "You know what I find really funny?
You won't even talk to me. You won't even try to get to know me.
I'm a nice guy, Isabelle. I'm successful, I'm connected, your father approves of me.
And instead, you can't seem to stay away from that guy your father hired to babysit you. What's his name again? Alex?"
Ice runs down my spine, cold and sharp.
"What on earth are you talking about?" I keep my voice carefully controlled, but my heart is pounding now.
He smiles, and it's such an ugly expression.
Triumphant and mean and pleased with himself.
"I saw you. Opening night I went to your cottage with flowers.
Spent probably three hundred dollars on this beautiful arrangement, thought I'd surprise you, be romantic.
And I saw you two. I saw you go into his cottage.
I saw you kiss him on his porch like some teenager sneaking around. "
He takes another step closer, swaying slightly. "And I know your father would fucking destroy Alex if he knew. Jean-Pierre already told me about the deal, about how he's bankrolling Alex's restaurant. You think your dad's going to keep that funding when he finds out Alex fucked his daughter?"
Now I'm really pissed. The fear is still there, coiling tight in my stomach, making my hands shake, but rage is winning. White-hot fury that this pathetic excuse for a man thinks he has any power over me, that he thinks he can threaten me, threaten Alex, and I'll just roll over.
"You pathetic little worm," I say, and my voice is shaking but not from fear. "You really are a whiny, spineless, entitled piece of shit, aren't you? That's your big play? You're going to run to my daddy like a tattling child because I won't sleep with you?"
He looks angrier now, the flush spreading down his neck, his jaw clenching. "Why wouldn't I? There's no shame in it. There's a hell of a lot more shame in what you've been doing. Slutting around with hired help like a bitch in heat, embarrassing yourself, embarrassing your family."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Shock and fury spring up in equal measure, so intense I can barely breathe through it.
No one has ever spoken to me like this in my entire life.
Not in kitchens where I've dealt with sexist chefs and condescending line cooks, not in culinary school where I had to fight twice as hard for half the recognition.
And I'm equal parts enraged and shocked enough that I hate that I can feel wetness starting to prick at my eyes, that sharp sting that comes before tears.
Something about how jarring this is, how violating it feels to have someone speak to me this way in my own kitchen, in the space I've built and protected and made safe.
"How dare you speak to me like that," I manage. I'm gripping my pen so hard my knuckles are white, and I consider throwing it at him like a weapon. Preferably aiming for an eyeball.
He laughs, bitter and harsh and ugly. "I'll talk to you any fucking way I like, Isabelle. You think you're so special? You think you're untouchable because daddy gave you a restaurant to play with?"
He stumbles closer and I move back instinctively, my hip hitting the edge of the prep table hard enough to hurt. The kitchen suddenly feels very isolated, very far from where Margot might still be working late, very far from anywhere someone might hear me.
"So how about this," he says. "You fuck me, and I don't say anything to your dad. Simple as that. We both get what we want."
I stare at him, genuinely speechless for a moment. "You're out of your mind."
"Oh, relax," he says, waving a hand dismissively.
"You're so fucking dramatic, Isabelle. I'm not threatening you.
Jesus Christ. I'm offering you a deal that benefits both of us.
You get to keep your loser boyfriend safe, you get to have your little secret, and I get what I came here for. See? Win-win. Everyone's happy."
The casual way he says it, like he's negotiating a business transaction, like my body is just another item on a contract to be bargained over, makes my stomach turn.
"I am not sleeping with you," I say, and my voice is shaking now. "And if you even think about touching Alex's deal, if you even think about saying one word to my father—"
"You'll what?" he interrupts, stepping closer.
He's only a few feet away now, close enough that I can smell the wine on his breath, stale and sour.
"Come on, Isabelle. Be smart about this.
One night, nobody has to know, and your little boyfriend gets to keep his restaurant.
Or you can say no, and I tell your dad everything, and Alex loses his deal. Your choice."
I'm about to lose my shit when the kitchen door opens behind him with a loud metallic click that echoes through the empty space.