CHAPTER 6
Sebastian
“… MAKE SURE OUR EXPENSES ARE IN LINE WITH OUR financial goals…”
I twirled a pen between my fingers as Allen, the chief financial officer, droned on. I’d strategically picked my seat so I could stare out the windows while the rest of the execs went over last quarter’s numbers.
I hated these meetings, but as the CMO, I was required to attend them.
I held back a groan as Allen flipped to slide fifty-whatever of his PowerPoint.
It was a gorgeous day. Golden sunshine, seventy-three degrees with a gentle breeze, and the buzz of a city returning to life after Labor Day weekend.
I should be outside, soaking up the last bit of warmth in Central Park, or at least in a kitchen, perfecting my scallop recipe. Instead, I was wasting my time in an overly air-conditioned building, listening to shit I couldn’t care less about.
My recipe had to be missing an ingredient. I’d checked and triple-checked the rest of the ingredients. Their ratio was spot on, which meant—
“Sebastian.” My father’s sharp voice brought my attention back to the boardroom.
I dragged my eyes away from the skyscrapers outside to find the whole table staring at me. “Yes?”
“Please.” My father leaned back and laced his fingers together. “Share your thoughts on what we were discussing. I’d love to hear them.”
I sighed, my mind still on the scallops, but I obliged.
“We’re spending too much on operating costs for restaurants in the red.
One of the simplest ways to cut expenses is to reduce food waste.
We can partner with local charities who could benefit from the extra food.
We’ll emphasize the no-food-waste angle for marketing, get good PR for the charity work, help feed the community we’re part of, and reduce costs all at once. Four for four.”
I met my father’s gaze head-on, and the rest of the room held a collective breath as his brow furrowed.
He loved doing this shit—calling me out when I least expected it to see if I was paying attention (rarely) and, if not, whether I had the chops to land on my feet anyway (always).
I was bored to tears, but it didn’t take a genius to skim a PowerPoint slide, and whoever was sweating most profusely at the moment was the person who last spoke. That meant the topic at hand was related to their job. Today’s winner was the CFO, who’d been harping about operating costs for months.
“Good,” my father said. He nodded at his head of operations. “Corbin, put together a plan for implementing those changes. Now, talk to me about our supply chain. What’s the latest…”
I tuned him out again and checked the clock.
How had it been only thirty minutes? I could’ve sworn I’d been trapped in here for at least three hours.
On the bright side, this was my last internal commitment for the day. Maya and I were scheduled to meet later to nail down a plan for the product collab, but at least that wouldn’t be boring.
Nothing with her ever was.
My mind wandered back to Friday night, its focus torn between the way she’d eviscerated me, her subsequent apology, and, strangely enough, Xavier’s insistence on setting her up with Killian. I’d had three nights to think about it, and it was still the stupidest idea I’d ever heard.
Not that I thought about it a lot. It just so happened to pop up now and then, like an annoying little gnat that couldn’t take a hint.
I lowered my hand and tapped my pen against the table until my father’s glare forced me to stop.
Half an hour later, the meeting finally, blessedly ended.
I pushed my chair back and headed straight for the door, but my father stopped me before I could escape.
“Sebastian. Let’s talk.”
Dammit. I eyed the exit with longing. “About?”
“Your proposal.”
My gaze snapped up to meet his, and it took all my willpower to keep my expression neutral. “And?”
I’d submitted my proposal months ago. This was his first time acknowledging it, so I wasn’t getting my hopes up. But maybe…
“It’s not a good idea.” He stood and walked over.
He was technically two inches shorter than me, but he’d towered over me my entire life, his shadow stifling my every attempt to break free.
“You’re too valuable as CMO. One day, you’re going to lead this company, and you can’t do that if you waste your time toiling away in a kitchen instead of here.
Making the decisions.” He rapped his knuckles against the table.
A slow, bitter burn simmered in my gut. “Waste my time? That’s an interesting way to devalue the work your entire company is built on.”
“I’m not devaluing it. The actual chefs? They’re meant to be running kitchens, not boardrooms. You’re the opposite.” My father’s eyes flashed. “You have an MBA, for fuck’s sake. I didn’t pay for all that schooling only for you to chop vegetables and grill meat for the rest of your life.”
The burn solidified into a white-hot flash of fury. “I also went to culinary school. There’s more to the job than chopping vegetables and grilling meat. You, of all people, should know that.”
I’d convinced my parents to let me attend culinary school so I could “get a better understanding of the craft side of the business.” In reality, I’d gone because I wanted to. Learning knife skills and different cooking techniques was infinitely more interesting than earning a boring MBA.
They’d agreed, as long as I graduated top of my class from business school first, which I had. I took more pride in my culinary degree than my MBA, but the former would be a waste if I didn’t use it.
“It doesn’t matter. No is no.” My father’s face hardened. “Don’t forget what happened the last time you insisted on running a kitchen. It’s a miracle we survived.”
His words landed like a punch in the gut. A lifetime of practice kept me from visibly betraying my emotions, but inside, my chest tightened to the point of suffocation.
Years ago, I’d overseen the soft opening of one of our restaurants in the city. It’d been my first time taking charge of the food, and it’d ended with a high-profile guest literally dropping dead in the middle of dinner.
The coroner had attributed his death to anaphylactic shock from a peanut allergy. I was ninety-nine percent sure we hadn’t prepared his food anywhere near peanuts—he had to have been exposed elsewhere—but it didn’t matter.
The remaining one percent of uncertainty had sent me spiraling, and the resulting media frenzy had tanked our stocks until the public’s short attention span and our aggressive PR efforts dragged the company back from the brink of disaster.
It’d taken dozens of therapy sessions—plus a few less healthy coping mechanisms—to dull the horror of that night.
I’d put on a brave face for the world, but my father knew how hard I’d fought to step foot in a kitchen again without panicking.
He knew, and he still used it as a weapon against me.
My hands curled into fists. I wanted to slam them into the table just so I had something solid to push back on, but if I did that—if I showed any outburst of emotion—he’d win.
“Seb.” My father’s frown melted into a sigh. “I’m not trying to be the bad guy here. You might hate me for this now, but you’ll thank me in the long run.”
“Don’t,” I said, my voice sharp. “If you don’t want me to be a chef because you feel it’s beneath the Laurent name, then stick to that. But don’t try to justify it as some act of benevolence. This has always been about your ego, nothing else.”
His eyes flashed again. “You have no fucking idea what this is about.”
“Then enlighten me.” When he fell silent, I barked out a rough laugh. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
I walked out. He didn’t stop me, but his words followed me down the hall and out onto the sidewalk, where even the sun couldn’t ward off a sudden chill.
Dots danced before my vision. A familiar knot coiled around my chest, and I had to force in several deep breaths to loosen its hold.
Don’t forget what happened the last time you insisted on running a kitchen.
With one cleverly aimed reminder, my father had torn off the Band-Aid and dragged my ugly, festering insecurities back to the surface.
I hated how easily he manipulated me. I saw it for what it was, but a small part of me wondered if he was right, and if my return to the kitchen would be a disaster waiting to happen.
I couldn’t even perfect fucking scallops, for Christ’s sake. But I could whip together a marketing plan in my sleep, even if doing so inspired about as much excitement as a root canal.
If I really wanted, I could ignore my father and strike out on my own, my inheritance be damned.
I had no doubt he’d cut me off if I went against his wishes.
But at the end of the day, I was still a Laurent, and I held a deeply ingrained loyalty to my family, if not to my father himself.
Besides, that big a rift would destroy my mother, who was fragile enough after my aunt died.
I refused to cause her any more distress.
I sucked in another lungful of air until the dots disappeared from my vision. The conflicting voices in my head retreated, and not for the first time, I ignored the restlessness stirring inside me.
I’d worry about the future later.
For now, I just needed to get through the day.
You’re late.
The Post-it note was affixed to the table in front of my seat when I arrived to my meeting with Maya later that afternoon.
We’d exchanged increasingly heated emails over the weekend regarding our weekly meeting spot until we’d agreed on neutral territory—the library at the ultra-exclusive Valhalla Club, where we were both members.
I’d cleared my head during the long, brisk walk to Valhalla, and I felt close to myself again as I took the seat opposite Maya’s. I didn’t touch the note.
“You’re early.” I tapped the face of my watch. “It’s three o’clock on the dot.”