CHAPTER 10
Sebastian
MAYA WAS RIGHT. THE EXEC BOARDS OF OUR COMPANIES had no choice but to approve my new role in the project.
They weren’t happy about it, but it was either that or push back the launch timeline.
Both our fathers were too stubborn and afraid of competitors beating them to the punch to do that, so I was now officially the face of the Singh-Laurent collaboration.
Of course, there was a caveat. There always was.
“You’re not a big enough name to headline this,” my father said from behind his desk.
We were in his home study overlooking Central Park, and I briefly contemplated jumping through the window and onto the pavement below.
That would be preferable to the meeting we were having.
“You’re not even a real chef, not in the strictest sense of the word, so this launch event needs to make a huge splash.
None of that generic dinner-party bullshit. Give me something new.”
I bit back a sharp retort. “Meaning?”
“Meaning the event can’t blend in with the dozens of other events in the party pages. I want everyone to be talking about it, Sebastian. Full court press.”
“You want a frozen foods launch to be the event of the season?” At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if he and Neal were deliberately setting us up to fail because there was no fucking way they expected me to run point on product development and event planning at the same time.
“Yes, and it’s up to you to make that happen,” my father said calmly. “Who knows? If you pull it off, we might even revisit what your future at this company looks like.”
My hands fisted. That seemed to be my default reaction to our conversations these days, but there was no chance in hell he’d change his mind about me becoming a professional chef. He just liked dangling the possibility to make me fall in line.
And yet, a tiny, foolish part of me grasped onto that sliver of possibility like it was a lifeline.
You ask too much and don’t negotiate enough.
If you walk away without even trying, you’re not the man I thought you were.
Margaux and Maya’s voices swam in my head.
Fuck that. I’d been playing softball with my father, but I was already in too deep. If I was going to go out in flames, I might as well make it the biggest damn explosion possible.
I owed that much to myself.
“I want it in writing,” I said.
My father frowned. “Excuse me?”
“You said we’ll revisit what my future looks like if I pull off this launch.
I want that in writing with the following amendment: if I succeed, I’ll transition from CMO of the Laurent Restaurant Group to full-time chef at a restaurant of my choosing.
I also want the contract to outline your terms, your criteria for success, and a transition timeline.
Send it to me, and I’ll have my lawyers review it. ”
He barked out a laugh. “That’s not happening. I said we might revisit it. We’re not involving our lawyers. That’s ridiculous.”
I shrugged. “Then there might be a chance you won’t get the launch you’re hoping for.”
My father’s smile vanished. The temperature in his office dropped a dozen degrees, but I held my ground.
Screw him for stringing me along all this time, and screw myself for letting him.
Maya’s reprimand earlier that month had been a wake-up call. I’d been drowning in fear and self-pity for so long that I’d forgotten how to fight back, but dammit, it felt good.
Seeing the angry astonishment on my father’s face felt even better.
“That’s your job, Sebastian,” he said through gritted teeth. “You wouldn’t tank your own project—your family’s project—to prove a point.”
“Sure, but there are different levels of effort at every job,” I said casually. “I’ll still do enough to save face. Maybe I’ll coordinate an online interview in a supermarket, showcasing the foods. Or maybe I’ll send some PR packages to influencers. I’m sure they’ll love it.”
My father glared at me. That wasn’t the type of “full-court press” he was talking about, and we both knew it.
“If you don’t like my ideas, fire me,” I added coolly. “I’m sure that’ll look good after the Derek situation.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Then call my bluff.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw before his expression relaxed. “You’re forgetting the other part of the equation. We still have Maya. If you don’t get it done, she will.”
“Maybe. She’s good, but she’s only one person. She’s already overworked with both of us on the project. Do you want to risk her burning out and dropping the ball before the launch?”
The ensuing silence was so heavy it felt like a physical weight.
My father wasn’t used to losing arguments, and his displeasure radiated so intensely that the hairs on my neck stood on end.
Still, I didn’t break eye contact, and after a long, fraught moment, he looked away at his computer.
“My lawyer will send the documents over next week,” he said curtly. “You’re dismissed.”
I walked out with a smile.
One point for Team Sebastian.
My father sent over the documents as promised. My lawyers reviewed them, and within a week, our deal was signed and sealed.
If I succeeded in making this launch a success, per the criteria listed in our contract, then I’d be a chef after my six-month post-launch transition period.
The prospect was exhilarating—and terrifying, now that the stakes had been upped. The launch was no longer just a matter of reputation; my entire future rode on it going off without a hitch, and that wasn’t even touching on what my being a full-time chef would actually mean.
But I’d cross that bridge when I got there. Right now, I had to figure out how to make a fucking frozen foods rollout the talk of the town.
“I can’t believe I’m working overtime on Halloween eve because of fucking Derek.” Maya stared at the ceiling. “I hate him. I hate you. I hate my life.”
“Don’t tell me you’re giving up.” I handed her an open bag of chips. She plucked one out and munched on it. Even her chewing sounded morose. “It’s not even midnight yet.”
We were lying side by side on the office floor. It was half past eleven, and the building was empty except for us. Even the custodians had gone home for the night.
We’d been cooped up in here since lunch, trying to figure out a fun, innovative way to launch the collaboration. Eventually, Maya got tired of sitting and dragged some yoga mats from the employee wellness center and into the office.
I’d hoped the literal change in perspective would jog a few ideas loose, but so far, no dice.
“Think, Maya, think.” She pressed the pads of her fingers against her closed eyes.
“A dinner party is too basic, but a gala for frozen foods looks desperate. Maybe we can take the guests on a themed cruise? Hire celebrities to hand-deliver the products to their houses? Fly them to Paris for a celebration at Versailles?”
I didn’t bother shooting down her ridiculous suggestions. A blanket of static had engulfed my brain, stifling any thoughts beyond I need sleep.
Between today’s brainstorming session and the all-nighter I’d pulled yesterday to finish turning Derek’s notes into viable recipes, I was all tapped out.
Despite my exhaustion, I was invigorated by the process. Derek gave me the bare-bones ideas, but they were my recipes. My creations. I’d stitched them together, ingredient by ingredient, and fuck, it felt good. It made me feel like a real chef.
What didn’t feel so good was the subsequent burnout and our current creative rut.
“I think we’re done for the day,” I said, even though I was the one who’d pointed out how early it was a minute ago. “Maybe we’ll come up with something after we get a good night’s sleep.”
“No. It’s been two weeks since Michel told us to make this the event of the season. We can’t delay anymore, and we’re close. We just need a little inspiration.”
Exhaustion dragged my eyelids closed. “Call me when you find it.”
“Don’t fall asleep.”
“I won’t.”
But I was fading. Before I knew it, my mind slipped into that nebulous territory between lucidity and unconsciousness.
It was paved with cobblestones and the brisk chill of Prague during winter. I couldn’t see anyone around me, but I felt the cold press of a gun against my head.
Then the scene blacked out, and I was no longer in Prague but in a kitchen, surrounded by the shouts of my staff as we prepped for a soft opening.
I looked down, and my stomach lurched with horror at the sight of my bloodstained hands.
The thick, viscous liquid dripped onto the floor and formed a rapidly spreading pool around my feet.
My breath shallowed. My heart broke into a gallop, and I was gripped with the all-consuming sense that I needed to leave right now. If I didn’t open my eyes and sit up, I would drown. The blood was already up to my ankles, but no matter how much I willed myself to move, I couldn’t.
My fault.
My fault.
My fault.
My breaths grew scarcer. The floor seemed to tilt beneath me, and—
“Seb? Sebastian!” Firm hands grabbed my shoulders and shook me loose from my nightmare.
My eyes cracked open. Bile coated my throat, and I was afraid I might throw up if she kept shaking me like that.
Maya’s face hovered over mine. “You’re sweating,” she said.
It took me a second to find my voice. “I dozed off.”
She examined me silently. She was so close I could count her every eyelash, which was exactly what I did as I waited for my heart rate to return to normal.
The activity was oddly calming. She was oddly calming, which was not something I thought I’d ever say about a girl who once snuck into my boarding school dorm room and threw every piece of clothing I had into a hot wash. I’d had to replace my entire wardrobe.
My heart finally slowed enough for me to sit up without getting dizzy.
I hadn’t had such a vivid nightmare in over a year, which was why I’d stopped seeing my therapist a few months ago. Lingering anxiety was expected, but the double pressure from the collab launch and my potential career change must’ve fanned that spark into a wildfire.
Maya sat back, her forehead still creased with concern. “You’re right. Maybe we should go home,” she said. “We’re not getting anywhere tonight.”
“No.” I cleared my throat. Cold sweat glued my shirt to my skin, and a small shiver rolled through me.
“Let’s talk about something else for a bit.
Reset our brains. It’ll help.” I searched for a safe topic.
She wouldn’t tell me why she’d left our meeting so abruptly a few weeks ago.
She kept insisting she had a doctor’s appointment, and while I knew she was lying, I couldn’t force her to tell me the truth. “What did you do over the weekend?”
Halloween fell on a Tuesday this year, so most of the events had already happened over the weekend.
“I went to a few parties with my friends,” Maya said.
“Ayana hosted a girls’ night at her place, and we pre-gamed there before going to a pop-up experience in Brooklyn.
It was like a party mixed with a haunted—” She sucked in a sharp breath.
Her face lit up, and she grabbed my arm hard enough to hurt. “Oh my God. That’s it!”
The last time she was that excited, I’d gotten roped into creating over a dozen recipes for a whole fucking frozen foods line.
I eyed her with suspicion as she released me and jumped to her feet.
“A pop-up. That’s it,” she repeated. She paced back and forth in her classic thinking stance.
“We can launch the line with a pop-up restaurant. We’ll serve the guests the frozen foods—well, they’ll be heated, obviously—but we’ll present the dishes as if they were at a gourmet restaurant.
White-glove service, fine china, designer decor.
It’s not a dinner party; it’s an experience. ”
Interesting. I didn’t hate it, but… “That’s like serving fast food at the Ritz.”
“Exactly. It’s weird and unexpected, which means it’ll get people talking.” Maya stopped, opened her laptop, and started typing furiously. “The media loves a good pop-up. We can have a soft launch with press and influencers, then open it to the public for a limited time.”
Her excitement was contagious. I still had my reservations, but my mind spun with a sudden influx of ideas. “What if we took it further?”
She raised a questioning brow.
“We serve them food from the new line and regular gourmet dishes,” I said. “Diners can guess which one’s which. It’ll add an element of mystery and make the experience interactive. Plus, it’ll speak to the quality of the line—frozen foods so good, you can’t tell they weren’t made fresh.”
“That’s…” Maya blinked. “That’s kind of genius.”
“I know.”
I laughed when she grabbed a crumpled-up napkin from the table and tossed it at me. My earlier nightmare was already a distant memory, and I chose to attribute that to our breakthrough rather than Maya herself.
“I have one question,” she said. “Can you make the frozen foods taste as good as regular gourmet food? That seems like a tall order.”
“It’ll be a challenge,” I admitted. “I can’t guarantee they’ll taste exactly the same, but we can make them good enough to put doubt in people’s minds.” I hope.
I was burying myself under more and more pressure every day, but fuck it. I was tired of playing it safe, and I refused to let my anxiety get the best of me.
I was Sebastian fucking Laurent. Either go big or go home.
A slow smile spread across Maya’s face. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
We didn’t go home that night. We stayed in the office, where we spent hours bouncing ideas off each other and creating a plan for the pop-up. The project finally felt like fun instead of a chore, and I could’ve kept going forever had my body not eventually rebelled.
One minute, we were back on the yoga mats to take a break—just a quick one to stretch our limbs.
The next, my eyes were drifting closed, and Maya’s arm was draped over my waist, and my leg was…
I yawned. I tried to finish my last thought about my leg. Or was it about our guest list? Maybe it was something about Maya’s perfume, which was even nicer up close. It was light and sweet, and the warmth of her body kept the aggressive air conditioning at bay.
Lying next to her was kind of like being wrapped in a cozy, floral-scented blanket, and this time, when I sank into the depths of sleep again, I didn’t have a nightmare.
Not even close.