CHAPTER 39
Maya
THE LAUNCH EVENT FELL ON A BEAUTIFUL FRIDAY night in Vermont. It wasn’t quite summer yet, but the weather in early June was clear and bright, and the air crackled with noticeable excitement as our guests spilled out of their cars and onto the welcome deck.
I was handling the front of house while Sebastian ran the kitchen.
We’d invited two dozen of the country’s top food critics, journalists, and tastemakers, and I greeted each one personally.
My nerves were a jumbled mess, but I didn’t let it show as I thanked them for coming and asked about their families or their latest vacations.
The food world was small, and everyone knew each other—even when they didn’t want to.
“Hollis, good to see you,” I said. A polite smile stitched across my face. “Thank you for coming.” I didn’t ask about his personal life because I didn’t know, and I didn’t care.
Sebastian and I had argued for days over whether to invite Hollis Miller, the controversial influencer whom I despised with the fire of a thousand suns.
I’d conceded because Sebastian was right.
Hollis was too big to ignore, and his presence would generate a lot of attention.
The internet was already abuzz over whether we’d fall flat on our faces or prove his initial skepticism about our collaboration wrong.
Hollis smiled back, the sight unsettlingly charismatic compared to his aggressive online persona. “Happy to be here, but we’ll see whether you’ll still want to thank me after the event. My reviews are brutally honest.”
Ugh. I’d been right the first time. He was an asshole.
I discreetly pawned him off on Ezra and focused on the other guests. Once everyone was checked in, I went inside to make sure everything was running smoothly for cocktail hour.
My father and Michel were both here with a handful of other representatives from our companies, but they gave each other a wide berth.
A professional photographer and videographer roved the room, capturing content for later.
People seemed to be enjoying the hors d’oeuvres, which were all from our new frozen foods line.
So far, so good.
“Relax,” Ezra said when he caught me reorganizing the glasses so they lined up perfectly. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
“Fine isn’t good enough,” I said. “Everything needs to be extraordinary.”
I’d poured every ounce of my effort and creativity into this launch.
We had a huge budget and the best resources at our disposal.
If it failed, I wouldn’t have any excuses to fall back on; if it was mediocre, I wouldn’t have any excuses to fall back on.
Anything less than dazzling would be a disappointment, and I did not disappoint. I didn’t have that luxury.
It wasn’t just about my father, the media, or the competitors who were desperate to take my place in the highest echelons of the marketing world.
It was about me. If I did this—if I proved myself beyond a doubt—then maybe I could finally rest. Maybe this was the accomplishment that would make me say, I’ve done it, and I deserve to be here. I’d reached the top of the mountain, and there were no more peaks to climb.
Maybe.
But first, I had to make sure the evening was flawless.
It hadn’t escaped my notice that this was the original deadline Sebastian and I had set for ourselves.
We were supposed to tell our families about us after tonight.
Obviously, that wasn’t happening anymore, and I couldn’t decide whether I was relieved or frustrated.
I sent Ezra to mingle with the guests while I veered toward the kitchen. It was almost time for the main event, and I wanted to check in with Sebastian beforehand.
Despite the anxious knot in my chest, I couldn’t help but smile at people’s impressed murmurs over the main dining space.
We were a relatively small group, so we’d set up three long, rough-hewn tables that lent a more communal feel compared to a traditional round seating arrangement. Sunset drenched the trees outside in vivid oranges and golds, and the rustic chandeliers glowed with cozy warmth.
Sebastian and I had worked with the venue coordinator to ensure every detail was perfect, from the height of the centerpieces to the exact brand of alcohol used for the cocktails. After countless emails, one near-breakdown (me), and many pep talks (Sebastian), I was finally happy with the outcome.
The place settings? Exquisite.
The lighting? Flattering.
The kitchen? … Chaotic.
I pushed through the swinging door and was instantly greeted with an onslaught of noise and movement. Lids clanged, timers beeped, and shouts competed with the sizzle of hot pans. People rushed back and forth, carrying trays and other kitchen paraphernalia.
I found Sebastian in the middle of the mayhem. He was speaking with Margaux, his mentor, who’d agreed to help with service tonight. She greeted me, then excused herself to check on the appetizers when I joined them.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
Sebastian was dressed in chef whites with the sleeves rolled up. A faint sheen of sweat clung to his brow, and his posture was taut, his muscles coiled tight like he hadn’t taken a full breath all evening.
“Fine. Comme une merde,” he said, contradicting himself.
“I hear that’s how you know you’re on the right track.”
That earned me a quick smile, but it disappeared when his gaze snagged on the lasagna station. “Gus, that’s not ready yet! It needs thirty more seconds!”
The junior cook startled. He couldn’t have been over the age of twenty. “Sorry, chef!” He flushed, his shoulders tense. He scrambled back from the counter like he’d been burned.
I winced. Besides Margaux and a handful of seasoned staff that Sebastian himself picked out, the rest of the team came courtesy of the venue.
It wasn’t ideal, but no restaurant in the Laurents’ portfolio could afford to lose more than one or two capable hands on a Friday night.
Hopefully, the veterans could pick up the slack left by the less experienced staff.
“How’s the front of the house?” Sebastian asked me.
“Good.” I gave him a quick rundown of the night so far. “We got this. Don’t worry.”
Words I needed to hear myself.
His shoulders relaxed a smidge. He gave a short nod, but he got distracted again by something going on at the dessert station.
I left so I didn’t distract him any further. I believed in his capabilities, though our plan to mix the frozen foods with fresh dishes was highly risky.
Sebastian had selected six frozen foods recipes for tonight’s twelve-course tasting menu. That was the easy part. All he had to do was heat them up and make sure they were served at the exact right time and temperature for maximum enjoyment.
It was the other six courses that required the most care.
It wasn’t about making them taste good—that was a given.
It was about striking the right balance.
The dishes had to impress the guests, but they couldn’t taste so good that they overshadowed the frozen food debuts.
We were confident in our new product line, but we weren’t delusional.
There was no world in which a frozen item would beat a fresh gourmet course.
The trick was closing the taste gap enough to raise doubt as to which course fell into which camp without sacrificing obvious quality on either side.
I’d tasted the trial meal yesterday. I wasn’t a professional food critic, but I wouldn’t have been able to guess what was frozen and what wasn’t if I hadn’t known beforehand.
I rejoined the main party in the dining room. Ezra had already ushered everyone to their seats, and the first course came out soon after. They were mini quiches from the frozen foods line.
I watched the guests at my table like a hawk in between bites, trying to gauge their reaction.
“Delicious,” the food editor from Mode de Vie said. The critic from the New York Times nodded, and most of the other guests murmured their agreement. Hollis Miller chewed silently, his expression unreadable.
My nerves were so shot that I barely tasted the food, but I gradually relaxed as the night went on.
Overall, the reception to each course was positive.
By the time we got to the sixth dish, I’d unclenched enough to appreciate the rich, hearty flavors of the night’s star entrée, a melt-in-your-mouth lasagna that came in both meat and vegetarian options.
It was so good that even Hollis’s eyebrows rose in approval.
We were halfway through the night, and we were crushing it. We just might pull this off after all.
I finished my pasta in record time and excused myself for a midway check-in with Sebastian. He hadn’t left the kitchen at all since prep started, and he must be dying for an update.
“Well?” he asked when he saw me.
My face broke out into a huge smile. “They love the food. I think they’re genuinely baffled as to which courses are reheated and which are freshly made. Your idea to make them guess was genius.”
Sebastian’s muscles loosened, and palpable relief crossed his face. “What can I say? Geniuses come up with genius ideas.”
“I’ll let you have it this time and this time only.”
He grinned. “We’ll see about that. I have a lot more genius ideas in the bank.”
I smiled back, happy to see his eyes regain some of their usual spark. We’d both needed this win, and victory was so close I could almost reach out and touch it. “We have six courses left, but unless something drastic happens, I really think we—”
A loud crash in the dining room interrupted me. It was followed by a scream and a swell of muffled commotion.
Everyone in the kitchen froze, their eyes wide. Margaux was the first to snap out of her trance. “What are you doing? Focus!” she barked. “Service isn’t over.”
The staff quickly resumed their duties while she shooed Sebastian and me toward the door. “Go. I’ll handle things back here.”
We didn’t waste time arguing. We rushed out of the kitchen and skidded to a halt at the edge of the dining room.
Sebastian’s face was the color of his chef whites. “What the fuck?”
I tried to speak, but nothing came out. I observed the pandemonium that’d erupted in the short time I’d been gone with silent horror.
The diner closest to us had vomited all over his plate.
Chunks of regurgitated lasagna splattered across the table as he doubled over, his chest heaving.
Another pushed back her chair and ran to the bathroom, her face green.
The other guests were panicking and scrambling out of their seats until they, too, started throwing up.
No. No, no, no.
My breath shortened. The scene took on a fuzzy quality, like I was stuck in a nightmare with no escape route in sight. What the hell was going on?
Things had been perfect minutes ago. How did it all crash so fast, so spectacularly?
Maybe I was hallucinating. Maybe—
“Maya!” Ezra rushed over, his voice taut with stress.
His appearance yanked me out of my daze. This wasn’t a nightmare. This was real, and we needed damage control ASAP.
“What happened?” I demanded.
“I don’t know!” He gestured helplessly at the vomiting diners.
The servers were trying to help them, but it wasn’t going well.
We didn’t have enough staff for this. “Everything was fine until the editor from Mode de Vie said he was feeling nauseous. Then he threw up, and… Well, you see what happened next. It took less than two minutes.”
Fuck. Okay.
I forced a steadying breath through my nose and shoved my rising panic into a mental box.
I couldn’t freak out right now. Our number one priority was getting medical assistance. Once we made sure the guests’ symptoms weren’t the result of something worse than potential food poisoning (which would be bad enough), then I could freak out.
I sent Ezra to call the appropriate authorities and figure out logistics with the shell-shocked venue coordinator. Once he was gone, I turned to Sebastian so we could brainstorm an emergency game plan.
“Seb, we—” I stopped short.
He hadn’t moved the entire time Ezra and I had been talking. He stared at the guests, his skin ashen. Sweat beaded his upper lip, and his chest rose and fell with jagged breaths.
A bolt of panic tore through me. “Are you okay? Do you need to sit down?”
“No.” His voice was a shade above a whisper. He sounded distant and hollow, like a shadow of his former self. A small shudder ran through his frame, and realization hit me like a ton of bricks.
The diners getting sick? That was his worst nightmare coming true for the second time. First, Martin Wellgrew died at the Le Boudoir opening. Now, our launch had devolved into a medical emergency. Both times, he’d been in charge of the kitchen, and both times, the night had ended in disaster.
A raw ache spread through my chest.
I placed a hand on his arm. His skin was clammy to the touch. “We don’t know what happened yet,” I said. “Do not blame yourself.”
The easiest explanation was food poisoning, but a gut feeling told me that wasn’t it.
Sebastian was meticulous about food safety; I refused to believe he’d let anything slip, even if some of the staff were less experienced than we would’ve liked.
The whole thing reeked of fishiness, but I’d investigate later. I had more pressing matters to address.
“I’ll let everyone else know what happened.” Sebastian didn’t acknowledge my reassurances, but at least he was moving again. He turned, avoiding my eyes. “You handle the guests; I’ll handle the kitchen. We’ll connect later, once—” He swallowed hard. “Once everything calms down.”
“Okay,” I said softly.
My heart twisted again when he disappeared into the kitchen. I couldn’t imagine what he must be feeling right now, but losing myself to worry wouldn’t do either of us much good. We’d debrief after we got through tonight.
I forced my concern into the same box as my earlier panic and sprang into action.
For the next two hours, I worked with Ezra and the venue to clean up the mess, both literally and figuratively.
Medical assistance arrived in record time.
Their preliminary diagnosis was food poisoning, and they sent the severest cases to the hospital for IV fluids.
Everyone else went back to their hotel for some much-needed rest and recovery.
Michel got sick too, but my father, Hollis, and I had mysteriously been spared.
“This is what happens when you rely on a Laurent,” my father said, his lips white with fury. “They’ll ruin everything if you’re not careful.”
The Laurents had as much at stake as we did, but I couldn’t summon the strength to argue.
I could only go through the motions with mechanical calm and watch helplessly as our beautiful, meticulously planned launch—the one we’d spent over nine months and countless sweat and tears perfecting—went up in flames around us.