7. Scarlett/ Christian
7
SCARLETT/ CHRISTIAN
SCARLETT
The kitchen was a war zone.
The rhythmic clang of pots and pans, the sharp hiss of meat hitting the grill, the barked orders between my chefs—it all blended into a chaotic symphony.
On any other day, would have felt like home. But today? Today, it was fraying the last bit of patience I had left.
I moved between stations, checking plating, adjusting seasoning, and making sure the front of house was keeping up with the influx of reservations.
Ever since the news broke about my partnership with Valen Enterprises, Amélie had been packed.
People who had never set foot in my restaurant before were suddenly eager to “experience” my food, their curiosity likely fueled by the whispers of a billionaire’s involvement.
And with that curiosity came scrutiny. Every dish had to be perfect.
Every detail had to be flawless. There was no room for error.
I wiped my forehead with the back of my wrist, exhaling sharply.
My sous chef, Marc, shot me a look as he plated a delicate salmon dish.
“You need to breathe, boss,” he said, barely looking up.
“I’ll breathe when service is over,” I muttered, grabbing a tasting spoon and sampling the sauce on a beef dish.
It needed more acidity. I nodded toward the station.
“Hit it with a splash of red wine vinegar,” I said.
Marc smirked but followed my order. “You’ve been extra tense since the announcement.”
I ignored that. Of course I was tense. The idea of expanding Amélie had always been a dream, but now it was a reality.
Reality was terrifying. Not to mention the fact that Christian Valen was at the center of all of this.
The memory of our last dinner played in the back of my mind, unbidden.
His dark gaze locked onto mine, the way his lips had tasted like champagne when he kissed me goodnight.
I swallowed hard and refocused. I couldn’t afford distractions right now.
Then my phone rang.
I almost ignored it, but something about the number made my stomach tighten.
Shit.
I stepped away from the line, pressing the phone to my ear as I wedged myself into a quieter corner of the kitchen.
“Scarlett Lane speaking.”
“Miss Lane, this is Madison Graham from Luxe Dining Magazine. I wanted to reach out for a comment on the allegations published this morning.”
My blood ran cold.
“…What allegations?”
A pause. “You haven’t seen the article?”
I turned away from my staff, gripping the phone tighter. “No. I’ve been working.”
Madison hesitated. “I… I suggest you read it before we continue this conversation.”
Heart pounding, I pulled my phone away from my ear and quickly searched for Luxe Dining’s latest issue.
It only took seconds before I found it.
The headline hit me like a punch to the stomach.
"Amélie’s Rising Star or Industry Fraud? Former Employees Speak Out on Scarlett Lane’s Shady Business Practices"
I stared, barely breathing, as I skimmed the article.
Words like stolen recipes, credit theft, professional sabotage leaped off the screen.
A fabricated story about a sous chef I supposedly blacklisted.
Accusations that I had stolen dishes from my team and passed them off as my own.
An anonymous source claiming I wasn’t the brilliant chef people believed me to be.
It was a smear campaign.
A deliberate, targeted attack.
My pulse roared in my ears, drowning out the steady hum of the kitchen around me.
My vision tunneled in on the damning words splashed across my phone screen, my breath coming in short, uneven bursts.
Who was behind this?
The question buzzed in my head, relentless, refusing to settle.
I paced as I tried to come up with names—anyone who might have a reason to do this.
Other chefs. Competitors. People I’d clashed with over the years. The list wasn’t exactly short, but still… this?
This took more than just resentment. It took connections. It took money. Sure, I’d butted heads with people before.
In this industry, egos clashed like knives against cutting boards, sharp and unforgiving.
I’d had my share of arguments, had made decisions that pissed off the wrong people. But would any of them really go this far?
I thought about former colleagues, rival restaurateurs, critics I might have rubbed the wrong way.
Some of them had been ruthless in the past, but this wasn’t just a bad review or some gossip floating around the industry.
This was an orchestrated attack.
I swallowed, my throat dry.
Whoever was behind this didn’t just want to rattle me. They wanted to bury me.
And the worst part?
I had no idea who it was.
I gripped my phone tighter, my fingers trembling around the smooth edges.
The weight in my chest pressed down harder, squeezing my lungs until it felt impossible to draw in a full breath. Stay calm. Think.
But how the hell was I supposed to stay calm when my reputation—my entire career—was being dragged through the mud in front of the entire industry?
The words blurred together, but they were already seared into my mind. Lies. Every single one of them.
But that wouldn’t matter to the people reading. Perception was everything in the culinary world.
A single bad headline could sink a restaurant, and an article like this? It could be a death sentence.
The panic clawing at my ribs tightened its grip. This wasn’t just some petty feud—this was sabotage.
And if I didn’t act fast, it wouldn’t just be my name on the line. Amélie. My staff. Christian’s company.
Would he regret working with me now?
The thought hit harder than I expected, sending a sharp pang through my chest.
I had told myself I wouldn’t let emotions get tangled in this deal.
However, the idea of Christian seeing this, of him questioning if he’d made a mistake betting on me, made my stomach twist.
No. I forced the panic back with sheer determination.
The voice on the phone broke through my spiraling thoughts. “Miss Lane?”
I inhaled sharply, forcing my voice to stay even. “I’d like to go on record and say that none of these allegations are true. Whoever your sources are, they’re lying.”
Madison sighed. “I figured you’d say that. But you should know… stories like this have a way of sticking.”
“I don’t play dirty,” I snapped. “If I wanted to succeed in this industry, I’d do it through talent and hard work, not by stepping on other people.”
“Then I hope you have a plan to fight back,” Madison said, her voice almost sympathetic. “Because this article is already gaining traction. It won’t be long before the industry starts talking.”
A sick feeling settled in my stomach.
I ended the call without another word and slowly lowered my phone. My fingers trembled slightly.
Marc walked past me, pausing when he caught sight of my face. “You okay?”
I forced a nod. “Yeah. I just need a minute.”
I stepped into my office and shut the door, gripping the edge of my desk as I tried to steady my breathing.
It’s just an article. People will forget about it in a week.
Except they wouldn’t.
This industry was ruthless. Reputation was everything. One bad headline, one rumor, and it could all crumble.
I squeezed my eyes shut, frustration burning behind them.
I had worked too hard for this.
I wouldn’t let one bitter rival take me down.
CHRISTIAN
“We’ve got a problem,” Eric told me, tone clipped.
I’d been in enough high-stakes negotiations to recognize the undercurrent of tension in his voice.
It told me something serious had gone sideways.
I exhaled sharply, setting my drink down on the marble counter of my penthouse. “Tell me.”
“There’s a hit piece on Scarlett in Luxe Dining—full-page feature.”
My grip on the glass tightened.
Luxe Dining was one of the biggest food magazines in the industry, the kind that could make or break a chef’s reputation.
I turned toward the massive windows overlooking the city, my jaw flexing as I asked, “How bad?”
Eric hesitated, and that alone told me everything.
“They’re calling her a fraud. Accusing her of stealing recipes, taking credit for her staff’s work, even blacklisting former employees.” He let out a breath. “It’s not subtle, Christian. It’s a full-on smear campaign.”
Heat licked at the edges of my temper.
I’d been in the business world long enough to know how these things worked—someone with a grudge was behind this.
Someone with money and connections.
I grabbed my phone, already pulling up Scarlett’s number.
We need to talk. I’ll come by after closing.
Three dots appeared, then disappeared. Then appeared again.
Finally, her response came through.
Okay.
I arrived at Amélie just as the last of her staff was leaving.
I could see Scarlett moving behind the bar, wiping down the counter with slow, precise movements.
Too precise. Like she was trying to keep herself from falling apart.
I pushed open the door, and the soft chime echoed in the empty space. She looked up, eyes guarded.
“You saw it,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
I strode toward her, slipping my hands into my pockets to keep from reaching for her. “Yeah.”
Scarlett let out a breath, setting the rag aside. “I knew something like this might happen,” she admitted. “The moment I signed a deal with you, I knew people would have something to say.”
She gave a hollow laugh. “I just didn’t think it would be this vicious.”
I stepped closer, resting my palms against the counter. “We’re going to handle it.”
Her eyes searched mine. “Christian, this isn’t your fight.”
“The hell it isn’t.” The words came out sharper than I intended, but I didn’t take them back.
I continued, “This partnership isn’t just about business, Scarlett. You know that.”
A flicker of something crossed her face—hesitation, maybe. Hope.
I softened my voice. “Whoever’s behind this isn’t just trying to ruin you. They want to destroy everything you’ve built.” My jaw tensed. “And I’m not going to let that happen.”
She swallowed, the mask of composure she’d been clinging to slipping for just a second.
I reached across the bar, brushing my fingers against hers. A subtle touch. An anchor. “Scarlett.”
She inhaled, then let it out slowly. “I don’t know how to fight something like this.”
“Lucky for you, I do.”
A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips. “Of course you do.”
I held her gaze. “I’ll have my legal team handle Luxe Dining. In the meantime, I want you to focus on Amélie. You don’t have to deal with this alone.”
She nodded, but I could see the tension still lingering in her posture, the weight pressing on her.
“There’s more,” she admitted. “Some of my suppliers are pulling out.”
That sent a fresh bolt of anger through me.
“They’re claiming it’s ‘contractual conflicts,’ but we both know that’s bullshit.” She exhaled. “If this keeps up, I won’t have the ingredients I need to keep the restaurant running at full capacity.”
My hand curled into a fist against the counter.
Whoever wanted to smear Scarlett’s reputation wasn’t just playing dirty—they was going for the throat.
Trying to bleed Scarlett out before she had a chance to fight back.
Scarlett chewed on her bottom lip, her fingers gripping the edge of the counter. “Christian, if this gets any worse?—”
“It won’t.” My voice was firm. “I won’t let it.”
She looked at me then, really looked at me, as if she was trying to decide if she could trust me to keep that promise.
I didn’t look away.
Finally, she nodded.
“Okay,” she whispered.
I exhaled, tension easing ever so slightly from my chest.
Neither of us moved.
The air between us stretched tight, charged with something unspoken.
My gaze dropped to her lips, and for a second, I wondered if she’d let me close the distance.
If she’d let me erase every doubt with a kiss.
But then she straightened, clearing her throat.
“I should lock up,” she said softly.
I nodded, stepping back. “I’ll be in touch first thing in the morning. If anything else happens, you call me.”
Scarlett hesitated. Then, to my surprise, she reached for my hand, squeezing it briefly.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
And then, before I could pull her in, before I could do something reckless like kiss her senseless, she stepped away.
I watched her disappear into the back of the restaurant, knowing this was far from over.
But one thing was clear—whoever was trying to tear her down had just made a mistake.
Because now?
They weren’t just fighting Scarlett.
They were fighting me too.