Chapter 10 Eliana
ELIANA
prix fixe: /?prē ?fēks/: noun
I’ve already prepared the paperwork. We both knew you were always going to say yes.
I read it again and, same as the first time, I want so badly to be angry. But try as I might, I can’t muster up the fury. Whether I’ve spent it all or I never really had much in the first place is unclear to me, but it doesn’t really make too much difference.
The only spark of defiance I have left is to choose when I sign my life away. If I’m pledging my not-quite-undying allegiance to LeBastard Hale in exchange for the sweet, sweet nectar of health insurance, I’m doing it on my terms.
Tonight.
Now.
While I still have the electricity of rebellion crackling through my veins.
My access badge is still in my purse. I never did leave it in my desk drawer like I’d written in my resignation letter. Some part of me must have known I wasn’t really done with this place. Or maybe it just knew that Bastian Hale doesn’t let people leave that easily.
The whole train ride there, I’m antsy, one knee bouncing like a piston. Security Guard Kyle looks surprised when I swipe in at 10:28 P.M.
“Ms. Hunter? Didn’t you leave hours ago?”
“Forgot something in my office,” I lie smoothly. “Won’t be long.”
He nods and waves me through. The elevator ride up feels longer than usual. My reflection gawks back at me in the polished steel doors. I look tired. Reckless. Maybe a little unhinged.
All fairly accurate.
The executive floor is tomb-quiet, not a soul in sight. It’s better that way. No one to witness me offering up the last crumbs of my dignity as a palate cleanser to a man who couldn’t care less about whether I live or die once these ninety days are over.
I don’t go to my desk. Instead, I head straight for Bastian’s office.
Inside, it is exactly as sterile as always—glass, chrome, leather, boring.
It’s the most impersonal place I’ve ever seen in my life, like a museum exhibit titled “Successful CEO, Circa 2024.” Where are the personal photos?
Where’s the row of clicky-clacky silver balls on the desk that every evil boss is supposed to have?
Does he not at least need a small hand mirror off of which to snort cocaine and gaze adoringly at his own features?
He does have a quintuplet of Michelin star awards on a bookshelf by the window, so in his defense, maybe that’s all the decor he cares to have. Kind of a cool flex, if we’re being honest.
I drop my bag on his conference table and walk around to his side of the desk.
The leather chair sighs when I sink into it, like it’s grateful to be bearing the weight of my ass.
But when I try to wiggle around to get comfy, it sort of squelches at me, as if to say, Hold on now; we both know you don’t belong here.
It’s not wrong. But I’m not about to let a judgmental chair make the rules around here.
“Well then,” I announce to the empty room, spinning slowly, my feet dangling far above the ground because Bastian is apparently several miles taller than I am. “Let’s see what His Royal Haleness keeps in his drawers.”
The first drawer is office supplies. Pens grouped by color, sticky notes in graduated sizes, paper clips that have never once been nervously bent out of shape. Boring.
The second drawer holds enough protein bars to last Bastian the apocalypse. Even more boring.
The third drawer is locked.
Interesting.
But it doesn’t show any signs of yielding when I tug on it, so I set aside that mystery for the time being.
Instead, I scoot-‘n’-roll over to his filing cabinet and start plucking out folders at random.
Project Olympus dominates everything—architectural plans, vendor contracts, investor this and financier that.
Some of it I’ve seen and some of it is banal enough to make my eyeballs bleed.
But there are other files, too. Older ones.
I find the original business plan for Hale Hospitality, written in what must be Bastian’s hand from fifteen years ago.
The margins are filled with notes, calculations, scribblings, doodles of what appears to be a bank robbery.
Desperate math from a stubborn man trying to make impossible numbers work.
Initial investment needed: $50,000
Current assets: $3,844
??? = Figure it the fuck out
I’m so absorbed in the files that I don’t hear the elevator or the footsteps in the hallway. Don’t notice anything until the door opens and Bastian Hale walks in, looking like he just stepped out of a completely different life.
His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing forearms marked with old burn scars and what might be the edge of a tattoo.
His usually perfect hair is mussed, falling across his forehead in a way that makes him look younger, wilder, and, in the interest of full transparency, even hotter.
He smells like kitchen smoke, lemon oil, and expensive cologne.
My brain sort of sputters for a second, like the igniter on a gas trying to get the fire going.
He stops dead when he sees me in his chair. His eyes track over the papers spread across his desk, the various drawers hanging wide open.
“Making yourself at home, I see.”
I force myself to give him a saucy smile. “Early bird gets the corner office, right?”
He starts to load up a scowl on his face, just like I’d expect, but he sort of stops halfway there, like he’s too tired to commit fully to his usual bit. “Those are confidential documents, you know.”
“Then it’s a good thing I signed an NDA when I got hired, or else you’d have to burn me at the stake.” I tap the file in front of me. “Your handwriting was terrible in 2010, by the way. Did you ever figure out that forty-six-thousand-dollar gap?”
He moves into the room slowly, like he’s approaching a wild animal that might bolt. Or bite. Or both. And you know what? Maybe I will. To all of the above.
“I sold my car and my watch, and took out three credit cards I had no business qualifying for.”
“Ballsy.”
“Yeah, well, it’s easy to be that when you have no other options.” He stops at the edge of his desk, looking down at me in his chair. “Are you going to give me my seat back, or is this part of your negotiation strategy?”
“Depends.” I steeple my fingers together like an evil mastermind. “Is it working?”
The corner of his mouth pulses—almost a laugh—before he turns away. He pulls a folder from his saddle bag and drops it on the desk between us. “As discussed.”
I don’t reach for it immediately. Instead, I stand slowly, making him step back to give me space.
We’re too close now, close enough that I can see he’s exhausted beneath whatever energy he’s running on.
I look down and notice a constellation of grease burns on the back of his knuckles. They look fresh, still oozing.
“You cooked tonight?”
“How did you—” He stops, probably realizing it’s obvious. He smells like a seared duck, after all. “There was an emergency at Quail’s Egg. I handled it.”
“What was it like? Did you still remember which end of the knife is the pointy one?”
“Yeah. It’s the end you point at insubordinate employees.”
It’s my turn to quickly kill a grin before he can see it. “First off, that sounded like a threat to me, which would be both rude and illegal,” I say. “And also, I quit, remember? So I’m not your employee anymore. Not yet. Not until I sign.”
“Then do us both a favor and sign.” He reaches around me to grab a pen from his desk. The motion brings that scent full into my nostrils again: caramelizing butter, wintergreen, the acid tang of lemon juice, sweat and smoke, and man. Lots of man.
I’m frazzled enough that I don’t realize he’s offering me the pen until a few dumb seconds pass in which his hand is just hovering in the air between us. In fact, I’m so frazzled that, when I still don’t take it, Bastian grabs my wrist, forces my hand open palm-up, and sets the pen there.
He lets go quickly, but the five points of contact where his fingers touched my bare skin stay sizzling for a while afterward.
I swallow and try to gather my wits about me again. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you really want me around,” I mumble, a half-assed attempt at retreating behind quippy banter again.
He doesn’t bite. “Just sign the contract, Ms. Hunter.”
I pick up the folder, but I don’t open it yet. “Is this your money or company money?”
“Does it matter?”
“I just wouldn’t want you to have to go pawning your things again for little old me.”
I don’t miss how his hand goes to his left wrist and touches there. Like the ghost of the watch—the one he sold to make his dreams come true—still weighs there sometimes.
“It’s company money,” he says finally, forcing his hands into his pockets. I almost miss them when they’re gone—they’re nice to look at. “Budgeted under ‘emergency retention costs.’”
“How flattering. I’m an emergency now? Here I was thinking that I was ‘just another employee.’ ‘One of many.’”
“You’re a necessity.” He moves around the desk to reclaim his space now that I’ve vacated it. “The project needs continuity.”
I open the contract and scan the first page. “Always about the project. No one could ever accuse you of lacking focus. I’ve seen mothers less obsessed with their firstborn children.”
“It’s bigger than that,” he says, a twinge of irritation in his voice. “Olympus isn’t just another ‘project.’ It’s proof of concept for the entire future of hospitality.”
“No one could ever accuse you of lacking ego, either,” I mutter.
He ignores me. “Twelve concepts under one roof, each one distinctive but connected. Fine dining, casual, experimental, traditional…”
“So basically, it’s a really expensive mall food court.”