Chapter Seven Zero Stars for the Heart-Shaped Breakfast
Chapter Seven
Zero Stars for the Heart-Shaped Breakfast
SADIE
I woke on the left side of the bed with my dignity intact and a pink silk border running between me and an empty pillow.
The other side had been slept in.
Barely.
Beckett’s sheets looked as if a very controlled person had lowered himself beneath them, remained still for the required number of hours, and departed without troubling the fabric.
My side looked like I had fought sleep and lost violently. The cup from the bathroom sat on my bedside table. It was empty.
I stared at it for one second too long, then carried it into the kitchen.
The villa clock read seven forty-three. Behind the closed dining-room door, Beckett’s operations meeting was underway. His voice remained low and precise.
“No campaign request changes staff scheduling without Priya’s written approval. The breakfast feed stays within thirty minutes. Jun controls service timing.”
A voice I recognized as Priya’s answered through the door.
“You have repeated that twice.”
“Then everyone understands.”
“Everyone understood the first time.”
“Repetition protects clarity.”
“Repetition protects your anxiety.”
I smiled before I could stop myself. The meeting remained uninterrupted. House rules were house rules. I made coffee.
At seven fifty-nine, the dining-room door opened.
Beckett emerged in a dark shirt with his sleeves rolled once at the forearms. He carried a tablet in one hand and looked rested enough to be offensive.
His gaze moved to my coffee, then the clock.
“You have consumed caffeine.”
“Don’t sound relieved.”
“The interview begins in one minute.”
“I have consumed caffeine. I have not developed warmth.”
“No one requested warmth.”
His attention moved to the empty tea cup beside the sink.
It stopped there.
He did not ask whether I had slept. He did not mention the bathroom, Trent, or the fact that I had spent part of my first night on Mars trying to cry without making noise.
He looked back at me.
“There are citrus buns with breakfast,” he said.
“Is that your version of emotional support?”
“It is information.”
“Useful information.”
Something eased between us. Not because he had ignored what happened. Because he had not demanded ownership of it. The villa door chimed.
Nico entered beside two camera operators and a service cart hidden beneath a dome of pink roses.
“Good morning,” he said. “The world is waiting to share your first breakfast as husband and temporary promotional wife.”
“The world should develop hobbies,” I said.
The nearest camera light turned green.
Nico’s expression transformed into radiant professionalism.
“Welcome back to the Solstice Villa, where Sadie Bell and Beckett Vale are beginning their first full day on Mars.”
He pulled the roses aside.
The breakfast beneath them had been attacked by romance.
Two heart-shaped pancakes overlapped on a pink plate. A strawberry had been carved into a rose and placed inside a ring of powdered sugar. Scrambled eggs had been compressed into the words JUST MARRIED.
The bacon formed an arrow. It pointed at Beckett. I looked at Nico.
“Why?”
“The First Morning Together menu is one of our signature honeymoon experiences.”
“No one has eaten it before.”
“Then the signature remains aspirational.”
The comment panel beside the camera began to fill. THE BACON ARROW. SHE IS GOING TO DESTROY THAT PLATE. HE LOOKS AFRAID OF THE PANCAKES.
Beckett did not read comments. His eyes moved across all three.
Nico placed the plates in front of us and retreated to the edge of the room.
“A bite together,” the network producer suggested.
“No,” Beckett and I said.
The producer lowered his hand. I cut into the pancake. The knife made a small sawing sound.
“That isn’t promising,” I said.
“It may be a crisp exterior,” Nico offered.
“Pancakes shouldn’t have an exterior.”
I tasted it. Sweetness arrived first. Then salt. Then a floral flavor that belonged in soap or a legal complaint.
I put down my fork. The camera remained on.
“Well?” Nico asked.
“Zero stars.”
The producer made a choking sound.
Nico’s smile held through personal injury. “The presentation?”
“Aggressively shaped.”
“The flavor?”
“Did someone marinate a greeting card?”
Beckett took one bite.
His expression did not change.
“Rose syrup,” he said.
“You say that as if identifying the weapon helps.”
The comment panel accelerated. ZERO STARS. MARINATED GREETING CARD. SAVE THE BILLIONAIRE HE IS STILL CHEWING.
The producer stepped toward the camera. “We can reset with fresh plates.”
“From the same kitchen?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“Then resetting changes temperature, not judgment.”
“The recipe tested extremely well.”
“On whom?”
He looked toward Nico. Nico looked toward the ceiling. Beckett set down his fork.
“Who approved this menu?”
The villa door opened before anyone answered.
A man in a charcoal chef’s jacket entered carrying a tray of covered bowls. He was tall, with tired eyes and the expression of someone who had been promised this would not become his problem.
“I’m Jun Park,” he said to me. “Executive chef.”
“Did you make this?”
“The kitchen did.”
“That was not my question.”
One corner of his mouth moved.
“No.”
Beckett leaned back in his chair. “I rejected the First Morning Together menu six weeks ago.”
“You rejected the edible flowers, shaped eggs, strawberry roses, sweetened bacon, and synchronized bite prompt,” Jun said.
“I was thorough.”
“You used the phrase breakfast shouldn’t require emotional consent.”
I looked at Beckett.
He did not look back.
“Then how did it return?” I asked.
Jun glanced at the camera.
“You can answer,” Beckett said.
“Celeste restored it in the campaign file.”
Beckett became still.
Jun continued.
“Her note said the breakfast needed immediate visual romance. The network approved it as brand essential.”
“My mother does not control the kitchen.”
“She controlled the campaign photography checklist.”
The producer stepped in. “Celeste Vale has decades of experience building romantic hospitality brands.”
“She also has no authority to override the owner’s rejection of a menu,” Beckett said.
“It was only for the livestream.”
Jun’s expression did not change.
Mine did.
“Only for the livestream means the food did not have to be good,” I said.
“It had to read clearly on camera.”
“It reads like regret.”
Jun looked down to hide a smile.
Beckett noticed.
“What did you plan to serve?” he asked.
“The original welcome breakfast.”
“Which was?”
Jun lifted the lids from the bowls he carried.
Steam rose between us.
There were crisp potatoes with scallions and red peppers, soft eggs folded with herbs, small citrus buns glazed with honey, and bowls of rice porridge topped with mushrooms, greens, and toasted sesame.
The smell crossed the room and made the heart-shaped pancakes seem like decorative drywall.
“That’s staff breakfast,” Nico said.
“It’s today,” Jun replied.
“Why?” I asked.
“The launch team has an early shift. We cook one meal before service starts.”
I looked at the two perfect plates arranged for the cameras and the bowls prepared for people who had already worked several hours.
“Which one would you serve guests if no camera were here?”
Jun met my eyes.
“That one.”
He pointed to the staff breakfast.
“Good,” I said. “Serve it.”
The producer moved between Jun and the table. “We cannot replace a signature couples experience with employee food during a global feed.”
“Why?” Beckett asked.
“It is not branded.”
Beckett looked at the bowls.
“It is now.”
The producer stared at him.
“Jun,” Beckett said, “remove the First Morning Together menu from every service file. Restore your original breakfast. Effective immediately.”
“You already restored it once,” Jun said.
“Then I will remove everyone else’s access.”
Jun nodded.
I stood and lifted one of the steaming bowls.
“Where was this supposed to be eaten?”
“Blue Kitchen staff table.”
“Then why are we sitting here?”
The producer made another distressed sound.
Beckett looked at the camera, the untouched staged plates, and me.
“The feed was scheduled in the villa.”
“The feed was scheduled around a breakfast you rejected.”
“True.”
“Veto?”
He glanced toward the house rules on the refrigerator.
“Veto.”
We took the livestream to the kitchen.
The Blue Kitchen occupied the far side of the Rose Dome behind folding glass doors. Blue tile climbed the walls. Copper pans hung over a broad island, and a long wooden table stood beneath lights warm enough to make everyone look rested.
The staff seated there looked up as sixteen million viewers entered breakfast with them.
“Camera off,” I said.
The operator lowered it.
The producer stared at me. “We are live.”
“Then show the tile.”
The camera turned toward the blue wall.
I looked at the staff table. “No one appears unless they agree. Refusing does not change anyone’s schedule, pay, or breakfast.”
Priya set down her coffee.
“You heard the contract,” she told the table. “Actual consent, not the version people give when their employer is standing over them.”
Beckett moved away from the table and joined the camera operator by the wall.
One by one, the staff members decided. Two left with their plates. Three stayed outside the camera angle. Elena, Marisol, and four others agreed to remain.
No one asked the people who left to explain. Only then did I nod to the operator. Priya was among them.
She looked at Beckett. “Your thirty-minute feed has become a workplace event.”
“Jun’s decision,” he said.
Jun set the bowls on the table.
“Sadie’s,” he corrected.
“Joint decision,” I said.
Beckett’s gaze met mine.
“Agreed.”
Priya moved her coffee to make space. No one performed. No one arranged the buns into initials.
Jun explained the meal. A housekeeper named Elena told the camera the potatoes needed more heat and added chile paste. Nico attempted to describe the porridge as a bowl of shared devotion. Jun took away his microphone until he stopped.
Beckett sat beside me.
“Try the bun,” I said.
“I have eaten it.”
“Not today.”
“Does freshness change the recipe?”
“This is why people believe you have never relaxed.”
I tore one in half. He reached for the plate at the same moment. Our fingers touched. Neither of us moved immediately.
The kitchen noise continued around us. The camera found us. Of course it did.
“May I?” Beckett asked, looking at the half in my hand.
The question was absurd. It was also not about bread. I held it out. He took it carefully from my fingers.
“You may.”
The comment panel filled with hearts.
I looked away first and reached for the potatoes.
“These are five stars,” I told Jun.
“Four and a half,” Priya said. “Elena is right about the heat.”
Jun handed her the chile paste.
By the time the feed ended, the resort waitlist had gained another eighteen thousand names. The network posted a clip titled ZERO STARS BECOMES brEAKFAST WITH THE STAFF.
The producer called it a triumph of authentic disruption. I called it eating. He asked Jun to hold the broken-heart pancakes for a follow-up segment.
“No,” Beckett said.
The producer looked at me as if I had trained him.
“The menu is removed,” Beckett continued. “We do not manufacture a second failure because the first one performed well.”
Jun stacked the plates. “I may frame one in the kitchen.”
“That is an internal culinary decision,” Beckett said.
“Your respect for creative freedom is moving,” I told him.
“I have learned breakfast should not require emotional consent.”
Beckett stood beside me while the cameras packed away.
“You were right,” I said.
He looked suspicious. “About what?”
“The breakfast.”
“I rejected it first.”
“That’s why you were right.”
“I want that in writing.”
“You have already used your one miracle for the day.”
Jun carried the heart-shaped plates past us toward the waste station.
I stopped him.
“Wait.”
I picked up the bacon arrow and turned it toward Beckett again.
“For the archives.”
Beckett looked at it. Then at me. He laughed. It was brief, surprised, and entirely unapproved.
The sound changed his face. My stomach responded in a way no breakfast could justify.
The first thing Beckett and I had fixed together was a plate of bad pancakes.
The internet called it chemistry.
I called it a problem.