I woke up with a start, immediately sensing that I wasn't in my bed.

My eyes opened to a decor I didn't quite recognize in the dark, but the gleam of metal and the mess of food on the floor brought my memories back.

I'm in the restaurant kitchen, still?

I didn't remember falling asleep. Barely remembered setting up this little corner of tablecloths used as blankets, and chair cushions bunched up to use as pillows. Barely remembered—

I wasn't alone when I fell asleep.

Zane was gone. The thick tablecloth he'd strewn over us was tussled up on his side, but he was no longer there. I sat up, sensing a shiver of cold seep through me; without his warmth to cuddle me through the night, I was lost, lonely.

And I didn't want Zane to make me feel that way, ever.

I wrapped the cloth around myself as I got to my feet, wobbly, blood rushing to my head as I squinted through the room. It was still fairly dark, meaning not quite morning, thank goodness.

Meaning Zane had snuck out before dawn and left me here to wake to this chaos.

Granted, I'd started it, but still.

I located my clothes haphazardly thrown all over the place, and dressed quickly. My staff would surely show up any minute; Francis came in early to start baking bread and desserts for the day.

I found my phone in my purse—it was four-thirty a.m., meaning I had half an hour to attempt to tidy up somewhat before people started popping in.

"Fuck."

I stood there in the middle of the room, surrounded by the globs of cream and drying cake, sticky tomato smears on the walls, nuts still spilled across the tile, threatening to trip me.

"Fuck, what is wrong with me?"

My knees quaked, and I almost fell to the floor but managed to skirt up to the counter first, to take hold of it to retain my balance.

I'd gotten shit-faced at my restaurant. Snuck into the kitchen after hours, fucked up all the hard work my chefs and staff put in—and had sex with Zane Rose. Again. Another round of heart-wrenching, physically numbing and exhausting sex that I'd be getting flashbacks of the more I sobered up.

"Fuck."

I didn't know what else to say. What else to think. He was my demise, my nemesis, but whenever he entered a room and we were alone, all bets were off. All clothes were off. And this destructive behavior of mine—of ours—needed to stop.

Halfway to the broom closet I gasped, slapping a hand to my chest.

Zane was gone. Gone. But what if he'd snapped pictures before he left? The dirty proof of our fucking—what if he laid it all out in another piece to expose me? "Béatrice Balzac has sex with chefs in the kitchen of her restaurants, how unsanitary is that?" or "She wastes the food her staff prepares by throwing it all over the place because she's not happy with it—and then fucks her enemies in the wake of her chaos."

I'd given him more leverage than ever to take me down. And the fact that he'd disappeared before I woke only showed me I was right to never trust him. Last night, for some stupid reason, I'd caved, I'd let him sweet-talk me, and here we were. Here I was. Cleaning up a mess we'd both made, but that I'd get blamed for.

As I swept the nuts and dryer foods out of the way, making a pile, I tried to convince myself I'd dreamed it all. Just an eerie, sexual nightmare where Zane followed me here, had a food fight with me, fucked me on the counter, then left me. It wasn't real, was it? It couldn't be.

But as I started wiping down the counter, over-exerting myself, the flashbacks poured in. Sticky lips and creamy tongues, gripping counters, heads tipping back to moan up at the ceiling.

No, it was real. It happened. And I had to live with the consequences and pray to any god who'd listen that Zane wouldn't use all this for another fucked up book.

I was mopping the floor when the back-door opened to reveal Francis and Nita. I paused, eyes widening, waiting for their surprised looks, for their questions; but nothing came.

"Hey," I said, cringing as I dipped the mop into the bucket of water. "Fancy seeing you two here."

Francis rolled his eyes as he marched straight to the fridge, opened it, and groaned. "All of them?" he said, spinning not to me, but to Nita.

Nita glanced at me. "Are there any pastries left?"

My cheeks overheated as I gripped the mop. "Ah," I peered down at my bare feet, "I don't know. I was...uh...drunk. And I grabbed tons of stuff, I..." I didn't know how to twist things so I wouldn't look like an idiot, so I babbled. "It was a bad night, I'm sorry. Insults...doubt...food...I was hungry, from the drinking, maybe? Unsure. Or something. Got out a bunch of food to cook and then craved pastries and cake, and then I..."

Nita crossed her arms, and I could tell she was trying to contain an amused smile. "You had a food fight."

"I..." My neck whipped up and I glared at her, though I didn't mean to address my anger at her. "Wait, what? How did...how would you...huh?"

I'd cleaned the room well enough before she and Francis showed up, and while it wasn't as impeccable as I'd found it last night, there wasn't sufficient proof to imply there'd been a food fight here. I was sure of that.

"Béa," Nita said, shooing Francis who'd come to stand beside her, sulking, "we're not idiots, okay? We know what's been going on with you lately."

"So you think I snuck back here after hours to have a food fight with myself?" I scoffed; my cheeks were still on fire. "Come on, now."

"With yourself?" Nita laughed, Francis rolled his eyes again. "We saw Zane Rose in his car in the parking lot. Flashy, annoying; I saw him get out of it about fifteen times before deciding to stay in there. He showed up about twenty minutes after you did."

"Huh?" I let go of the mop and its handle smashed to the ground, making all three of us jump.

"His car was still there when I left, and I was the last one out, aside from you." Nita paraded past me and set her purse on the newly cleaned counter. "I figured he'd come in, eventually. Or wait for you out there. I know you, that you'd go to the kitchen and cook stuff; you do that when you're stressed. And I know how stressed you are. Plus...I mean," she sneered, "this place reeks of industrial cleaning supplies with an undertone of nuts and sugar. There's a red splotch near the door," she pointed at it, and I winced, "and I see the sink is loaded with dishes. All of them being the dishes used for the cakes."

My jaw wanted to drop, but I employed every muscle in me to keep it in its place.

Fuck, I forgot the dishes.

"Shit, I—" I swiveled and hurried to the sink, rolling my sleeves up. "I'll finish those up real fast, you won't even know I was here—"

"—stop." Nita snapped at me—snapped at me. Her boss. "No need for this. That's why I texted Francis and asked him to come in early today. I had a feeling about it." She caught me looking at her like she was crazy. "Yeah, it's weird, but something told me you'd go for all the cakes. You had that sugar rush vibe about you last night; I saw you inhaling the crème brulée in the party room."

My cheeks had to have turned violet by then. "Jeez, I'm a disgrace."

Nita set her hand on my upper arm, shaking her head. "You're not. You're going through a lot. We understand." Francis cleared his throat loudly, and Nita flinched. "I understand. Things like this happen."

Francis grumbled as he disappeared into one of the pantries. I felt bad; he worked his ass off to bake exquisite cakes, and I'd wasted so much of his time by using most of those creations to smash into Zane's face.

"I should help," I said, gesturing to the area where Francis had vanished. "Bake a few cakes, and stuff. He'll probably quit if I don't."

Nita tutted. "He won't quit. He's moody because I forced him out of bed too early. Cakes will be baked, all the pastries replenished. Please."

"But I—"

"—Béatrice." Nita now squeezed my arm. "You're the boss, remember? You don't need to worry about this stuff. We'll take care of it, and you go home and get some rest, okay?"

I puffed out a heavy breath, slumping in semi-relief. "Okay. But," I peered at the door, "I still need to call Cole to have him come get me, so I have some time on my hands."

"No," she smiled as she shoved a few stray ginger curls from my face, "you don't have to call him. Cole stayed here all night, waiting for you."

I already felt like shit, and now I felt worse. "I'm an asshole."

"You're not." She pinched my cheek, then gently pushed me away from the counter. "He was hired for this, and he cares about you, Béa. So let him do his job and take you home so you can sleep all this off, okay? Trust me, we got it covered here."

I obeyed, reluctantly, and gritted my teeth as I walked outside to a soothing sunrise. Sure enough, Cole's car was in the lot, towards the back. Cole stood in front of it, smoking a cigarette. I frowned as I approached, and he extinguished it.

"Ready to go?" he said, without a hint of fatigue or curiosity in his voice.

"Did you..." I licked my lips and grimaced, "did you see him leave?"

Cole narrowed his gaze. "I didn't." He shrugged. "I was asleep, actually. When I woke up, his car was gone."

"So you knew he'd come after me. You knew..." I tore my fingers through my hair, ignoring the tangles, the bits and pieces of cake and frosting still stuck in the strands.

"Béatrice." He didn't touch me, but I felt warmth in his tone, a cozy hug to bring me back to reality, to life. "You made it very clear you didn't want anyone interfering in all this. You were distressed, and I assumed he'd come to apologize. So he apologized, and he left, and now you won't be bothered by him anymore, right?"

Though I nodded and said "right", I didn't believe my own words. It was only a matter of time before I saw his face in the tabloids, denouncing me for having sex in the kitchen of one of my restaurants.

***

It took me days to get past my hangover. Hangover from booze or from Zane, I wasn't sure. The effect plagued me enough to keep me in bed for hours on end watching old TV shows and sipping on chamomile tea to steady my stomach.

By the third day of lazing about, I managed to get dressed and go downstairs to my kitchen—and to find a surprise guest hanging out, cooking something that smelled way too burnt on my stove.

"Elliot?" I'd recognize those sleek curls and that physique anywhere, including in my private kitchen, using my pans and utensils and the food in my fridge. What I wondered was... "Who let you in?"

Elliot whipped around, a wide smile on their prune-colored lips. They held up a small key, as if they'd been waiting all this time for me to ask. "You gave me a spare for emergencies, remember?"

"Is this an emergency?" I sniffed at what they were making—some sort of scramble of eggs, potatoes, and cheap sausage—and shook my head. "That is an emergency," I gestured at the thing, "and I think it's illegal to cook in a chef's personal kitchen."

They waved me off and indicated that I should sit on one of the barstools. "Shush. Let someone else cook for you, for a change."

I didn't want to remind them I'd done that, several times, and been bitten in the ass for it.

"And yes, this," they flicked their wrist in my direction, "is an emergency. I haven't heard from you in days."

"I turned my phone off." A lie, for sure; I'd been dodging all messages and emails, and sticking to checking social media for any sign of Zane and his upcoming exposé about the dirtiness of my kitchen.

"Right, well, you should have left it on. I have news." They returned to the pan, shaking it and using a spatula to carelessly mix the ingredients.

"What kind of news?" I groaned, glowering towards the coffee machine, which was, to my luck, brewing a heavenly beverage at that very moment.

"About Zane Rose."

I stilled, my fists curling atop the counter. "What about him?"

I was prepared for this. I hadn't worked on any comebacks nor would I know how to disprove pictures if he took any, but I'd anticipated he would stoop this low, that he would try to humiliate me again—

"His restaurant is closed. Indefinitely." Elliot kept their profile to me, so I could visualize the spark of interest in their eyes as they pretended not to be watching me.

"What?" I blinked, then pinched myself, unsure if I was awake or having another one of my strangely realistic nightmares. Elliot did tend to pop up in those, so it wouldn't have surprised me.

But the pain on my arm, where I pinched, was real. This was real.

"Weren't you guys supposed to patch things up?" Elliot reached up into one of the cabinets and grabbed two plates—two that I stashed up there on purpose because I hated them. "Kind of weird that you'd make up and then he'd close down."

"We were," I said, biting my tongue before I launched over the counter to fix the mess Elliot was making. "But he ambushed me. That night, he...took me to that one French place I was asked to never go to."

"Ohhh," Elliot hissed through their teeth, "that's bad."

"It gets worse." I smelled the delicious coffee aroma and it settled my nerves—only a smidgen. "He tried to force French food I don't like on me. It got nasty, Elliot. Heated. I left, went to my restaurant, and he followed me, then when I was alone after closing he came in, and we..."

"And it got nasty. Heated, again." Elliot snorted. "Of course, as it always seems to when you two are left to your own devices."

"We can't fucking help it!" I yelled, without meaning to startle Elliot.

Elliot dropped some of their egg and potato mixture onto a plate, then fetched a mug—thankfully my favorite, rainbow-colored one—and poured some coffee. They set it all in front of me and frowned. "Sorry, it's not up to your standards, but you need to eat."

I didn't have the heart to tell them I simply couldn't eat whatever this was, but I took a deep breath and plunged a fork in anyway. "Oh, wow," I said, genuinely surprised that it didn't taste like burnt rubber. "This isn't bad."

"I'm not done." Elliot crossed their arms and rolled on the balls of their feet, appearing anxious. "Luca and Grace called me, when they couldn't get a hold of you. Apparently Zane's agent was...um...blacklisted, or something? He issued a private apology to your agents and the production team for Food Me! He...well, let's just say that whole evening, the truce night? It was staged."

"What?" I swallowed my bite. "You made it seem like you didn't know what had happened!"

"I didn't know the location or the details, but I knew a resolution was supposed to come out of it all, and now...well, now I know that didn't happen. And I understand better why." Elliot let their arms fall to their sides. "That chef, from the French restaurant? Heavily bribed by Zane's agent. And he's not happy about it. Luca reached out to him and he doesn't want to be mentioned anywhere if this all gets out."

I grunted. "I predicted that much. Olivier is not one to fuck around with that stuff."

"Yeah, well, the one who fucked around and fucked up was Zane. It was all supposed to go smoother, according to his agent. And now..." they chewed on their lower lip, "his restaurant is closed."

I didn't know what to say. What to think. I was so bewildered and confused by this man at every turn, but this was the most confusing of all: why would he close his restaurant? Why did he keep demeaning me if he was attracted to me? Or was that another lie he'd spun to get me to have sex with him again?

He'd spent his life's savings on that place, invested so much in it, and now...after one failed night—his fault—he was giving up?

"This doesn't make any sense." I wasn't sure if I was talking about Zane, or the fact that Elliot's breakfast wasn't half bad and I almost finished the whole thing.

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