Chapter 2
I pushed open the door to the hotel's back kitchen.
Less than two hours remained before the charity gala's opening. The Michelin-starred chef we'd hired at enormous expense had walked out in a rage over the menu dispute, taking his core team with him.
The kitchen was in shambles. A few remaining line cooks stood helplessly at the prep stations.
I forced the blood-red "79" to the back of my mind.
Pulling my phone from my handbag, I took a deep breath and dialed a number.
"Old Jack, it's me. Claire." I wedged the phone between my shoulder and ear, rapidly gathering the scattered orders while speaking at full speed. "Load every bit of premium chilled black cod and local produce you have in your dock warehouse onto a refrigerated truck and get it to the St. Regis loading bay in fifteen minutes. Triple the price."
I dialed three more numbers in quick succession: a pastry kitchen I'd worked with before, a boutique beverage supplier I knew well, and a battle-tested temporary event service team.
To become the "socially acceptable Mrs. Whitmore" Ethan wanted, I had put them and my career into cold storage for too long — I'd even grown ashamed to mention them.
But now, they were my lifeline.
Then I looked at the line cooks, their faces tight with anxiety. I ripped the scarf from my neck, grabbed a white apron, and tied it around my waist.
"Cross out every French dish on the menu," I ordered, my eyes fixed on the whiteboard over the prep counter. "Tonight's theme is 'Community Kitchen.' We're going to use the most comforting food in the world to move those tycoons out there who've long since grown tired of delicacies. Swap the main course to slow-braised red wine vegetable veal, with charred parsnip purée and caramelized onion."
That was my mother's recipe.
There was no time left for careful design.
I walked to the printer, grabbed the existing menu cards, and hand-rewrote the charity story behind each dish — weaving sustainable agriculture, a return to family bonds, and the community kitchen concept into something seamless.
For the next two hours, I ran frantically between the stifling kitchen and the freezing corridors.
Directing deliveries, assigning stations, adjusting the pacing of courses.
The stalled gears of the gala, pushed hard by my hands, began turning smoothly again.
In a gap between courses, I stepped breathless to the double doors connecting the kitchen to the ballroom's service corridor and peered through the crack at the glittering scene beyond.
The hall was a picture of elegant clinking glasses.
Ethan stood quietly in the shadow of a crystal chandelier in his impeccably tailored suit, his expression unreadable.
He didn't so much as glance toward the kitchen. He just periodically lowered his head and swiped at his tablet.
Under the spotlight stood Madeleine.
She wore a champagne-colored haute couture gown, wine glass in hand, moving among the guests with an impeccable smile.
Whenever someone praised the evening's distinctive menu design or its deeply human fundraising elements, she would assume a flawless, humble expression and accept the praise as the project lead — with perfect ease, as though she deserved every word.
That was my proposal. My work. My connections.
Watching her steal everything from me, my stomach churned with a bitter, grinding ache.
But I could only stare through that crack and swallow every humiliation — because I had no choice.
I needed the points.
I loved Ethan.
He had saved me.
When the clock edged toward 10:30 PM, the final dessert was cleared away.
Thunderous applause rolled in from the front of the house.
The maître d' burst excitedly into the kitchen, waving the data terminal at me. "Miss Claire! The pledge numbers are in! Five million six hundred thousand dollars! The dish stories became the focus of the entire evening — the numbers far exceeded our original target!"
The tension that had gripped every nerve all night finally released. I collapsed against the cold stainless-steel sink, and the kitchen staff erupted in cheers.
I had succeeded.
I hadn't just patched up the mess — I'd executed it more beautifully than the original plan.
Just then, the phone in my apron pocket buzzed.
A message from Ethan.
【The gala is over. Come up to the top-floor suite for the celebration. I won't forget the bonus points I promised you.】
I stared at the screen, my heart starting to pound beyond control.
The fierce anticipation drowned out the exhaustion and the humiliation.
He had said: if I saved this gala, he would give me more than enough bonus points.
This month — could I break 100?
