Chapter 2 - The Inner Sanctum
The private back office of L’Étoile looked nothing like the frantic, chaotic kitchens you see on television. It was a spacious, wood-paneled room lined with vintage wine racks, secure digital monitors showing every corner of the restaurant, and a large oak desk covered in leather-bound ledgers.
The moment Chef Laurent closed the heavy mahogany door behind us, the muffled sounds of the dining room vanished, replaced by a quiet, reverent hush.
“Are you alright, Helen?” Laurent asked, his professional demeanor dropping instantly into the warm, familiar tone of an old friend. He quickly pulled out a plush leather armchair behind the desk for me. “When I saw where they seated you from the security feed, my blood ran cold. If you’d prefer, I can have security escort them out of the building right now.”
I sank into the comfortable chair, letting out a soft sigh as I smoothed my skirt. I appreciated Laurent’s fierce loyalty, but I wasn't done yet.
“No, Laurent, leave them be,” I said, a slight, knowing smile touching the corners of my lips. “Cruelty like that needs time to marinate. Let them sit out there with their expensive lobsters and their empty plates. Fear is a wonderful seasoning.”
Laurent chuckled, a rich, deep sound, and poured a cup of hot, fragrant jasmine tea from a silver pot sitting on a warming tray, sliding it across the desk toward me.
“You’re a remarkably patient woman, Helen,” Laurent murmured, shaking his head. “Most people would have flipped the table. But I suppose that’s why you own the building, and they’re just trying to impress your money.”
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“They don’t know about the money, Laurent,” I reminded him gently, taking a slow sip of the tea. “For thirty years, Michael only knew me as the woman who scrubbed floors and packed his school lunches. He thinks I’m broke, elderly, and entirely dependent on his occasional, condescending phone calls.”
“Well,” Laurent said, crossing his arms and leaning against the edge of his desk with a grin. “That illusion is about to expire.”
