I turn and walk away before he can respond, my heart pounding in my chest. Behind me I hear him make a sound of surprise, maybe outrage, but I don't look back. I don't care. Let him complain to my father, let Jean-Pierre be disappointed that his matchmaking didn't work, let them both figure out that I'm not a piece in their chess game to be moved around at will.
I've just run the best service of my career. I'm not going to let Olivier Mercier ruin it.
Back in the kitchen, Margot is sitting at the counter with a bottle of champagne, already pouring for the team. The sight of her makes some of the tension drain from my shoulders. She catches my eye and raises an eyebrow in question, and I shake my head slightly—later, I'll tell her later—and she nods and goes back to pouring.
I feel a flash of regret at having sent Alex back to his cottage, wishing he was here for this, but before I can even think about texting him, Margot presses a glass into my hand and pulls me into the celebration.
"To Chef Beaumont," Martinez says, raising his glass, and the rest of the team echoes it.
"To the best damn service I've ever worked," Sofia adds, and they all cheer.
I raise my glass back to them, my throat tight. "To all of you. That was a team effort from start to finish, and you were incredible. Every single one of you."
We clink glasses and drink, and the champagne is cold and perfect and tastes like victory. The adrenaline is starting to fade now, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion that I know will hit me fully the moment I sit down. But there's satisfaction underneath it, warm and solid and earned.
Someone refills my glass and I don't protest. Martinez is telling a story about the halibut course that has Sofia laughing so hard she's wiping her eyes, and Margot is leaning against the counter looking elegant even now, at nearly eleven at night after a full day of work.
This. This is what I wanted. Not my father's approval or Olivier's attention or a spot in some prestigious kitchen in New York. Just this: a team that trusts me, a menu that worked, a night that proved I could do this on my own.
My phone buzzes and I pick it up to see a text from my father.
Papa:Just had a thought about the halibut dish. Text me back when you can.
He can't just let me have one night. Not one single night.
"I'll be right back," I say to Margot, who is laughing with the crew about something Martinez said. She smiles and waves me off.
I slip outside the kitchen door into the cool night air and dial, my fingers tight around the phone.
He picks up on the second ring. "Isabelle? I was expecting a text."
"Papa, my menu is not up to you." The champagne hasloosened me just enough to say what I've been swallowing all night. "I have told you, I appreciate your support, I do. But I did this. This wasn't one of your projects, it was mine. If it were yours, I would hear you out. But you've got to stop inserting yourself into every single decision I make. Please."
There's a pause, and when he speaks his voice has cooled considerably. "Isabelle, I expect a bit more respect than this. I'm doing this for you, and when you can't see what needs to be changed?—"
"Just stop, Papa." I cut him off because if I let him finish that sentence I will scream. "And I hope you're happy with yourself about Olivier. How many times do I have to tell you not to meddle like this? I'm a grown woman, I'm not some prize to be auctioned off to the highest bidder."
"Don't be so dramatic, Isabelle. You're young, you don't see the bigger picture. I know what's best for you, even when you can't see it yourself. What I do comes from love, you need to understand?—"
"I am not speaking to you like this." The words come out cold and sharp and final. "How dare you say that to me."
I hang up before he can respond and stand there in the cool night air, the phone hot in my hand, fury and hurt twisting together in my chest like a knot I can't untangle.
I know what's best for you.
The words echo in my head, and I want to throw my phone into the vineyard. I want to scream. I want to get in my car and drive back to the city and never speak to him again. But mostly I just feel tired. Tired of fighting him, tired of proving myself, tired of being seen as his creation instead of my own person.
I take a few deep breaths, forcing the anger down until it settles into something I can carry. Then I go back inside, paste on a smile, and rejoin the celebration.
I thank my staff one more time, meaning every word, and hug Margot and promise to meet her for lunch tomorrow. Ifinish the last of my closing checks, double-checking the walk-in and making sure everything is set for tomorrow's prep, and finally grab my jacket and head out into the night.
I walk through the vineyard, too exhausted to worry about aliens or shadows or anything except putting one foot in front of the other. The cottages come into view through the olive trees, their porch lights casting warm circles against the darkness.
Alex's porch light is on, and he's sitting out there in a t-shirt and dark pants, feet propped up on the railing, a glass of wine in his hand. He raises it to me as I pass and I smile but keep walking to my own door, because if I stop I don't know what I'll do.
Inside, I strip off my chef's coat and kitchen clothes, leaving them in a pile on the bathroom floor, and step into the shower. The hot water hits my shoulders and I let out a sound that's somewhere between a groan and a sigh, my muscles finally unclenching after fourteen hours of holding everything together. I stand there longer than I need to, letting the steam fill the bathroom, the water running down my back, washing away the sweat and the stress and the smell of the kitchen.
But all of it, every second of it, Alex is on my mind.