He looks angrier now, the flush spreading down his neck, his jaw clenching. "Why wouldn't I? There's no shame in it. There's a hell of a lot more shame in what you've been doing. Slutting around with hired help like a bitch in heat, embarrassing yourself, embarrassing your family."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Shock and fury spring up in equal measure, so intense I can barely breathe through it. No one haseverspoken to me like this in my entire life. Not in kitchens where I've dealt with sexist chefs and condescending line cooks, not in culinary school where I had to fight twice as hard for half the recognition.
And I'm equal parts enraged and shocked enough that I hate that I can feel wetness starting to prick at my eyes, that sharp sting that comes before tears. Something about how jarring this is, how violating it feels to have someone speak to me this wayin my own kitchen, in the space I've built and protected and made safe.
"Howdareyou speak to me like that," I manage. I'm gripping my pen so hard my knuckles are white, and I consider throwing it at him like a weapon. Preferably aiming for an eyeball.
He laughs, bitter and harsh and ugly. "I'll talk to you any fucking way I like, Isabelle. You think you're so special? You think you're untouchable because daddy gave you a restaurant to play with?"
He stumbles closer and I move back instinctively, my hip hitting the edge of the prep table hard enough to hurt. The kitchen suddenly feels very isolated, very far from where Margot might still be working late, very far from anywhere someone might hear me.
"So how about this," he says. "You fuck me, and I don't say anything to your dad. Simple as that. We both get what we want."
I stare at him, genuinely speechless for a moment. "You're out of your mind."
"Oh, relax," he says, waving a hand dismissively. "You're so fucking dramatic, Isabelle. I'm not threatening you. Jesus Christ. I'm offering you a deal that benefits both of us. You get to keep your loser boyfriend safe, you get to have your little secret, and I get what I came here for. See? Win-win. Everyone's happy."
The casual way he says it, like he's negotiating a business transaction, like my body is just another item on a contract to be bargained over, makes my stomach turn.
"I am not sleeping with you," I say, and my voice is shaking now. "And if you even think about touching Alex's deal, if you even think about saying one word to my father?—"
"You'll what?" he interrupts, stepping closer. He's only a few feet away now, close enough that I can smell the wine on his breath, stale and sour. "Come on, Isabelle. Be smart about this. One night, nobody has to know, and your little boyfriend getsto keep his restaurant. Or you can say no, and I tell your dad everything, and Alex loses his deal. Your choice."
I'm about to lose my shit when the kitchen door opens behind him with a loud metallic click that echoes through the empty space.
CHAPTER 16
Alex
The first thing I notice when I open the kitchen door is how wrong the scene in front of me feels. Olivier is standing too close to Isabelle, swaying slightly, one hand braced against the prep table. She's backed up against the counter on the far side, her posture rigid, shoulders drawn up tight, and every instinct in my body goes on high alert.
The air in the room feels charged and Isabelle's eyes dart to me the second the door clicks shut behind me, and there's something in her face—relief, maybe—that tells me whatever's happening here, she wants it to stop.
Olivier spins around, stumbling a bit as he does. "Oh, look who decided to show up. We were just fucking talking about you."
The slur in his voice when he speaks is obvious enough that it's clear he's had way too much to drink. His face is flushed dark red, sweat beading on his forehead. I have zero interest in whatever Olivier has to say about anything, and even lessinterest in whatever conversation he thinks they were having before I walked in.
I look at Isabelle instead of acknowledging him, keeping my voice level. "Are you alright?"
She nods, quick and tight, but I can see the tension in her shoulders.
"Do you want him to leave?" I ask.
She glances between us, her fingers drumming once against the stainless steel counter behind her, then seems to deflate slightly. "Honestly I think I just want to go back to the cottage. It's late and I'm exhausted."
Olivier is watching us with a bewildered expression, mouth slightly open, like he can't quite process what's happening or why we're not engaging with whatever drama he's trying to create.
"I'll walk you back," I say to Isabelle.
She smiles gratefully and starts gathering her papers from the counter. Her hands shake as she stacks them—just a tremor, barely there—but I notice and that small detail makes my blood boil. Whatever happened before I walked in here rattled her.
"Are you kidding me?" Olivier says, looking between us. His face is flushed red, sweat beading at his hairline. "After what we just talked about?"
I move toward Isabelle without sparing him a glance, my only focus getting her out of this room.
"Fine, you know what?" His voice climbs louder, taking on an ugly edge. "Go ahead. Run off together, see if I care. I don't even want her anymore. She's a fucking bitch who can go screw the help if that's what she's into.”
I feel my hands curl into fists at my sides before I consciously register the movement. I'm not a violent person. I've gotten into exactly three fights in my entire life—two of them were Jack's fault—and I've never once thrown the first punch.