"Seen the headlines?" I asked at last, after what seemed to be hours of glowering at this man, that I want to smack and undress at the same time.

I couldn't help it—no matter how much I loathed him and how he tried to destroy me, he was so damn delicious. His body was like a forbidden candy begging to be unwrapped, and I wanted to unwrap it. He was a rotten delicacy that would make me sick, but I didn't care. Dangerously beautiful on the outside, loaded with poison on the inside.

I craved that poison. And I despised myself for it. That wasn't what I came for; I'd come to have my say, to yell at him, to get my closure, and leave.

I yearned to punch him, but the more I stood there watching him, the more I yearned also to feel him inside me. To show him how wet he made me by standing there all ruffled up and confused.

"Yeah?" He scoffed as he sat on his couch but didn't gesture at me to join him. The TV was on, muted, displaying some silly cooking competition I also liked to watch to unwind.

No, we can't have things in common.

"And?" I tapped my foot to the ground, crossing my arms over my chest. My cheeks flushed; I felt exposed, though I was wearing a good layer of clothing. Something about the way he stared at me, not with fury, but not quite with lust either, made me feel out of place.

I was out of place. Yes, I was pissed at him, but did that give me the right to barge over to his apartment and berate him?

It was too late to change that. I'd stand my ground, get my piece out, and take off. He'd never have to see me again.

"And it's great publicity for my restaurant, I guess?" He pressed a button on the remote next to him, switching the TV off. "It's been booming thanks to the show. Ah," he smacked his thighs, "is that why you're here? To ask me to thank you? Well," he sneered as he got up and bowed exaggeratedly, "thank you, Béatrice Balzac, for elevating my status to somewhat well-known."

God, I wanted to slap him. Slap him so hard his skin turned red, sense it burn under my palm. Watch him writhe in pain, glowering at me with those dark, devilish eyes. Then I wanted to caress that skin into bending to my will. I wanted to squeeze his cheeks and make his head explode; but I wanted to see that head between my legs, burying into my pussy and making me scream.

Why, why did he make me feel this way? So furious, but so incredibly lustful all at once? I thrived on power-plays in the bedroom, and I liked things a little violent; but this went beyond my normal cravings. Yelling and kissing? Fighting and fucking?

He'd unearthed the deepest of kinks in me, and I wasn't sure if I liked it.

"This was a mistake," I said, spinning away from him, needing a reprieve from his conflicted stare. I gazed at the door, but I didn't walk towards it.

Something stopped me in my tracks. Some eerie hunch told me to stay put, to wait.

Wait for what?

"Right," he said, coming up to stand in front of me. Blocking me? Taunting me? "Mistake, sure. I doubt that."

"Excuse me?" I quirked a brow, giving him what he wanted: a reaction.

"Everything you do is calculated, Béatrice, so don't lie to me." He didn't quite bar my way, but I had a feeling that if I tried to move past him, he'd grab my wrist, preventing me from leaving. And I almost wanted him to, wanted to sense him caress me, squeeze me, heating me up.

Fuck, what is wrong with me?

No, I wouldn't let him touch me.

He wasn't smiling, but his lips were closer to sliding up than down. Did this amuse him?

Or did he struggle with the same predicament of hating my guts but desiring me?

Was that even a normal human emotion? Was there a word for it?

"You are the calculated one," I said; there was no use holding it all in. Every emotion was about to spew out. Weeks of growling at tabloids, dodging interviewers, trying not to kill my employers. "You did all this on purpose, didn't you? Lured my producers to your restaurant, played the charm and boozy card to get me to sleep with you, ditched me here as you did who-knew-what and didn't bother to even leave a note after our torrid night—"

"—torrid, huh?" There was that smile; faint, almost shy, but it drew across his lips as he perked up slightly. I shuddered. "It was torrid for you, was it?"

I resisted the urge to jam a finger into his chest. Last time I did that, I regretted it, and nearly succumbed to him again. "Don't change the subject." I backed away but didn't get far; my legs halted into the back of a chair. "You do all that, then come on my show, embarrass me, manage to take five thousand dollars basically for showing up, and now you're a star for bringing me down?"

"Star?" He snorted. "Somewhat well-known, Béatrice. You didn't help me that much. And I didn't bring you down."

"Are you serious?" My arms shook with the need to hurt him. To get him to understand what he'd done. He thought it was all so innocent, that it didn't matter—but I didn't work this hard to be taken down by tabloids. "What is wrong with you? What did I ever do to you?"

He rolled his eyes and side-stepped, lifting his shoulders. "It's nothing personal, okay? A guy's gotta make it in Hollywood."

"Why me? Why put a target on my back?"

He shook his head and motioned towards the door. "Look, I have no answers for you, so if that's what you came for...you know where the door is. Figured that one out on your own, smart girl."

I growled, and while I thought it'd be an inaudible sound that he wouldn't hear, he absolutely did hear it. His eyes widened as he took me in, head to toe, considering.

All manners of thoughts screened over his features. Was I a threat? Could I hurt him? Did he need to growl back? Or was it a growl that meant something else?

Would that I knew, myself, what my growl meant.

I didn't think he understood how badly I wanted to cause him pain. He'd wounded me, and it was worsening by the second as he stood there unfazed, uncaring that he'd ruined my reputation. I wasn't a chef anymore, according to the media. No, I was the chef who slept around and rewarded those who pleasured her most. The show I'd fought to make my way now belonged to my unhinged producers, and I had no say no matter how much money I'd invested. It was a mockery, and viewers who'd been taking it seriously were starting to think I was a joke.

"Why are you doing this?" I again braced against my urge to shake him, to get the truth from him.

We'd never had beef, not that I remembered. I didn't even know him until I met him at his restaurant.

And while I understood that sometimes, someone might rub you the wrong way for no reason at all, his cruelty towards me made no sense. All I ever did was support other chefs. We were a community, not rivals. I'd never said anything bad about his restaurant, never doubted his skills. I'd even given Gastrognome a good review on Yelp, despite him screaming at me for not eating his dish the way he intended it.

There was a deeper, hidden reason for how he acted with me, against me, and I couldn't leave his apartment until I knew it.

"Why bother coming on the show?" I leaned backwards into the chair, gripping its edges for stability. Only then did I realize I was still shaking, but I couldn't tell if it was revulsion or compulsion. I couldn't tell if I was attracted to him, or if I wanted to run away. "You could have extorted me. Fed fake news to the press to blackmail me—you're good at that. You could have gotten more money that way. My agents are ruthless in protecting me, though they're failing miserably right now."

"I don't do blackmail," he said, using air-quotes. "I'm not out to get you, Béatrice."

"Really?" I lifted my foot, about to hurdle up to him; but instead, I lowered it in a frenzied stomp. I looked like a toddler throwing a fit over a toy, but it was my toy. My show, my fucking reputation, and I needed to know why he was destroying me. "And all those interviews demeaning me, those are for my benefit, you'll say?"

"One interview." He raised one finger to demonstrate, then slowly dropped his arm to his side. He softened; his gaze wasn't ablaze with rage, but instead cool, focused. Emotionless. "And it was wildly distorted. You saw the one tonight, on the news?" I nodded. "Yeah, that was all misconstrued, mixed up. Look at it again and watch my cooking progress—nothing is in order."

While I was intrigued by this bad editing, I wouldn't let him get me off track. "There you go changing the subject again."

"I'm not." His figure seemed to stretch towards the ceiling as he came closer, towering over me. "Here's the truth, plain and simple: if you're not ready for the spotlight and its consequences, then maybe you shouldn't have accepted to be on a show that shows you and all your flaws with such intensity. A show about being picky and endorsing it? Did you think you'd skate by with stellar reviews from all corners of the planet? Come on, Béatrice. You're smarter than that."

"You dare." I finally caved and crammed my finger into his hard, firm torso, biting my tongue for a second as I regretted my movement immediately. "You don't know the first thing about me, whether I'm smart, what I can or can't take. I've been in the spotlight," I pushed harder into him, chewing the insides of my cheeks, "and I take criticism just fine. You think it's the first time I've been mocked for being picky?"

He raised his arms and tried to back away, but I matched his stride.

"Misguided and cruel criticism, though, I'm not okay with. Accusing me, lying about me, I'm not okay with." My nail dug into him, and I almost wished it would pierce his shirt, exposing the delicate skin underneath. "I'm being told I should have sucked it up and tried your dish, anyway. That I'm a picky idiot, that I make no sense. How can I go on in life without tasting everything? And you," I snorted, "you're being glorified as the hero who's stopping my empire. Empire?" I snorted again, so intensely it propelled me forward, almost falling into him. "I don't have an empire."

"Oh?" He chortled. "You don't?"

"I don't." I sniffled and removed my finger, startled by the imprint of my nail that I left on his shirt. "I'm spreading my joy for food my way. How is that an empire? How is that a problem?"

"No empire, you say." It was his turn to snort, and I could have sworn smoke swirled out his nose. If he'd been calm earlier, something I said flipped a switch in him, and he was pissed. "You have an L.A. mansion. Property in New York City and Florida, from what I read. A rooftop penthouse in Paris, yeah?" I nodded, frowning. "And you've opened twenty, thirty restaurants across the globe? Wrote multiple award-winning cookbooks and praised non-fiction books that all became best-sellers? There are lines of merchandise with your name on them. You trend on TikTok daily, your tastes appeal to millennials, you piss off the elderly. That is an empire, my friend."

I shoved him, much harder than I meant to. "I'm not your friend."

He hardly lost his footing, regaining his balance as if I'd been a tiny gust of wind that barreled into a brick wall. "Why didn't you try the dish?" His demonic eyes were no longer glowing with ferocity, but with questions. The smoke dissipated, and he was but a man, asking a serious question, his pride wounded. A tall, gorgeous, disgustingly perfect in every physical way kind of man, but a man, nonetheless.

"I told you," I said, taken aback by his constant change in demeanor. Unaffected, rude, angry, upset; I couldn't keep up. "I don't like ratatouille."

"But you're supposed to try the dishes served to you." He took a single step towards me, but his stride was so wide, he was inches away before I could react. His breath—hot and spicy—blew over me, and I blinked. "You didn't do that. Yes, I knew you didn't like ratatouille, but I thought you'd try it, anyway. Be bold."

"Was that your purpose? To push me beyond my limits?" I peered up at him, my jaw trembling, my entire body seconds away from caving and falling into him.

He strode up as close as he could get, millimeters from bashing into me. The tension, the angry desire rolled off him in waves, hitting me in the face, the stomach, my core. Waking up the desire I'd been fighting for too long. That scent surrounded me, tugging me into him, making it harder and harder for me to resist.

I hated him. I hated him. But repeating that in my mind wasn't helping me push him away.

"Would that," he lifted a hand, gently touching my cheek, grazing it enough to send a chill down my back, "be so bad?"

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