We were halfway home when I realized I didn't want to be home.

Home was where I'd curl up in a ball on my bed, rocking back and forth, as I rewatched old cooking shows to find some semblance of motivation to keep going. Home was where I'd be alone, surrounded by my trophies, my luxuries, everything Zane claimed I didn't deserve.

I couldn't go home.

"Turn around," I said hoarsely, not recognizing my own voice. "Cole, turn around. Take me to..." I gulped. "Take me to Rose Rouge."

Rose Rouge was my L.A.-based location, and not far from where we were.

Cole slowed the car but didn't turn it. He parked along the street, then turned the engine off and twisted in his seat to face me. "Béatrice," he said, sounding strangely like my father. "What's going on?"

I didn't want to talk about it, and least of all to Cole. Not that he wouldn't understand, but he wouldn't understand. He loved my cooking—he'd told me so himself—and would defend me at any given opportunity. I didn't need defense right then; I needed the truth.

"Tonight is just...it's not a good night, and I don't want to be at home. I'd rather be...in my area. In my atmosphere. In a place where I created something I think is great."

Bland, bland, bland—Zane's words echoed in my head, shooting pain into my temples.

"Please," I squeezed Cole's arm, begging him to quit interrogating me, "get me to Rose Rouge. It's where I need to be right now."

I wanted to be surrounded by my creations, embraced by the place I loved, where I'd put so much attention and care. It was my first ever restaurant; it held my heart in a different way than Béa or my other restaurants across the globe did.

Without another word, Cole reignited the engine and drove me across town to Rose Rouge. Once we arrived, he parked, squinted at me, and opened his arms for a hug; but I declined.

He wouldn't be offended. He knew that I wasn't always the most physically affectionate person, less so when I was about to have a panic attack. So instead of hugging me, he used a tissue to swipe under my eyes and fix my running mascara. "Do you need me to wait out here? How long do you think you'll be?"

I shook my head. "I have no idea, so go on home. If I need to leave, I'll...I'll figure something out."

Cole conceded, but I saw the worry in his gaze as the parking lot's lights filtered into the car and splashed over his face. "Fine, but I beg you not to get drunk and call me the next morning from some random asshole's apartment in Downtown L.A., okay?"

I chuckled, then swallowed the visions of me escaping Zane's apartment, walk-of-shaming it down to the street where Cole picked me up and raced me home to safety.

Home wasn't safety tonight.

Rose Rouge was packed. Hopping, as the younger folk would say. There was a line outside, an hour-long wait to get seated. I walked by people playing games on their phones as they waited. By some miracle, no one paid me any attention. I skirted past the hostess who gave me a nod of acknowledgment and let me in.

Warmth flooded my cheeks and neck as I entered. The mom-and-pop style decor seemed to smile at me, welcoming me home. My real home. It manifested positivity with its mismatched tables and chairs, and the cool candles and bouquets from local florists. The glass table-tops with post-it notes underneath always made me smile, showing random reviews from the first round of patrons when the restaurant opened years ago. The varied lighting—bright spotlights near the kitchens, dimmed lamps around the diners—reminded me of my indecision, and how I'd had a hard time choosing anything for this place.

I spotted Nita across the way, in her chef's uniform, greeting a VIP table in the back. From afar I recognized a local influencer dining with a well-known actor, and I promised myself not to blabber about that to anyone. Red Rose was a safe haven for anyone seeking to escape scrutiny; it was my promise to anyone who passed the front door.

Nita noticed me slinking by the walls, trying to avoid any wandering gazes. Everyone outside had left me alone, but in here, if they saw the lead chef and creator of the establishment, they'd hound me with questions, ask for autographs, plead to speak with me. It happened every time I came here.

I regretted thinking this was the right place for me to seek refuge from Zane and lick my wounds.

"Béa," she said, coming at me with a warm hug and a pat on my shoulder. "What are you doing here? I thought you had," she leaned in and lowered her voice, "a date?"

I held in a growl. "It wasn't a date," I said, resuming my trek towards one of the back rooms, reserved for dinner parties. "And it was a catastrophe, so I needed to get away."

"And you came...here?" Nita arched a dark eyebrow and peered at the packed restaurant, then back at me. "Are you sure?"

"Can I get a plate of something sent to me in there?" I pointed at the dinner-party room, where the lights were turned off. A perfect place to isolate and gather my thoughts. "I'd go up to my office but I kind of...I don't..."

Nita offered me a small smile as she squeezed my arm. "You want to be alone, but not that alone. I get it." She led me discreetly to the doors, unlocked them, and let me in. "I'll bring you something comfortable. Red or rosé?"

"Red." Rosé was a happier, lighter drink; red wine was better when I needed to reflect.

She left, closing the door behind her. I switched on the lights, and the round, café style tables came into view, along with the matching, cushioned iron chairs.

We'd set up this room to look like the outside of a French bistro, the walls painted with scenes from a Parisian sidewalk. Paintings of Paris hung here and there, and the lights were black iron sconces resembling those from the eighteen-hundreds.

Empty as it was now, I loved this room. It was me—my inspiration, my idea, everything I remembered from living and working in Paris.

I took the closest table and set my purse on it as I slumped into the seat. I let out a lengthy sigh and rolled my shoulders, cracked my knuckles, slipped off my shoes.

As I glanced down at my feet, I recalled how I'd massaged Zane's dick under the table. I hissed at myself for allowing myself to think about it.

That was over. That would never happen again. Zane Rose was a piece of shit. A no-good, nonsense asshole who was out to get me for no other reason than I had more money than him and I'd succeeded where he hadn't. He was a jealous prick who preyed on my insecurities and thrived on watching me fall.

He was my enemy, and it wasn't wise to sleep with the enemy. Or to want to. Or to envision it regardless of how badly he—

"No!" I slammed my fists on the table as the door opened and Nita slipped in with a glass of red wine.

"Are you sure you're okay?" She put the glass down and stood beside me, arms crossed, looking down at me as if I were a little girl who'd just finished a tantrum and who needed a minute to recompose herself.

"I'm not." I shot a glance up at her, silencing her before she added anything. "And I don't want to talk about it. Not right now."

She raised her palms in surrender. "Got it. I'm here if you need me, okay? Your food will be out soon."

My food ended up being a hefty plate of spaghetti alla carbonara, one of my all-time favorite dishes; one I never picked through. I scarfed down half the meal in two breaths because the scent alone tickled my nostrils. Each bite ignited in my mouth and sparked joy.

But as I lifted the fork, bracing for another savory bite, I paused.

Bland, bland, bland.

I stared down at the forkful of pasta, coated with carbonara sauce, bits of lardon on the verge of falling back into my plate.

Bland, bland, bland.

"Shut up," I said to myself, commanding my brain to quit rehashing Zane's insults. "This is delicious, and it's my recipe."

Then Zane's face came into view in my mind. His dark eyes were narrowed in disgust, his lips pursed, his body language closed up and revolted. He leaned away, wrinkling his nostrils, his large arms pressed against his chiseled chest.

Bland, bland, bland. Your food is bland, Béatrice. YOU are bland, Béatrice.

I forced the mouthful past my lips, but it tasted different, all of a sudden. Tepid, grainy, confusing. The pasta was too thin, the sauce too thick, the lardon too salty.

I took a swig of wine and tried again, and the flavor was back to normal.

One gulp of wine, one bite of food. That was how I finished the dish. The only way.

I then sat staring at the empty plate, considering whether to hurl it across the room or leave it where it was and hide under the table. I also considered sneaking out the rear door without a word to Nita, or turning off the lights and settling in for the night on one of the cushioned benches against the wall.

Eventually, a waiter came in and took my plate away. Another refilled my glass. Another supplied me with a crème brulée, which I devoured so fast my stomach ached afterwards.

Full and exhausted, I stood by the door, peering through the glass, observing the patrons coming and going. I saw them ooh and aah at their food, smile down at their plates, clink their glasses to toast themselves.

Were they enjoying themselves? Was the food any good, or were they pretending?

Was it all too...bland?

I wasn't sure how long I stayed there, a creep observing her fans as they ate her food. The waiter came and went, refilling my glass so many times I had no doubt I'd had an entire bottle to myself, if not two.

I swayed a bit by the time the restaurant started to empty, and could barely stand up by the time there were no diners left.

I grabbed my purse and exited then, taking in the silence. No noise but the clinking of glasses and plates, the gentle hum of the busboys tossing dishes into their big crates to bring back to the kitchen.

I walked across the room, clutching my wine glass to my chest, dizzily dashing to the front podium, where a traditional review book lay open, a closed pen over its pages.

I never checked the reviews. Like with my published books, it wasn't advised. Nita checked them for me, usually, and notified me if there was anything alarming.

Overcome with a sense of curiosity and bravery, I turned the pages to the beginning of the day. We served lunch and dinner, though I knew our dinner crowd was much larger. But I had to verify the entire day, to see if there were any trends to take note of. Any comments on the food. Anything with the word bland.

I skimmed through, but there was nothing but praise in every review. Every person who'd taken time out of their day to scribble something in this book said something wonderful about the cooking. Whether it be admiration for my original recipes, or compliments to the chef—Nita—or thanks to the amazing waitstaff, there were no negatives. And definitely no mention of bland.

When I wandered back to the kitchen, it was empty. One light was still on, and it shined on the main fridge, upon which a post-it note was stuck. I walked up and grabbed it—it was from Nita, asking me to close up when I was done, and clean up after myself if possible.

"She knows me," I said, smiling at my chef friend's knowledge of my behaviors.

She'd known I'd be here all night, likely experimenting in the kitchen until the wee hours of the morning.

I hadn't done it in a long time, but Nita had caught me in the act once or twice, and never questioned it again. She knew this was where I liked to try out new flavors and take notes for new recipes. Not in my kitchen at home—but here, in this industrial, well-equipped, always well-provided kitchen.

I flicked on a few more lights and dropped my purse on the edge of a counter near the door. I had this place all to myself. The silver reflecting countertops and appliances all hummed at me in approval, awaiting my deft fingers, my skilled touch.

But was I deft or skilled?

Bland, bland, bland.

I yanked the fridge open and started removing elements I loved. Cheeses, deli meats, dairy products like milk and yogurt and cream. Spinach leaves and arugula and kale; carrots and broccoli and cauliflower.

"These aren't bland," I said as I kept taking things out, leaving them on the counter so I could gaze at them for hours and convince myself I made them all delicious in my dishes. "No, not good. Excellent." I hiccuped. "I'm a good chef. No! Excellent!"

I was unquestionably too drunk to be around anything with a flame or complicated knobs and dials. I should have been back at my mansion, tucked into bed, watching reruns of old sitcoms to occupy my mind as I fell asleep.

Instead I was here, in my restaurant's kitchen, deciding whether or not Zane's words were true.

I fumbled about the room, opening cabinets and drawers, extracting pots, pans, utensils. Everything cluttered on the middle counter, and I was out of breath by the time I quit taking things out and stopped to look at my progress.

There was a lot to look at. Many elements and ingredients that I loved. I wasn't that picky; I gave off that impression because I constantly removed things from dishes. But I enjoyed everything on this counter.

In my intoxicated haze, I'd apparently gotten out several mini cakes and tartes, and was salivating over them. I had an incredible pastry chef at Rose Rouge, and he pre-made many desserts the night before, storing them in the fridges for the next day. And they always tasted fresh, as if they'd been made on command.

Why couldn't I make things on command? Why couldn't I make things that were fresh and fancy and delicious?

"I can," I said, locating an opened bottle of red wine—the one Nita had purposely left behind for me—amidst the mess on the counter. "I'm an excellent chef. My food is delicious."

But the longer I stared at Francis' exquisite cakes, the more doubt seeped into me and disrupted my fragile confidence. The more I wondered if everyone was right about me—I was bland.

"No, only Zane said that," I lifted my bottle as if to toast someone, "and no one else."

I chugged, knowing full well, deep down, that I needed to stop drinking. And also knowing I needed to add more elements to my cooking, to my books; more spice to my life.

I stormed to the fridge and opened it, scanning the inside for things I disliked.

Tomatoes, onions, mushrooms—I snickered at them, passing my hand over them without being able to touch them, to pull them out of the fridge. Peas, Brussel sprouts, beans—I gagged at them.

I finally settled on a tomato—the one thing I could mildly tolerate—and set it down, fully intending to cook it into something on this table.

But I got distracted by those damn cakes again, and felt I'd need some sugary courage before I tackled the task of cooking tomatoes into one of my dishes.

Just as I was licking my lips, considering taking a giant bite of a piece of carrot cake, the back door opened.

I froze, caught off-guard. No one was supposed to be here.

I wondered if it was Cole, notified by Nita that I'd stayed behind at the restaurant. Maybe he'd gotten sick of waiting and was worried.

But when I twisted around to find someone else in the doorway instead, my jaw dropped.

Zane Rose.

Zane Rose was here.

Right there, at the back-door to my restaurant kitchen. And there was something different about him, compared to earlier. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top, loosened as if he'd toyed around with the collar. His jacket was open, his hands nestled in his pockets, giving him a shy, boyish air.

He said nothing at first, but his eyebrows arched up as he spotted the chaos on the counter.

He looked ravishing. Sweet and innocent, happening upon an accident like me and intent on helping. Nothing like the dashing asshole from before; here he gave a kind, likable vibe. He wasn't menacing or crude.

He was like a platter of delicacies loaded with ingredients I loathed, but with an exterior so perfectly crisp and brown and delicious, that I was tempted to take a bite.

Zane Rose was a forbidden fruit that I'd die from.

He took a step farther inside, closing the door behind him. "Hey."

Hey, he said—so easily, so neutrally.

Hey?

After all that? The cruelty, the way he'd instilled doubt in me, the way he'd hurt me?

I had no clue why he was here, how he'd gotten in. Had the back-door been left unlocked? Had someone called him and told him to check on me? And why him, of all people?

"What are you doing here?" My fingers tiptoed close to the massive cutting knife I'd gotten out, anticipating chopping some vegetables.

I grabbed the handle, but didn't lift the knife, no matter how badly I wanted to.

I yearned to plunge the pointed edge into his heart the same way he'd plunged his words into mine.

◘