Page 34 of Shades of Red

I sneer at the twisted excitement shining in her crystal blue eyes. “Jesus, I didn’t do this forus, Aurélie. I’m not some possessive psycho willing to kill so that I can have you all to myself. You couldn’t pick me when given the choice. I have enough self-respect not to pick you when I’m the last choice you have left.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Aurélie splutters, her eyes wide with shock.

I stand up from the small table, my appetite suddenly vanished. “I meant what I said last time. We’re fucking over. But even if you chose wrong, I would be damned if I let that cunt take his hands to you any time you stepped out of line.”

I throw a stack of euros on the table, the amount more than enough to pay for both of our orders and a tip. Courtesy of Blaise Moreau’s wallet. “Now you get his money, and you get your freedom. You’ll have everything you could ever want.”

She sniffles, tears pooling but not quite spilling down her cheeks. “But I won’t have you,” she whispers, looking up at me with a shattered look that would have broken my resolve if I was the man I was last week. But I’m not him. Thanks to her, I’m stronger than ever with a heart of steel.

I look her up and down without an ounce of mercy. “It sucks to be a selfish bitch, doesn’t it?”

“That’s not fair, Grey,” she retorts, her false tears turning angry.

“Life’s not fair, golden girl. One of these days, you’ll get the fuck over it.”

I’ve said what I needed to say, and even though hurt still lingers in my chest, the pain is numbing quicker than expected. “This is goodbye. Stay away from me. Stay away from Dix. And after you’ve spent a unsuspicious amount of time playing the weeping widow, get the fuck out of Paris. Find happiness in something that doesn’t require infiltrating a kitchen you didn’t earn the right to cook in or devouring the hearts of naive boys. If that’s even possible.”

“You’re cruel,” she gasps like it’s something she didn’t already know.

I laugh, the sound harsh and cold. “You love a sadist.”

“You’re heartless.”

“You would know. There’s still blood under your lovely red nails from ripping it out of my chest.”

She looks up at me, her teary, ruined eyes starkly contrasting her perfect red lips. “I love you.”

And that’s the last lie I’ll ever hear from her sweet cherry lips.

“C’est impossible, ma chérie. That would require you to have a beating heart.”

It’smy first day entering the Dix kitchen as sous chef, and everything seems tinged in brightness, shiny and new.

Our last challenge was to deliver a dish of our own creation. We had an unlimited budget and access to any ingredients we needed. There were no limitations, no required elements, not even a specified course. Hors d’oeuvre, soup, appetizer, main course, dessert. It didn’t matter. It just had to be perfect.

Our group of ten was one short. Aurélie never showed. In all honesty, I thought she might in spite of my warning. Although, my having just butchered her husband might have made her consider my threats to stay away a little more seriously. I felt the briefest twinge in my chest when I saw her station empty, but it passed as quickly as it came. My purpose in the kitchen was to cook. She made me forget that for a moment, but I was finally back on track.

I presented boudin noir aux pommes for my final dish. A traditional French preparation by all accounts, but I added my owncreative style. I sourced the meat myself—the blood and even the sausage casings too. And Chef Matis said it was the most flavorful saucisse he’d ever had. I wonder how he’d feel about my secret ingredient?

And speaking of, Chef Matis’ main financier has been missing for days, which explains why poor Aurélie was so distraught that she couldn’t finish the competition. Neither of them have been seen allweek, and if I’m honest, no one is worse off for it.

The kitchen is teeming with excitement as we prep for opening night. Out of the ten chefs competing, six stayed on at the restaurant to cook under me. I’ll have to keep an eye on Javi—we’ll either be best friends, or he’ll try to steal the position of sous right from under me. I haven’t decided which. Either way, he can bring it the fuck on. As long as my knives are sharp, I’ve never been scared of a fight.

I’m no longer in the back of the kitchen. I’m no longer Nine. I face the fully staffed kitchen from the head table right alongside Chef Matis. I feel his hand on my shoulder as he introduces me to the rest of the team for the first time as sous. His gray eyes are warm with approval as he nods at me once, the gesture an unspoken sign of us being equals in the kitchen.

“Take it away,chef.”

And in this moment—in spite of the bitch, the lies, the betrayal, the heartbreak, and the motherfucking gore—I know I’m exactly where I belong.

And this is only the beginning.

As much as things have changed since becoming sous chef at Dix, my weekly trips to Le Fournil to get the best croissant aux amandes in Paris will remain the most steadfast thing in my life. Who needs the fickle love of a woman when you have pastries?

Sophie brings two café crèmes from the back kitchen and sets them on the flat top of the pastry display. It’s late on Monday, and the shelves are picked over and nearly bare. The baguettes are gone, as are most of the pastries. There are always a few straggling tourists this late, but anyone who is smart enough or French enough knows not to go to a boulangerie thirty minutes before closing time, so it’s mostly quiet.

I’ve already devoured one of my croissants, but Sophie was omniscient enough to save me two today.

“You look pale,” she says, her stern brown eyes looking me up and down as she sips on her café crème.

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