Page 12 of Knotting on Heaven's Door

“One wrong move, boss,” I muttered, letting the liquor kiss my tongue, “but it won’t be mine.”

The second pour of Scotch burned less—maybe because the sting in my chest had already outpaced anything alcohol could do.

I sank onto the edge of the bed, Ada’s scent still lingering onthe sheets. My pride was bleeding, my cheek still warm from her slap, and the worst part? She wasn’t wrong. Not entirely.

I was out of money.

Not in thepoor-little-rich-boysense, but in the actual, can’t-afford-lunch-next-week kind of way. The trust fund was gone. The investments were a joke. The few things I managed to sell off—my watch, some art, a car I loved more than reason—were just enough to limp through two countries and land here.

Adrian was the only cousin I hadn’t completely alienated, and he owned the hotel. Offered me the suite for a few weeks when I told him I was coming to Blue Springs for Karl’s mating ceremony.

“You can crash here until you find a place,” he’d said over the phone. “No pressure, no rush.”

But therewaspressure. A lot of it.

I barely had enough left for a rent deposit. No apartment yet. No car. And if this job with De la Vega Events didn’t work out, I was three weeks away from dying of hunger or crawling back to my father with my tail between my legs.

And that would be the real death.

As an Alpha, nothing bruised deeper than dependence. I could take a slap to the face. I could take scrubbing pots. But asking for help? Letting family cover my mistakes again?

That was a wound that didn’t heal.

I lifted the glass, staring at the amber liquid. It caught the light like gold—shiny, worthless gold. My jaw clenched.

“At least I know how to cook,” I muttered.

The words hung there, heavier than they should’ve been. I didn’t have a safety net. But I had my hands. I had fire, and heat, and instinct. I’d been taught by the best chefs in France. I knew the weight of a knife, the patience of a perfect reduction, the discipline of getting burned and doing it better the next time.

Ada wanted a challenge?

She was going to get one.

And I was going to get my fucking paycheck.

CHAPTER 4

Ada

The sky was still that soft shade of pre-dawn blue when I pulled into the gravel lot behind the building.

My tires crunched to a stop just outside the rusted steel door markedDe la Vega Eventsin faint white paint that was starting to chip around the edges. The door used to be part of a loading dock—back when this place was a textile factory, long before it got gutted, remodeled, and reclaimed by small businesses who couldn't afford glossy real estate on Main.

The building was ugly from the outside. No one would’ve guessed it housed the closest thing Blue Springs had to a gourmet catering operation.

I let myself in with the old brass key, the kind that felt too heavy for modern locks. The air inside was cool, filled with the faint scent of lemon disinfectant and roasted coffee beans from yesterday’s staff meeting. My footsteps echoed against the worn concrete floors as I crossed the main kitchen—a wide, open space of brushed steel counters, double ovens, and commercial-grade stovetops.

Everything gleamed in the early light. A cathedral for chefs. Loud and fast and chaotic on busy days. Silent now.

There were two more prep kitchens in the back—one for pastries, one for cold stations—plus a dry storage area, a massive walk-in fridge, and the loft-style offices built above the floor like a mezzanine. I had three in total, all with glass frontsand the illusion of privacy. Mine sat in the center, overlooking everything.

When I first moved in, I spent more time in the kitchen than anywhere else—tweaking menus, experimenting with reductions, adjusting spice blends until they sang. But lately... I lived behind that glass. Meetings. Numbers. Vendor calls. Tastings I didn’t even get to prep for myself.

Cooking was the thing that saved me.

Now it felt like the thing I managed.

I swung by the only café open at this hour—some indie spot with too many chalkboard signs and a barista who called everyone “love.” I grabbed my usual black coffee and a caramel frappuccino that was too sweet, too frothy, and exactly what Mila would want before she had to deal with receipts and linen returns.

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