Page 34 of Knotting on Heaven's Door

My watch buzzed against my wrist, interrupting him. Sharp. Timed. I didn’t even look—just reached into my drawer, popped the cap off the small white bottle, and downed two pills with the rest of my now-lukewarm coffee.

Sebastian frowned. “What are those?”

I slammed the mug down harder than necessary. “None of your business.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender but didn’t back off.“You act like I just asked for your blood type.”

“It’s fine,” I snapped. “They’re just omega suppressants.”

His eyes flicked down to the watch still glowing on my wrist. “Is that what the alarm’s for? You’re on a schedule?”

I looked away, jaw clenched, embarrassed by how exposed I suddenly felt.

Silence stretched between us.

I exhaled slowly, fingers drumming on the edge of the desk. My insides still burned—rage and shame and something sharper beneath it I didn’t want to name.

I was still furious.

Furious at him for stepping in. Furious at myself for needing it. Furious at the way his words had sunk under my skin and taken root.

Without looking at him, I lifted one hand and flicked my fingers toward the door. A clear dismissal. “You can go.”

He didn’t move at first. I could feel the tension in his stillness, the barely reined-in anger tightening the air between us.

But then, without a word, he turned and walked out, shutting the door with a quiet finality that somehow echoed louder than a slam.

Good.

Let him stew in it.

As soon as he was gone, I opened my laptop and pulled up a blank browser tab. My fingers hovered for a moment before typing in the words:

Sous vide salt cod langoustine cigars Hermitage jus dessert pairing.

I clicked through articles, cross-referenced Michelin menus, watched grainy YouTube videos in French I could barely understand. I made notes. Studied plating. Ingredient ratios. Poaching temperatures.Fuck him and his delicate Frenchcuisine.

If that smug, scandal-shadowed, spoiled brat could make this dish look effortless, then so could I.

I waited until the last of the staff had clocked out, until the building quieted and the kitchen lights buzzed above cool stainless steel. Then I pulled on my apron and tied it tighter than necessary around my waist.

I was going to make that goddamn dessert.

The first attempt was… ambitious.

The second was an act of violence.

By the third, I was genuinely questioning whether I had pissed off some ancient culinary god.

The kitchen smelled like burnt chocolate and scorched pride. My counters looked like a murder scene—if the victim were a bar of 70% Valrhona and the weapon a tempering spatula. The chocolate cylinder I’d poured with trembling precision? Collapsed like a dying star the second I tried to unmold it. The praline filling oozed out like lava from a pastry crime scene, and the quenelle of salted milk ice cream? More like soup with commitment issues.

I stared at the plate in front of me.

It looked like a toddler’s tantrum on sugar.

Possibly drunk.

There was chocolate smeared on my apron, my wrist, somehow thebackof my neck. A rogue hazelnut rolled off the counter and hit the floor with the soft, pitiful sound of my last nerve giving up.

---