Page 18 of Knotting on Heaven's Door

My eyes narrowed as I read more carefully.

A European financial court found Sebastian Laurente and co-founder Luca Del Re guilty of gross negligence and financial misconduct. Ordered to repay partial damages from personal assets. Third co-founder Diego Ricci—reportedly the mastermind—was never formally charged and is believed to be living in Dubai.

It didn’t say how much, just that“a significant financial settlement”was made to avoid prison time. His father declined to comment. His family distanced themselves. His board seats disappeared. His name dropped from every press release overnight.

I sat back, staring at the screen.

So that was it.

That’s why he was here. Why a Laurente was trading yachts and five-star dinners for prep kitchens in a town like Blue Springs. Why he needed this job. Not just to prove something. But because there was nowhere else to go. I closed the laptop and stared out the glass window of my office, my stomach twisting.

No wonder he looked at me the way he did when I said he could not work here. He wasn’t just some spoiled playboy trying out a new hobby.

He was a man trying not to drown.

CHAPTER 5

Sebastian

I took thebus.

The. Fucking. Bus.

Like some tragic commoner in a movie montage about rock bottom. The driver was chewing gum and looked at me like I’d boarded the wrong timeline. A woman with a baby stared openly at my shoes, and I sat next to a man who smelled like three-day-old chili and hummed aggressively under his breath.

But I kept my head down and reminded myself—no one here knew who I was. Not really. Not in the way Europe did. No tabloids. No yacht photos. No wine auction gossip. Just another guy on his way to work.

When I arrived at the kitchen headquarters—a converted industrial space with surprising polish—I was ushered inside by a no-nonsense woman in her early fifties wearing cat-eye glasses and a scarf tied like she’d walked straight off a Gilmore Girls set.

“Susan Whitaker, HR and onboarding,” she said briskly, shaking my hand like she was sizing me up for a lie detector test.

“Sebastian Laurente,” I said gently, still smiling. “Pleasure.”

“Hm,” she said, not impressed.

She led me up a short set of stairs, heels clicking against steel like a metronome for disappointment. I followed her past a wall of glass-paneled offices—and that’s when I saw her.

Ada.

She was sitting in a lofted office, head bent over her laptop,glasses low on her nose, completely engrossed in whatever she was reading. Her brows were slightly pinched, lips pursed in concentration, one hand tangled in her hair like she’d been running her fingers through it for hours.

She didn’t see me.

And thank the gods for that. I wasn’t ready to face her—not yet.

Susan didn’t stop walking.

Inside her office, I was subjected to thirty minutes of health and safety videos narrated by a man who sounded half-asleep and looked like he’d rather be set on fire than talk about cross-contamination. A painfully outdated PowerPoint followed, complete with clip art and bullet points that made me question every life choice I’d made to end up here.

When it was over, Susan handed me a small black duffel with a practiced sigh.

“Two uniforms,” she said. “Black jackets, silver thread.‘De la Vega Events’stitched on the front. One to wear, one to wash. Laundry instructions are inside. Your locker assignment’s on the tag.”

I unzipped the bag and pulled out one of the jackets.

It was sleek, well-fitted, higher quality than I expected. The embroidery was elegant. Minimalist. Professional.

A strange feeling settled in my chest—equal parts humiliation and hope.

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