Page 20 of Knotting on Heaven's Door

It wasn’t about talent.

Not really.

Yes, the passion had always been there—but let’s be honest. I never thought it would be how I earned my bread. Cooking was supposed to be a polished detail on a wealthy heir’s résumé. Something to make me seem charming. Interesting. Not… essential.

Not survival.

I stared at the man in the mirror. Same face. Same eyes. But everything else? Different.

My stomach turned, and not from hunger. Though I was well-acquainted with that now, too.

Quick, uninvited flashes of the trial in Europe flooded my mind: the courtroom, the judgment in the press, my father's disgust. The cold finality of my bank accounts freezing. The weight of responsibility slamming into me like a freight train for the first time in my life.

This is beneath you,the voice in my head sneered.You’re an Alpha. A Laurente. You don’t wear your name on your chest like a fucking brand tag.

But the other voice—the quiet, steel one I’d been forging in kitchens and bus stations and silence—just said:

At least you’re not starving.

Because the truth was brutal. Humiliating.

I was out of options.

And while this job would never bring back the yacht parties or the six-figure weekends in Courchevel, it would bring me something far more important—a way out.

A paycheck I earned with my own hands. My own sweat. My own skill.

Not another favor from my father. Not another wire transfer soaked in obligation and quiet disappointment.

This job wouldn’t restore the life I lost. But at least I wouldn’t have to crawl back, head bowed, and beg him for anything.

I’d make my own way, even if it meant peeling potatoes and scrubbing pans. At least they’d bemypotatoes.Mypans. And every cent I made would be mine.

I adjusted the collar of the uniform again, the fabric suddenly feeling heavier than it had when I put it on. Mila ended her call just as I stepped out of the locker room, still trying to breathe like this was just another job. Like I wasn’t walking into a storm I helped create.

She gave me a once-over, eyes sharp but not unkind. “Everything okay?”

I nodded. “Yeah.” My voice came out rough, quieter than I meant. “All good.”

She didn’t press. Just offered a small, knowing smile, then led me back through the kitchen. The scent of fresh herbs, roasted vegetables, and something citrusy filled the air. It wasn’t chaotic yet—just calm, warm, alive. The kind of kitchen that had been built with care, not just cash.

“This is Liam,” Mila said, stopping beside a prep table near the cold station. “He’s running the lunch prep today. He’ll show you the ropes.”

Liam looked up with a lopsided grin and a smudge of turmeric on his cheek. “New guy, huh? Welcome to the jungle.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Happy to be here.”

He had the kind of presence that made people feel instantly at ease. Late twenties, maybe. Easygoing, bright eyes, a vibe that said I game, I cook, I make it through the day one coffee at a time.

“I’m mostly on batch and prep for the weekday orders,” he said, handing me a cutting board and motioning for me to join him at the table. “Today’s pretty standard—two office clients. One downtown, one in Westbridge. Chicken, chickpeas, quinoa, roasted veggies. Nothing fancy. We keep it clean, seasonal, easy to scale.”

I nodded, accepting the chef’s knife he passed me. Not perfect—needed a sharpen—but it sat comfortably in my hand. Familiar.

Liam continued while we got to work. “It’s about sixty, seventy portions total. Clients like it because we make everything from scratch. No bullshit preservatives. Makes them feel like they’re eating something real.”

I liked that. Quietly, I did.

We worked in easy silence for a few minutes, the rhythm of chopping filling the space between words. It felt good. Like something steady underfoot. But still, my gaze drifted—upward.

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