Chapter 5
The tension radiating from the head table had thoroughly infected the kitchen. Beyond the carved walnut paneling and the swinging service doors, the atmosphere was chaotic and hot. Stainless steel counters gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights, a stark contrast to the elegant, golden warmth of the dining room.
Willa stepped through the doors, holding the empty crystal pitcher and the folded catering apron. The head chef, a broad-shouldered man with a red, sweating face, immediately barked orders at a line of bustling sous-chefs.
“Table four needs their main courses cleared! Where are the fresh linens?” the chef yelled, before spotting Willa. “Willa, what is the delay at the head table? Ms. Sinclair signaled for the next course ten minutes ago!”
“Ms. Sinclair is no longer dictating the pace of the dinner,” Willa stated calmly, setting the pitcher down.
Before the chef could respond, the heavy service doors swung open again. Colette marched into the kitchen, her sculpted satin gown rustling violently. Her face was contorted with a furious, controlling rage that she had barely managed to conceal in the dining room. She zeroed in on the housemaid immediately.
“You insignificant little brat,” Colette hissed, grabbing Willa roughly by the arm and dragging her away from the kitchen staff toward the pantry. “What do you think you are doing out there? I told you to keep that old woman in the kitchen washing dishes!”
Willa gently but firmly pulled her arm free, her delicate cheekbones setting into a mask of polite defiance. “I was instructed by Mr. Whitlock to seat his guest, Ms. Sinclair.”
“I am the lady of this house!” Colette spat, her diamond earrings shaking as she leaned in close. “I organize the events! You work for me! If you ever undermine me in front of those people again, I will have you thrown out onto the street with nothing but the clothes on your back. Do you understand me?”
The kitchen staff fell completely silent, pretending to chop vegetables while straining to hear the confrontation.
The heavy service doors slowly swung open a third time.
Declan stepped into the kitchen. The stark, bright lights illuminated the sharp, masculine lines of his face and the refined artistic tattoos on his hands. He did not look out of place; he looked like a king inspecting his armory. His polished leather shoes made no sound on the tile floor as he approached the pantry.
Colette froze, her hand still raised in a threatening gesture toward the housemaid.
“Is there a problem with the service?” Declan asked.
His deep, low voice echoed off the stainless steel, causing the entire kitchen staff to hold their breath. Colette quickly dropped her hand, pasting her affectionate, public smile back onto her face as she turned to her fiancé.
“No, Declan, darling, everything is perfectly fine,” Colette lied smoothly. “I was just ensuring the staff understands the extreme importance of tonight’s timeline.”
Declan stopped just inches away from her. His cold, observant eyes flicked to Willa, noting the slight redness on her upper arm where Colette had grabbed her.
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“Does perfection require such harsh whispers?” Declan asked.
Colette’s smile wavered, the rosy color draining from her face as she realized exactly how much he had heard.
