Chapter 4 The Heat In The Kitchen

• The kitchen was alive before sunrise. The copper pans hanging overhead caught the faint glow of the early light, polished so well they gleamed like coins. Élise moved quietly among them, a whisk in one hand and a dusting of flour streaked across her forearm. The scent of butter and warm sugar filled the room, a perfume richer than anything in the boutiques along the Champs-Élysées.
• She placed the last pastry on a porcelain tray and stepped back, brushing her hands against her apron. It looked perfect — golden, glossy, a sheen of apricot glaze catching the light. And yet, a nervous flutter twisted in her stomach. This wasn’t just any breakfast. This was a billionaire’s breakfast.
• Her reflection in the steel oven door showed flushed cheeks and a determined set to her jaw. You can do this, she reminded herself. She had survived long nights working at her uncle’s modest bistro in Lyon; she had learned to stretch leftovers into meals that kept her younger brother full. But this? This was another world entirely.
• She thought briefly of her mother’s voice — soft, tired, always calling her ma petite étoile (my little star) when she was younger. That star now found itself far from home, shining awkwardly in a place where marble counters gleamed and silence pressed heavy between walls.
• Élise adjusted the tray again, though it didn’t need adjusting. Maybe if she kept moving, she wouldn’t think too hard about the man who would soon sit at this table. Antoine Moreau — billionaire, restaurateur, and by every whisper she’d overheard, someone who could make or break a career with a single word.
• Her heart gave a traitorous kick. She hated that his opinion mattered.
• ✨
• The quiet rhythm of the kitchen broke with the sound of footsteps — steady, unhurried, confident. Élise froze for a moment, tray still in her hands. She didn’t need to turn to know who it was. The air shifted when he entered, like the room itself recognized his authority.
• Antoine Moreau stepped into the kitchen without a word, his presence filling the space as easily as the morning light. He wore a crisp white shirt, open at the collar, his suit jacket draped carelessly over one arm. His dark hair was swept back in elegance, but his eyes — sharp, unreadable — were what caught her off guard every time.
• He glanced at the pastries, then at her. “Symmetry,” he said flatly, gesturing at the tray. “You’ve missed it by a fraction.”
• Her grip tightened around the porcelain. Heat prickled at her cheeks. “They taste the same, whether one sits a centimeter off the center line or not.”
• The corner of his mouth curved, not quite a smile. “That’s the difference between a bistro and fine dining, mademoiselle. Precision isn’t optional.”
• Élise set the tray down with more force than she meant to, the clink echoing against marble. She met his gaze, refusing to look away. “And yet, you hired me. Knowing I come from a bistro.”
• His eyes lingered on her, assessing, weighing — like she was both an experiment and a challenge. For a moment, silence stretched, filled only by the faint ticking of the clock on the far wall.
• Antoine moved closer, his cologne subtle but commanding, all cedarwood and spice. Élise inhaled despite herself. His presence unsettled her, not just because of his authority, but because he seemed to notice everything — every movement, every breath, every flicker of uncertainty she thought she’d hidden.
• “Don’t mistake my tolerance for weakness,” he said softly. “You’re here because I want to see if you can keep up. Fail, and you’ll be out before you know it.”
• Élise lifted her chin. “Then you’ll see I don’t fail easily.”
• ✨
• Antoine leaned back slightly, watching her with a patience he did not feel. Most employees go limp under his criticism, eager to please, desperate for approval. Élise, however, met his gaze as though she had nothing to lose. That, he realized, was what made her dangerous.
• Her defiance stirred something he had carefully buried. It reminded him of nights long ago, when he’d stood in a kitchen not unlike this one, enduring his father’s relentless dissection of every dish, every movement. He had vowed then never to let anyone see him bend. Precision was survival. Symmetry, perfection — those were shields against chaos.
• And now here was this woman, dusted in flour, chin tilted as if she could read the cracks in his armor. He found it irritating. Infuriating. And… strangely compelling.
• Antoine let his eyes linger on the tray she had set down, noting the glossy pastries lined in imperfect rows. He wanted to call them a failure. He wanted to dismiss her. Yet when he imagined the first bite, he knew instinctively they would be flawless. That was the problem. Talent wrapped in rebellion.
• His jaw tightened. He didn’t need this distraction. Not when there were contracts waiting, investors circling, secrets threatening to surface if he let his guard slip for even a moment.
• He straightened, forcing the mask of indifference back into place. She thought this was a game of wills. She had no idea the stakes were higher than she could imagine.
• Antoine adjusted his cufflinks, his voice calm when he finally spoke. “Very well. Let’s see how long your confidence lasts.”
• The silence between them was brittle, like sugar pulled too thin. Élise turned back to the counter, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her flustered. She reached for the cafetière, pouring dark roast into delicate porcelain cups. The rich aroma curled through the air, but her hand trembled slightly as she set one cup before him.
• Antoine stepped closer. Too close. She felt the warmth of his body at her side as he inspected the tray again. “Your glaze is uneven on the last two,” he murmured, his voice low enough that it brushed against her skin like heat.
• Her breath caught. She wanted to snap at him, but instead she grabbed the sugar jar and spooned a measure into one of the cups. Her elbow brushed against his sleeve — an accident, but it sent a jolt through her all the same.
• “Careful,” he said, and for the briefest instant, it didn’t sound like a rebuke. It sounded like something else entirely.
• Élise scowled, flustered, and in her haste, a streak of flour from her apron brushed against his pristine shirt. White against white, but visible enough. She froze. “Merde…”
• Antoine looked down at the smudge, then up at her. His jaw tightened. “Do you always leave chaos in your wake?”
• She opened her mouth to apologize, but the words refused to come. Instead, she found herself staring back at him, heart pounding, caught in the sharp line of his gaze. For one suspended moment, the world shrank to the inches between them — her hand hovering near his chest, his breath warm against her cheek.
• Then, as quickly as it had come, he stepped back, restoring the distance like a shield. He brushed the flour away with an impatient flick.
• “You should learn,” he said quietly, “that not every game you start can be safely played.”
• Élise swallowed hard, refusing to let him see her falter. “Then perhaps you underestimate how long I can play.”
• Antoine’s eyes darkened, a shadow of something unreadable flickering across them. He opened his mouth to say more — but the sudden ring of his phone sliced through the tension. His expression shifted, sharp with something she hadn’t seen before. Not annoying. Not anger. Fear.
• He stepped away quickly, answering in clipped French. Élise couldn’t catch the words, but she caught the change in his face — pale, guarded, shaken.
• When he ended the call, he didn’t look at her. He didn’t look at the pastries. He only said, in a voice low and dangerous, “This conversation isn’t over.”
• And then he was gone, leaving the taste of unfinished words in the air.