Chapter 1 - Voices from the Past
The heat on the pass was relentless. It radiated through the thick linen of Mikayla’s chef’s coat, sticking the fabric to the small of her back. Around her, the kitchen hummed. The sharp clack-clack of a chef’s knife against teak. The hiss of butter hitting a searing cast-iron pan. The heavy scent of roasted garlic, truffle oil, and pan-seared duck fat hanging thick in the air.
Lumen. Her restaurant. Fifty floors above the pavement, suspended in the sky like a glass cage.
She picked up a plating spoon and drizzled a dark, glossy reduction around a seared scallop. Perfectly round. Precise.
“Mika.”
She didn’t look up. “Service, Chef Theo. Table four needs the amuse-bouche.”
“Mika, stop.” Theo’s voice was too quiet. The sous chef never spoke quietly. He lived his life at a permanent shout over the roar of the exhaust hoods.
She wiped the rim of the plate with a damp cloth. “If the duck sits another thirty seconds, it’s ruined.”
“VIP room,” Theo whispered, nudging her elbow. “Front of house said the owner just walked in.”
Her hand froze. The silver spoon hovered an inch above the porcelain.
“My father is in Singapore,” she said. “He won’t be back until Friday.”
“Not your father.”
The stainless steel counters seemed to tilt beneath her hands. The rhythmic clatter of the kitchen muffled, replaced by the sudden, heavy thud of her own heartbeat against her ribs. She laid the spoon down. It made a sharp metallic sound on the counter.
She pulled off her apron, folded it once, twice, and laid it neatly over the workstation.
She stepped through the heavy swing doors. The heat of the kitchen vanished, replaced instantly by the crisp, overly air-conditioned chill of the dining room. Soft jazz drifted from hidden speakers. The ambient light caught the low-glare glass walls, offering a panoramic view of the city’s concrete expanse glowing in the dark below.
The private dining alcove sat at the far corner, shrouded by smoked glass.
She walked. Her chef’s clogs were silent on the dark hardwood floor. The smell of cedar, expensive leather, and fresh orchids swept over her.
Through the tinted glass, a shadow shifted. Broad shoulders. A dark suit cut so immaculately it looked painted onto his frame. Long fingers resting casually against the stem of a crystal wine glass.
She pushed the glass door open.
“We don’t take unannounced guests in the private dining suite after nine,” she said. Her voice was clipped. Flat.
The man didn’t move for a long second. He took a slow sip of the red wine—a 2010 Chateau Margaux she kept locked in her private cellar.
Then he turned his head.
The air sucked right out of her lungs.
It was the jawline first. Sharp. Unforgiving. Then the eyes—cold, slate gray, bordered by thick, dark lashes. Ten years had carved away the remaining boyish soft edges, leaving behind something hard, weathered, and dangerous.
Drew.
“You always did lack customer service skills, Mikayla.”
His voice was lower than she remembered. A rough baritone that rasped over her skin like sandpaper against velvet. It rasped against memories she had spent a decade burying under sixteen-hour workdays and third-degree burns.
Her fingers curled into palms. Her nails bit skin. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I own the building.” He set the glass down. The crystal clinked against the dark oak table. “Technically, I can be anywhere I want.”
She let out a harsh laugh. “My father owns Blackwood Tower. Try again.”
Drew stood up. Slowly. Unfolding all six-foot-two of his frame. He wore a dark charcoal suit, the fabric subtle and impossibly expensive. He smelled of sandalwood, rain, and the faint, bitter edge of expensive tobacco.
He stepped closer. The space between them shrank.
“Your father,” Drew said, leaning in so close she could see the tiny gold flecks in his gray irises, “is a desperate man.”
“Get out.”
“He put this place up.” Drew flicked his finger against the lapel of her coat. The touch was brief, but it scorched straight through the heavy cotton. “The restaurant. The lease. The land beneath the foundation.”
“You’re lying.”
“He owes forty million.” Drew didn’t even blink. “Singapore. Las Vegas. Macau. Michael’s little habits add up fast, don’t they? And dear old Henry always protects his golden boy.”
Her mouth went dry. The bitter taste of copper rose in the back of her throat. Michael. Her brother. The golden heir who could do no wrong, while she bled on the line every night to earn a fraction of their father’s approval.
“He wouldn’t,” she breathed.
“He did.” Drew reached into his inner jacket pocket. He pulled out a crisp, heavy sheet of paper and slid it across the table toward her. “The debt was defaulted on at midnight. I bought the paper at two.”
She looked down. Black ink on white linen paper. Her father’s jagged signature sat right at the bottom, right next to the stamp of an offshore holding company.
Avery Holdings.
Her hands trembled. She clamped them behind her back. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why come back now? Why this?” Her voice cracked slightly, a tiny flaw in the armor. “Ten years, Drew. You disappeared. You left without a word.”
His face went totally blank. The warmth, the old familiar spark she used to look for when they were kids hiding in the estate gardens—gone.
“Your father threw my mother out on the street,” Drew said. His tone was dangerously quiet. Conversational. “He ruined my name. Framed me for fraud before I was old enough to know how to fight back.”
“I had nothing to do with that!”
“I know.” He took another step forward. His shoe brushed the toe of her clog. “That’s why you get to keep cooking.”
She stared up at him. “What?”
“You work for me now, Mika.” He tilted his head, watching her like an insect pinned to a board. “Every plate you send out. Every reservation. Every drop of sweat you pour into this kitchen pays off your family’s debt to me.”
“I’ll resign,” she spat. “I’ll pack my knives and walk out right now. Let’s see how much this place is worth without my name on the menu.”
Drew smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile. It didn’t reach his eyes.
“Try it,” he said softly. “Walk out. And tomorrow morning, I liquidate the Blackwood estate. I put your father in a public bankruptcy hearing. I take Mina’s trust fund. I strip your family down to the copper pipes in the walls.”
He reached out. His thumb caught her lower lip, pressing down just hard enough to drag the skin. His touch was warm. Calloused.
Her breath hitched. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.
“Ten years ago,” he whispered, his eyes dropping to her mouth, “you belonged to them.”
He leaned in, his breath brushing the shell of her ear.
“Now you’re mine.”
He pulled back, his hand dropping to his side. He picked up his wine glass, drained the rest of the dark red liquid, and set it down with a finality that sounded like a door slamming shut.
He didn’t wait for her to answer. He turned and walked out of the private suite, his long strides effortless, leaving the door swinging open behind him.
Mikayla stood alone in the cold room. Through the glass, the city lights flickered below, vast and indifferent.
From the kitchen, the bell rang.
Order up.
She didn’t move. She couldn’t move. Her bottom lip still burned where his thumb had rested, the ghost of his touch lingering long after his footsteps had faded into the quiet of the night.
