Page 20 of Shades of Ruin

Really she should be on her knees sucking my cock to thank me for what a good boss I am.

But instead, she hits me with the classic, “You’re a psychopath.”

“Yes,” I agree without argument.

Deciding to let that conversation die an easy death, Angélica turns her attention to the clothes in her hands, surveying my choices critically. She glares at me when she finds the very tinyred thong tucked between her jeans and button-up shirt. “You touched my fucking underwear?”

“What, would a psychopathnotrifle through your panty drawer? Impressive dildo collection, by the way. I’ve never seen a doubled-ended one that big.”

“Ugh, you’re an asshole,” she screeches, hiding the thong underneath everything else.

“Yes,” I agree again. “Now are you going to get dressed, or are you going to help me make croissant aux amandes while wearing very wet panties?”

Without answering me, she stalks into the locker room and slams the door.

Unfortunately, that’s one of the few rooms in the building without any cameras. Guess I’ll just have to pull up my office recording and listen to her moan my name on repeat while I wait.

Chapter Thirteen

ANGÉLICA

Iwas an idiot to think the last twenty-four hours would have changed anything between us. The minute the other chefs started to flood into the kitchen and fucking Collette brought her list of prominent dinner guests for the evening, the Greyson who spanked me and threw me into a wall with his fingers wrapped around my neck disappeared entirely. And he’s been cold, professional, and merciless ever since.

“Clean up those edges, Flores,” he shouts from behind me as I drizzle raspberry coulis in a pattern that’s meant to look random—and be replicated perfectly one hundred times over. “I’ve never seen such sloppy plating.”

“Yes, chef,” I snap, trying to keep my hands from shaking with anger as I move on to the next plate. Unlike the dish Greyson was critiquing, this one actuallydoeslook sloppy. As usual, his little torments crawl into my thoughts like parasites and start to leach away my confidence.

There’s a crash when the chef beside me drops a plate before he reaches the station where Henley is adding little lemon cheesecakes and dollops of rosewater cream to my red splatter. We allturn to look at the disaster on the floor, the unfortunate chef staring at the white shards of stoneware on the floor in shock. When I look up to refocus on my work, Greyson’s crystalline eyes ensnare mine.

“Pick up this mess,” he seethes, his intense gaze never leaving me.

“Yes, chef,” the embarrassed chef answers, stooping down to start collecting the broken pieces.

“Not you,” Greyson snaps. “Flores can do it since she can’t figure out how to fling sauce on a plate without making it look like I have a moderately skilled orangutan overseeing my dessert prep.”

I glare at him, my face burning as a few snickers flicker across the room. And I hate him for making me feel so small. It takes more effort than usual to fight the angry sting of tears that threatens to fill my eyes. I’ve not cried since I was fifteen, and I’m not about to let him break me now. Lowering to my knees, I start to pick up the sharp fragments covered in sticky specks of red. Maybe one will cut me and let me bleed out some of the painful tension that’s been suffocating me since Greyson decided to play the bully once more. To my great disappointment, I gather all the pieces without so much as a scratch.

“Liam, why don’t you show us how Le Cordon Bleu teaches their chefs to plate?” Greyson instructs the other chef, his words laced with arrogant disdain. I can’t resist an eye roll when he name-drops one of the most prestigious culinary institutes in the world. “Maybe Flores will learn a thing or two about consistency.”

Everyone in this kitchen knows I have no certified training. I’m the only one here who is self-taught, but I’ve never been ashamed of what sets me apart from my peers until now.

“Yes, chef,” Liam affirms with too much eagerness, a wide, toothy smile filling his broad face.

Sheathing my anger and humiliation, I gather all the dirty pieces of stoneware in my apron and throw the mess in the trash before grabbing the broom and mop from the supply closet. Ignoring the chaotic cadence of people bustling around the kitchen to finish the last courses of the night, I clean the floor while considering the many different ways I could murder my fucking boss without getting caught.

“Come here, Flores,” Greyson commands when the floor is spotless.

Dragging my feet, I make my way through the kitchen and stand beside him. “Yes, chef?”

“Do you see the plating Liam has been working on?”

I glance over to see all of my splatter has been wiped clean and replaced with the four uniform dots they like to use in the most boring of restaurants. It’s clear whatever the fuckLe Cordon Bleuteaches, it isn’t creativity. “Yes, chef,” I answer as expected, keeping my own critiques to myself.

“I want you to go out there and serve each of those plates to our eager patrons who paida lotof goddamn money to see and taste perfection. And I want you to thank Liam for fixing your fuck up every time he hands you a dessert. Do you understand?”

“Yes, chef,” I mutter, my fists clenching at my sides.

“I can’t hear you, Flores,” he scolds with a withering glare.

---