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“We came to take what’s ours.” I was ready to trade my body for my sister’s future 😣. I thought that was strength. Then they walked in—angry, protective, and unwilling to let me disappear 🔥. One wants to control, one wants to protect, one wants to understand ❤️‍🔥. I don’t know how to want three men. I don’t know how to belong to anyone. But when they look at me like I’m precious instead of expendable… everything inside me breaks open 💔. Chapter 1 POV Raegan "You call this a reduction, Delacroix? My grandmother makes better sauces, and she's been dead for twelve years!" Adrian's voice cuts through the dinner rush chaos like a particularly dull knife—annoying, ineffective, and somehow still managing to draw blood. The kitchen's oppressive heat has nothing on the burning urge to introduce Adrian's face to my sauté pan. Repeatedly. Every line cook within earshot suddenly develops an intense fascination with their mise en place. Cowards. Though honestly, I don't blame them. Kitchen politics at this level make Game of Thrones look like a workplace sensitivity seminar. "The consistency is exactly where Chef Maxwell specified." My voice stays professional. Barely. "Unless his recipe notes were written in some secret code." Okay, so the professional thing needs work. "Chef isn't here right now, is he?" Adrian steps closer, his shoulder bumping mine with deliberate force. "What's here is your mediocre attempt at fine dining, and I'm not taking the fall for it." Here's the thing about restaurant hierarchy that nobody tells you in culinary school: talent means nothing if the guy who started three months before you decides to make your life hell. So if I want to stay, if I want to climb, I swallow my pride and take every opportunity to prove myself without making enemies. "The dish is ready for the VIP table." I managed not to add ‘you asshole’ to the end of that sentence. Personal growth. "I'll plate it now." Adrian shoves a pristine white plate at me—the new tasting menu creation I've spent weeks perfecting, arranged across its surface like edible art. "Then you're delivering it yourself. When it's shit, you can explain to Mr. Spencer why his guest is eating shit. I'm not covering for your incompetent ass." My fingers curl around the plate's edge. The urge to redecorate his stupid gelled hair with sixty dollars worth of sustainable seafood is overwhelming. "Is there a problem at my station?" That voice. That. Voice. Every cell in my body simultaneously catches fire and freezes solid. Maxwell Ravencroft emerges behind Adrian like some kind of culinary deity who took a wrong turn and ended up slumming it with us mortals. Six feet of lean muscle that his chef's coat pretends to be professional about hiding. Jet-black hair that probably has its own Instagram following. Grey eyes that could cut glass—or me, honestly. I'm not picky. Two years. Two fucking years I've worked under this man—poor choice of words, brain—watching those hands work with surgical precision, listening to him bark orders in a voice that turns "julienne those carrots" into something vaguely pornographic. It’s pretty hard to hide the secret crush along with desperate want that pools low in my belly every time he gets close. Gosh, I am so professionally screwed. "Chef!” Adrian spins around so fast I'm surprised he doesn't drill himself into the floor. “I was just ensuring the VIP presentation meets your standards—" "I heard exactly what you were doing, Cross." Maxwell's jaw does this thing where it tightens and flexes and suddenly I understand why Victorian women needed fainting couches. "Return to your station. Now." Adrian scurries away like the kitchen rat he is. Then those devastating grey eyes turn on me, and breathing becomes a distant memory, like Blockbuster or affordable housing. "You're presenting this with me." Not a question. Never a question with him. "Do not disappoint me, Delacroix. And do not humiliate me in front of our guests." Yes, Chef. Absolutely, Chef. Threaten me again, Chef. I've imagined you saying far worse things to me in far more private settings. Jesus Christ, I need therapy. Or a cold shower. Or both. Definitely both. I nod because words are for people whose brains haven't short-circuited. The walk to the VIP section stretches like a bad first date—endless, awkward, and filled with me trying not to stare at inappropriate places like his perfect ass. I'm a professional. I'm a professional. I'm a— Oh. Oh no. The VIP table is basically a thirst trap convention, and I am tragically dehydrated. Jared Spencer sits at the head like he owns the place—which, okay, he literally does. Honey-blonde hair that belongs in a shampoo commercial, storm-blue eyes that notice everything, and six-foot-two of confidence that makes my daddy issues sit up and take notes. I've caught him watching me during services, those eyes tracking my movements with an intensity that I've definitely, absolutely, one-hundred-percent been imagining. Beside him lounges Kobe Spencer. And I use "lounges" because the man doesn't sit so much as drape himself across furniture like an invitation to bad decisions. Jared's cousin, Oscar-nominated actor, and owner of amber eyes that see through every wall I've ever built and find the cracks entertaining. If I ever fantasized about which man I would give my virginity to, it would be someone like one of them. Or all three of them. At the same time... Nope. Down, vagina. Not now. We’re at work, girl. That swimmer's build haunts my dreams with disturbing regularity, usually in scenarios that would make my confession-booth-regular grandmother weep. The third man is older, unfamiliar. Late forties, silver threading through dark hair, watching the room with calculating eyes that make my skin prickle with unease. Fantastic. Serial killer vibes at table twelve. "Gentlemen." Maxwell's voice shifts into something smoother, more refined. "Our newest tasting menu creation, prepared by our most promising sous chef, Raegan Delacroix." Most promising. I step forward on legs that have apparently decided trembling is their new default setting, hyperaware of three sets of eyes tracking my movement. "This is a deconstructed bouillabaisse with saffron foam…" I dive down into explanations, keeping my hands steady through sheer force of will. Kobe's gaze travels down my body with the subtlety of a neon sign reading 'impure thoughts occurring'. Jared goes completely still, like a predator who's spotted something interesting. Even creepy calculator eyes perks up. Then Kobe's lips curve, that devastating dimple appearing. "You're flushed, Rae." Rae. Like we're friends. Like he hasn't been calling me that for months despite my repeated requests for 'Raegan' or 'Delacroix’. "The kitchen runs hot, Mr. Spencer." "So do other things, apparently." His smile turns wicked. "And it's Kobe. We've discussed this." My face burns hotter. "I don't—" "The innovation here is exceptional." Jared's interruption saves me from whatever devastating retort Kobe was preparing, warm with genuine approval. "This is exactly what Lumière needs at the industry gala this weekend." His storm-blue gaze holds mine. "You'll accompany Maxwell as our culinary team representative." Pride swells in my chest, fierce and bright. "Thank you, Mr. Spencer. I won't let Lumière down." "I know you won't." Something flickers in those eyes that makes my breath catch before I can stop it. "Delacroix." Maxwell's voice snaps me back to reality. "Station. Now." I nod, backing away from the table on legs that feel unsteady. My phone vibrates in my pocket the moment I reach the kitchen corridor. Elsie's name flashes across the screen. I duck into the supply closet and answer, angling the screen so my little sister can see my face clearly. Elsie's image appears, her fourteen-year-old features tight with worry, dark hair falling across eyes that mirror my own. My fingers move automatically, forming the familiar signs. “Hey, little bird, I'm in the middle of service, can I—” “Mom was here.” Her fingers fly, sharp with panic. “What do you mean Mom was there? She doesn't have a key anymore. I changed the locks.” I sign back, keeping my movements controlled despite the dread clawing up my throat. “She found your money. The box in your closet. She said you knew about it, that you told her she could borrow some.” No. No, no, no… “But Rae…” Elsie's fingers tremble as she forms next words. “It's gone. All of it.” Forty-three thousand dollars. Years of double shifts, of skipped meals, of sacrificing every small pleasure. Every dollar I've saved since I was sixteen. Every tip I've hidden away, every extra hour I've worked to afford the cochlear implant surgery that could give my baby sister the gift of hearing the world for the first time, to one day open my own dream-restaurant… My mother took it all. Chapter 2 “I'm so sorry, Rae. I'm so, so sorry.” Elsie's hands shake as she signs, and I watch my baby sister crumble into herself like she's trying to disappear into the worn fabric of our thrift-store couch. I drop my bag by the door at 11:47 PM and cross to her immediately, pulling her into my arms. Her body vibrates against me with the force of keeping her sobs quiet, a habit from years of not wanting to "burden" me with sounds I'd have to translate for her. God, I'm going to kill our mother. When Elsie pulls back, her fingers fly through the air, desperate to explain, to apologize, to make this somehow her fault when it's absolutely fucking not. "She looked different," Elsie signs. "Clean. Sober. She had on real clothes, Rae. Not pajamas at three in the afternoon. Her hair was brushed. She smiled at me like—" Her hands pause, hover in the air like broken birds. "Like she used to sometimes when we were little," she finishes, and oh, that's my heart shattering into approximately two million pieces. The thing about addicts that nobody tells you? They're incredible actors when they need something. Academy Award worthy. And you want to believe. Jeez, you want to believe so badly it becomes its own kind of addiction. "Tell me everything," I sign back, keeping my face calm even as rage builds behind my ribs. "Start from the beginning." Elsie wipes her face with the back of her hand, takes a shaky breath, and begins again. "She knocked around four. Not banging like usual when she's drunk. Polite knocking. I looked through the peephole and she just... she looked like a mom, Rae. Like other kids' moms." Fuck. "You let her in." Not a question. Of course she let her in. Fourteen-year-olds aren't supposed to be human metal detectors for their mother's sobriety. "I made tea." Elsie's signs get smaller, ashamed. "I wanted to be a good host. Like you taught me. She said she'd wait in the living room, but when I came back…" "Your room or mine?" I already know the answer. "Yours. She had the envelope. The one from your closet, behind the winter coats." Elsie continues. "Said you knew about it, that you told her she could borrow some for an emergency." "And you believed her?" The words come out sharp enough to cut, and I immediately want to stuff them back in when Elsie flinches. Great job, Rae. Traumatize her more. That'll help. "She said she was meeting you at the restaurant to explain everything." Elsie's hands drop to her lap for a moment. "I'm fourteen, not four. I knew something was wrong the second she said it. But she was already out the door, and I couldn't stop her." I pull her close again, pressing my lips to the top of her head. When I lean back, I make sure she can see my face clearly, can read every word on my lips as I sign simultaneously. "This is not your fault. Do you understand me? She is the adult. She made this choice. Not you." "But the money—" "I will figure it out." "How?" "That's not your problem, I’m the adult here. Now bed," I sign. "School tomorrow." It takes another twenty minutes to convince Elsie to go to her room. I wait until I hear her breathing until I'm certain she's actually asleep, before I grab my jacket and head back out into the night. The subway at this hour carries the particular loneliness of a city that never sleeps. I count the stops to my mother's apartment in Astoria, each one ratcheting my fury higher. I don't knock. I use the spare key I've kept for emergencies and push into the cramped studio that reeks of stale cigarettes and cheap vodka. Margot sits at her kitchen table, a half-empty bottle in front of her, looking nothing like the put-together woman Elsie described. "Well, shit," she slurs, not even bothering to look surprised. "That was faster than expected. Let me guess—the baby bird sang?" "Forty-three thousand dollars." My voice comes out stranger than I expect. Calm. Deadly. "You stole forty-three fucking thousand dollars from your own daughter." "Stole is such an ugly word." She takes another swig from the bottle. "I borrowed it. I was going to tell you, but you're always so busy with your fancy restaurant and your fancy chef friends. Never have time for your own mother." "Where is it, Margot? Where's my money?" She laughs, a bitter sound that scrapes against my eardrums. "Gone, sweetheart. Poof. Disappeared into the loving arms of the very patient men I owed thirty thousand dollars to." The room tilts around me when she stands, swaying like a tree in a hurricane. "And a girl's got to eat, doesn't she? Five thousand went to necessities. Groceries, cigarettes, lottery tickets. You know how it is." "I know how it is?” I hissed. “I dropped out of high school to work three jobs because you couldn't function for years after Dad’s death. I raised Elsie myself while you drowned in grief and vodka. I fought tooth and nail for custody of Elsie the day I turned eighteen because you were too drunk to remember to feed her!” The words explode out of me, right in front of my mother who doesn’t even give a shit. “I have worked every single day since I was sixteen to build a life out of the wreckage you left behind, and you have the audacity to stand there and tell me I know how it is?" "Oh, here we go.” Margot's face hardens. “Saint Raegan, the martyr who saved everyone. You think I wanted this? You think I chose this? That money was sitting in a closet collecting dust. I needed it. End of story." "That money," I say slowly, like I'm explaining physics to a goldfish, "was for Elsie's cochlear implant surgery. That money was going to let her hear her own voice. My voice telling her I love her." Something flickers across her face—guilt maybe, or gas—before she drowns it in another swallow. "She doesn't need to hear to know you love her." "No, but she needs to hear to navigate a world built for hearing people. To not have kids at school call her 'deaf and dumb.' To have the same opportunities as everyone else!" "Life's not fair, sweetheart. The sooner she learns that—" "I will end you." The words come out so quiet, so certain, that even Margot stops mid-platitude. She disappears into what passes for a bedroom, and returns with a wad of crumpled bills. Throwing them at my feet like garbage. "Eight grand. That's what's left. You want more? Too fucking bad." I stare at the money scattered across the filthy floor, then back at the woman who gave birth to me. I don't recognize her anymore. I haven't recognized her in years. "Don't come near me again," I say, bending to collect every last bill. "Don't come near Elsie. You're dead to us. Do you understand? You're dead." I don't wait for her response, just walk out and I don't look back. The subway home feels colder than before. I count the crumpled bills three times, then four, then five. Eight thousand dollars. I have one hundred thousand in the bank account Margot doesn't know about—the inheritance from my grandmother on my father's side. The only thing that woman couldn't touch because I never told her it existed. The surgery costs one hundred fifty-three thousand. I'd planned to borrow ten thousand from Scarlett, a manageable debt I could repay over a year. Now the math refuses to work. One hundred eight thousand in hand. Forty-five thousand short. Elsie's consultation is next week, and the surgical window closes a few weeks after that. I press my forehead against the cold subway window and try not to scream. How am I supposed to come up with forty-five thousand dollars in one month? A single dish opens doors she never expected to walk through 🍷 Keep reading to find out what waits for her beyond this chapter in The Taste Of You 📚