Chapter 3 - THE ARCHITECT OF THE OBSIDIAN
I was discharged at six in the morning.
The air outside was cool.
The city was just waking up.
Julian had a car waiting.
A black sedan with tinted windows.
I didn't go to my apartment.
I didn't go to my parents' house.
I went to the back entrance of The Obsidian Room.
The staff was already there.
The morning prep had begun.
When I walked through the kitchen doors,
the room went silent.
The clatter of knives stopped.
The hum of the walk-in fridge felt louder.
Marcus,
my head chef,
approached me.
He looked like he hadn't slept.
“Maya,”
he said.
His voice was thick with guilt.
“I didn't know.”
“The order came in from the host.”
“They said you wanted the special.”
I held up a hand.
“I know,
Marcus.”
“It wasn't you.”
“It wasn't the kitchen.”
“It was a calculated strike.”
I walked to the stainless steel prep table.
I looked at the stock pots.
I looked at the copper pans.
This place was my cathedral.
I had built it with my own sweat.
I had bought it through a series of shell companies when it was a failing bistro.
My parents thought I was a line cook here.
They thought I was lucky to have a job.
They didn't know I signed the paychecks.
They didn't know I owned the building.
They didn't know I owned the entire block.
I turned to Marcus.
“I want the logs.”
“I want the digital order trail.”
“And I want the footage from the camera above the pass.”
Marcus nodded.
“It’s already on your desk.”
I walked to the small,
hidden office in the back.
The walls were covered in blueprints.
Not for recipes.
For buildings.
For acquisitions.
For the future.
Julian Cross was already there.
He was drinking black coffee.
He looked at home in the chaos.
“Chloe called me,”
he said.
I sat in my leather chair.
It felt supportive.
“And?”
“She apologized for your behavior.”
“She said you were mentally unstable.”
“She said you have a history of seeking attention.”
I laughed.
It hurt my throat.
“Of course she did.”
“And Trent?”
Julian tapped a pen on the desk.
“Trent wants a meeting.”
“He wants to discuss the investment I promised him.”
“He thinks the dinner was a success.”
I leaned back.
I looked at the monitor on my desk.
It showed the dining room from last night.
Empty.
Elegant.
Cruel.
“Give him the meeting,”
I said.
Julian raised an eyebrow.
“You want me to invest?”
“No,”
I whispered.
“I want you to lead him on.”
“I want him to commit to the expansion.”
“I want him to put up his house.”
“I want him to put up Chloe’s trust fund.”
“And then,”
I said,
“I want to pull the rug out.”
Julian watched me.
He saw the fire.
He saw the woman who had clawed at the marble.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,
Maya.”
“They’re your family.”
I looked at him.
My eyes were cold.
“They stopped being my family the moment they watched me stop breathing.”
“They are just liabilities now.”
I pulled a folder from my drawer.
It was labeled Sterling-Ellis Acquisitions.
I had been planning this for years.
I had been waiting for a reason to stop pretending.
The crab soup was the final ingredient.
“Marcus!”
I shouted.
The chef appeared in the doorway.
“Yes,
boss?”
“Change the menu for tonight.”
“I want a special.”
“Call it The Truth.”
“Make it bitter.”
“Make it expensive.”
“And send an invitation to my sister.”
“Tell her the owner wants to personally apologize for the incident.”
Julian stood up.
He adjusted his tie.
“She won’t be able to resist that.”
“She loves a win.”
I smiled.
It was the smile of a predator.
“She’s going to love this.”
“Right until she tastes the bill.”
I looked at the footage one last time.
Chloe was smiling.
I was on the floor.
The timer had started.
The Obsidian Room was about to become a courtroom.
And I was the judge.
May you like
The jury.
And the executioner.
