Chapter 3 - The Gilded Cage
The penthouse was a labyrinth of marble, glass, and secrets.
While the city slept under the rhythmic drumming of the rain, I was escorted to a suite that was larger than the entire apartment I had shared with two other girls.
The walls were lined with silk, and the bed was a mountain of white linen.
But there were no handles on the inside of the doors.
I wasn't a guest. I was a prisoner in a high-tech fortress.
An hour later, there was a knock.
A woman in a sharp suit entered, carrying my meager belongings in a cardboard box.
"Mr. Moretti has requested you change," she said, laying out a silk robe and a set of soft, dark clothes.
"Where is he?" I asked.
"In the library. He's waiting for his dessert."
I felt a surge of indignation.
"I've already saved his life and cooked him a five-star meal. Does he think I'm a 24-hour vending machine?"
The woman didn't crack a smile.
"He thinks you are the only person in this city who isn't trying to kill him. That makes you very busy."
I changed into the clothes—a pair of tailored black trousers and a silk blouse that felt like water against my skin.
I found my way to the kitchen of the penthouse.
It was a masterpiece of stainless steel and professional-grade appliances.
It was a dream, but it felt cold.
I searched the pantry.
I found dark chocolate, sea salt, and a bottle of ancient bourbon.
I made a simple, bitter chocolate ganache, infused with the heat of a single dried chili.
It was a reminder of the fire I had started downstairs.
I carried the small bowl into the library.
Gabriel was sitting by a fireplace that roared with orange flames.
He was reading a leather-bound book, a glass of amber liquid at his elbow.
He looked up as I entered.
The firelight danced in his eyes, making him look like a king from a forgotten, violent era.
"Come here," he commanded.
I walked over and set the chocolate down.
"It’s bitter," I said. "Like the truth."
He chuckled, a low sound that sent shivers down my spine.
"You have a sharp tongue, Elara. Most people lose theirs when they talk to me."
He tasted the chocolate.
He didn't flinch at the heat of the chili.
Instead, he seemed to lean into it.
"Tell me about the woman who taught you to cook," he said.
"My grandmother," I said, sitting on the edge of a chair opposite him.
"She lived in a village where they didn't have much. She said spices were the jewelry of the poor. They made a hard life feel rich."
Gabriel stared into the fire.
"My mother loved the jewelry of the rich," he said softly.
"She loved the banquets. The galas. She died with a piece of sea bass in her mouth, her eyes wide with shock as the toxins hit her heart."
He looked at me, his gaze intense.
"Since that day, I haven't tasted anything. Not really. I've only survived."
"Until tonight," I said.
"Until tonight," he agreed.
He reached across the space between us and took my hand.
His skin was warm, his grip firm.
"Duvall didn't poison himself," he said, his voice turning cold.
"He was a pawn. Someone wanted me dead, and they used my own restaurant to do it."
"Who?"
"I have many enemies. But only one who knows my routine so well."
He squeezed my hand.
"By bringing me that dish, you disrupted a plan that has been months in the making. You've painted a target on your back, Elara."
"I'm just a waitress," I whispered.
"No," he said, standing up and pulling me to my feet.
"You are the woman who broke the curse of the Moretti table."
He leaned in, his breath hot against my ear.
"You stay in this penthouse. You cook for no one but me. You talk to no one but me."
"And if I refuse?"
He pulled back just enough to look into my eyes.
"You won't. Because out there, you're a witness. In here, you're a queen."
He didn't kiss me.
He did something worse.
He kissed the palm of my hand, a gesture of such strange, dark devotion that it frightened me more than his threats.
May you like
"Go to sleep, Elara. Tomorrow, we find out who tried to kill us both."
***
