“You’re finished here. When Charles gets back, I’m going to show him everything. You’re just another social climber, using him for his name and his connections.”
My heart thudded painfully against my ribs. “Amelia, please,” I said, my voice cracking. “That’s not who I am at all. The account isn’t about him, or your family. It’s about me—my journey as a chef. That’s all.”
“I’m sorry, Eleanor. I really am. I liked you. But this is a gross breach of trust. I have to tell my mother.”
I felt like the walls were closing in around me. My mind raced with potential defenses, explanations, but none of them would suffice. Amelia was right about one thing—this wasn’t just about the Instagram account. It was about my place here, about the delicate balance I’d been trying to maintain between my personal goals and my professional obligations. And now, it felt like it was all crumbling.
“You don’t have to do this,” I said, my voice trembling. “I’ve worked hard, Amelia. I’ve done everything I can to make this party a success, to prove myself—”
She raised her chin. “I’m sorry. You should have thought about that before.”
She turned on her heel and walked out, leaving me standing there, shaking and struggling to breathe.
I leaned against the wall, my hands trembling as I tried to steady myself. Ali soon came around the corner, her face creased with worry.
“What’s wrong?” she said. “Mrs. Hawthorne’s asking about the butternut squash.”
Of course she was.
I was nearly in tears. Still, I couldn’t curl up in a ball now. One way or another, I had to complete this dinner service.
“All good,” I said. “Amelia was just asking me a question. I’m headed back in there now.”
When I got back to the kitchen, I stopped in my tracks, dumbfounded. Charles was standing there with his jacket off and the sleeves of his crisp white tuxedo shirt rolled up to his elbows as he stirred my risotto.
“What the hell’s going on here?” I said, overwhelmed with the entire evening.
“Breadcrumbs just came out of the oven,” Charles said.
At the island, the sous worked quickly, assembling the squash canapés.
“You got the sage already?” I went to the island, checking on the plating. “How?”
“Drove to the neighbors,” he said, with a searching smile that hoped he’d done right. “Their chef had plenty of sage.”
I went up to him and took the wooden spoon to continue stirring the risotto. “You saved my life,” I told him earnestly. “Again.”
“Anything for you.”
He said the words with such heartfelt sincerity, I nearly broke down in tears.
I touched his arm, wanting desperately to explain, and yet completely at a loss for words. This would likely be our last night together. Very soon, Amelia would tell her mother what I’d done. If not for the snow, I’d probably be out tonight. All that was left was to finish the party. It was the least I could do.
“Charles.” I froze at the sound of Mrs. Hawthorne’s voice. She stood in the doorway in a navy-blue gown. “What are you doing in here? You should be with the guests.”
“They’ll survive without me for a bit,” he said firmly, grabbing a cutting board to lend a hand.
Waiters came in to collect the squash canapés. She eyed them carefully as they were loaded onto the serving trays.
“Fine,” she said reluctantly. “Don’t be long.”
I held my breath until I heard her heels clicking back down the hallway. Not long after she left, Mr. Hawthorne appeared, looking bemused to find his son elbow-deep in squab.
“What’s all this?” he said.
“Helping Elle with the prep,” Charles replied without looking up.
To my surprise, Mr. Hawthorne stepped forward. “Well, I can’t let you two have all the fun. What can I do?”
