Mathéo Boucher: A Christmas Deal

Chapter 3: Mathéo

Four years later...

“It was such a lovely ceremony, Anja,” Antonia Wilkins said, a soft smile curving her lips as she clasped my mother’s hands in hers before leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek. “And remember—if you ever need anything at all, you only have to ask. I know the Legacy Ball is coming up, and if you need—”

“That’s very kind of you, Antonia,” my mother replied smoothly, her shoulders straightening as her public mask slid neatly into place. Graceful. Impeccable. Untouchable. “But now that Mathéo has returned home, I’m sure I’ll have more than enough help with everything that requires attention.”

Her words landed with quiet finality, a subtle declaration meant for the room as much as for Antonia. A line drawn. A message sent.

She hadn’t corrected my posture once this evening. Hadn’t adjusted the angle of my shoulders or murmured reminders beneath her breath about how I carried myself. Not a single note of disapproval, not even a flicker of it in her eyes. Stefan, on the other hand, had not been spared.

My older brother stood two steps to my left, stiff as a board, enduring the consequences of years spent gallivanting through life under the assumption that Gabriel would inherit the empire. Mother’s fury toward him simmered just beneath the surface—controlled, but potent. She had always despised wasted potential.

But she no longer corrected me because there was nothing left to correct.

I had told her as much the night before, my voice steady as I informed her of my decision—that I would take over what our father had built, that his memory and legacy would not be handed to someone unworthy. Not to someone untested. Not to someone who had never bled for it.

Someone ambitious, driven.

I had spent the last four years in France shaping myself into exactly that man.

The first year was dedicated to my culinary degree, immersing myself in the mechanics of a kitchen—learning how it breathed, how it broke, how it thrived under pressure. I perfected techniques, studied balance and precision, and learned how a single misplaced element could ruin an entire experience. Fine dining, I learned quickly, was not about indulgence. It was about discipline.

The three years that followed were spent inside our restaurants, where theory met reality in the most brutal way possible. I didn’t sit behind a desk or observe from a distance. I worked.

I started at Le Cœur d’Antón, waiting tables, memorizing wine lists until they lived in my bones. I paired vintages with courses, trained my palate as a sommelier, and learned to read people by the way they held a glass or hesitated over a menu.

Then I moved into the kitchen.

Line cooking stripped me bare. I rehearsed every dish until muscle memory took over, until I could execute blind and bleeding. I burned my fingers, my hands, my forearms—again and again—until pain dulled into numbness and failure was no longer an option.

By the time I became head chef at L’Ambre Noire, my father trusted me enough to hand me the reins entirely. I rebuilt the menu from the ground up, redefined the brand, and pushed boundaries. It became the most profitable establishment we owned—outperforming even our New York flagships.

I was running Maison Boucher in Paris when the call came.

Buried in spreadsheets and invoices, locked in debate with our accountant over margins and expansion costs, I nearly ignored my phone. When I answered, my mind was still elsewhere, too entrenched in logistics to grasp the words at first.

“Your father had a heart attack. They couldn’t save him.”

The sentence floated, distant and unreal. I blamed the transatlantic connection, told her she must repeat herself. When she did—once, twice, a third time—I finally heard the tremor in her voice, the fracture she was barely holding together.

My mother had never known why I went to France. I had asked my father to keep it from her, to let her believe I was merely traveling, indulging in restlessness as I always had. So when she demanded I return immediately, and I told her I couldn’t leave that very second, she told me to go to hell.

The line went dead.

Within the hour, I was arranging my replacement. I secured Maison Boucher, ensured continuity, and locked every loose end into place. Only then did I book my flight home.

“Ah, yes,” Lucien Wilkins drawled now, his gray eyes sweeping over me in a slow, calculating pass. “The lost boy returned.”

My jaw tightened. Behind him, Joshua stared at the floor, embarrassment coloring his posture. No one here knew what I had been doing all these years, and I had no interest in enlightening Lucien Wilkins of all people.

“I am intrigued to see who will inherit the fine dining throne,” Lucien continued, his gaze sliding pointedly toward my brother.

“I’m sure you are, Mr. Wilkins,” I replied evenly. My voice was deeper than the last time he’d heard it—grounded, assured. Enough to make his brows lift in surprise. “But rest assured, your experience at any Boucher Group location will continue to meet the highest standard.”

Lucien Wilkins no longer intimidated me. Not after staring down furious French head chefs wielding knives sharp enough to end a life if an entrée went wrong.

Perspective had a way of changing a man.

His lips thinned, eyes narrowing, but Joshua’s expression behind him—bright, impressed—caught my attention. I made a mental note to offer him a drink at Olympus soon. Cultivating goodwill with the future Tech King of New York was never a poor investment.

Lucien muttered something dismissive, but Antonia stepped in, taking my hand between hers.

“My, how you’ve grown, Mathéo,” she said warmly. “It suits you.”

I swallowed hard, her kindness piercing through the armor I’d worn since the phone call. I hadn’t stopped long enough to feel it—not the grief, not the finality. I hadn’t allowed myself to imagine a future without my father in it. Looking into her eyes, the weight of it all finally pressed in. And for the first time since returning home, I wasn’t sure how long I could keep standing.

So I straightened my shoulders, clenching my jaw as I forced a smile onto my face for the kind woman still holding my hand. My muscles protested the effort, my body rebelling against the simple act of appearing composed, but years of training—years of expectation—kicked in. I stood tall. I endured.

Then she squeezed my hand.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mathéo,” Antonia whispered, her voice low, intimate, as though she didn’t want anyone else to hear it. As though she could sense the grief thrumming beneath my skin and wanted to protect it from prying eyes. From spectacle. “Keep fighting,” she continued softly. “That’s what your father would have wanted.”

I nodded once, sharp and restrained, not trusting myself to speak without something breaking loose. She released my hand and looped her arm firmly through Lucien’s, steering him away before he could say anything else of questionable taste. Joshua lingered just long enough to give me another nod, a solid handshake—his grip firm, respectful. There was something like awe in his expression. Confusion too. I tucked it away for later consideration.

Everyone who mattered was here.

My father’s memorial was not merely a farewell—it was a statement. High society had turned out in full force, each guest aware of the unspoken rule: you did not disrespect Anja Boucher in her grief. No one wanted to test her resolve. No one wanted to incur her wrath.

Everyone was there. Everyone, including her.

She stood out immediately, devastating in her black dress, the fabric molded to her body with quiet elegance. Time had been kind to her—no, generous. Her cheekbones were sharper now, her jaw more refined, her features sculpted into something breathtaking. Freckles dusted her nose like constellations, catching the light as though they belonged there. Her fiery red hair was tamed, curls disciplined just enough not to fall into her face, and her lips were painted a soft pink—not to draw attention, not to provoke, but because being a Hayden meant perfection was mandatory.

I knew that rule better than anyone.

What I hated—what made something sharp twist low in my gut—was that she wasn’t alone.

Her arm was linked through someone else’s. A boy. That was the only word for him. He leaned in close, whispered things meant only for her, guided her through the space as though he had earned the right. His hand lingered on her back, possessive in a way that made my teeth grind.

Touching what was mine.

“Who’s he?” I murmured to Stefan as the line of mourners inched forward.

He followed my gaze, then scoffed quietly. “Don’t worry about him. Another one will probably escort her to the next function.”

My jaw tightened. “What does that mean?”

The words came out sharper than intended, more hiss than whisper. The line moved again, more condolences offered, more hands shaken. My palms felt clammy, tainted by too many strangers, and Stefan’s restlessness mirrored the storm brewing inside me.

“It means,” he said dryly, “that she’s been escorted by nearly half of the eligible bachelors in New York high society over the last four years. None of them lasts more than a couple of functions. Whether that’s because of her or them, who knows. But there’s one common denominator.”

The jealousy cooled into something darker.

Anger.

Why would she allow it? Why risk her reputation like that? Did she want these men, or was this another arrangement orchestrated by Tobias Hayden? Why did none of them stay? Was she uninterested—or was something wrong? And more importantly, how could I fix it?

I would fix it.

Tobias Hayden approached with Henrietta at his side, escorting her toward my mother. The women exchanged the required kiss on the cheek, but I caught the flicker of disdain in my mother’s eyes. Tobias shook her hand, stiff and perfunctory, before turning to me.

“My condolences,” he said, voice flat, as though this were a business transaction rather than a death.

Henrietta, at least, looked genuinely saddened. She squeezed my hand gently. “Your father was a great man.”

The words caught me off guard. I hadn’t expected kindness from them—least of all sincerity. “Thank you,” I managed, still processing it.

Then she was there.

The boy—because he was nothing more—offered his sympathies, but I barely registered him. My attention was fixed entirely on her. Her eyes were glossy, grief softening her expression in a way that felt achingly real. She wasn’t performing. She wasn’t pretending.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Boucher,” she said softly. Her voice—God, her voice—wrapped around me just as it had years ago. Hazel eyes held mine, unflinching, as she gently shook my hand. “I heard your father was a great man. I’m just sorry I never got to meet him properly.”

For a moment, my mind went blank.

Her hand in mine—softer than anything I deserved. My skin rough, scarred, calloused from years of heat and steel and discipline. The contrast sent something visceral through me.

“It’ll be alright,” I said without thinking, the words instinctive, immediate. As though it were my role to comfort her. As though my grief mattered less than the sadness shadowing her eyes.

The faintest smile touched her lips, fragile and fleeting. “I sure hope so,” she whispered.

Then the boy led her away.

Her hand slipped from mine.

And even though I shouldn’t have—even though it was rude, even though it drew attention—I refused to shake another hand for the rest of the line.

I wanted to preserve the memory of her warmth. The softness. The way she felt like something I had been working toward my entire life.