Chapter 4: Midnight Kitchen
1866 Words
Lila Reyes had a rule about crying in other people’s kitchens.
Don’t.
Especially not billionaires’ kitchens. Especially not when the billionaire’s security cameras probably streamed directly to his phone and he’d already seen her drop a three-tier sans rival on a loading dock.
But it was 1:48 a.m., and the third batch of savory ensaymada had just come out of the oven tasting like salted regret and old socks.
She sank to the floor anyway.
The tile was cold through her leggings. The Wolf range hummed, smug. The binder of APPROVED INGREDIENTS lay open to page 94: Nutritional yeast: yes. Olive brine: yes. Happiness: no.
Lila pulled her knees to her chest. She was not going to cry. She was 26 years old, a professional, under contract. She had ₱300,000 a month riding on her ability to make food that wouldn’t kill Callum Wolfe.
She cried anyway.
Quiet. Ugly. The kind that came from the back of your throat and tasted like failure.
She didn’t hear the elevator.
She didn’t hear the front door.
She heard him.
“What are you doing?”
Lila’s head snapped up.
Callum Wolfe stood in the kitchen doorway. No jacket. White dress shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, top two buttons undone. He looked wrecked. Not business-wrecked. *Human* wrecked. Hair messy, eyes bloodshot, tie hanging loose around his neck like a noose he’d forgotten to tighten.
He smelled like whiskey. Expensive. And rain.
Lila scrambled up, wiping her face with the back of her hand. Flour. Tears. Probably snot. Fantastic.
“I’m off the clock,” she said. Automatically. Stupid.
He looked at the clock on the microwave. 1:49 a.m. “Clearly.”
His gaze dropped to the tray of ensaymada on the counter. Twelve of them. Pale, dense, slumped. They looked like defeat with cheese on top.
“What is that?” he asked.
Lila swiped at her cheeks. “Nothing. It’s—experiment. It’s not for you.”
He walked in. Didn’t ask. Just came in, into *her* kitchen, at her hour, breaking rule three and four and probably five just by breathing.
He picked up one of the ensaymada. Turned it over in his fingers. It was heavy. Wrong.
“Did you eat?” he asked.
“What?”
“You. Did you eat dinner?”
Lila blinked. “That’s… not in the contract.”
“Answer the question.”
“No,” she said before she could stop herself. “I was testing this. Lost track.”
He set the ensaymada down. Went to the fridge. Pulled out water, a pre-portioned container of chicken breast, and a Tupperware of steamed broccoli. His dinner. Made by a nutritionist with an NDA.
He set it on the island. Pushed it toward her.
“Eat.”
Lila stared. “I’m not—this is yours.”
“You didn’t eat. You’re on my property. Liability.”
“I’m not a liability.”
“You’re crying on my floor. That’s a lawsuit.”
She wanted to throw the ensaymada at his head. “I’m not eating your sad chicken.”
“It’s protein.”
“It’s sad.”
His mouth twitched. Not a smile. The suggestion of one. The scar shifted.
“Sit,” he said.
“I don’t take orders from—”
“Sit, or I call Marco and have him draft a new clause: The chef must maintain caloric intake to ensure contract fulfillment.”
Lila sat.
He pushed the chicken closer. She didn’t touch it.
They stayed like that. Midnight kitchen. Her on a barstool, him standing across the island like it was a negotiating table. The only sound was the fridge and Davao rain hitting the floor-to-ceiling windows.
“You’re drunk,” Lila said.
“A little.” He didn’t deny it. “The board meeting went long. We’re divesting from a palm oil subsidiary. Someone called me ‘The Bulldozer’ to my face.”
“Good.”
His eyes cut to her. “You agree?”
“I agreed the first time I saw the wall.”
He nodded. Once. Took a sip of water. “It’s down now.”
“I know.”
“Your lola?”
“Stable. Surgery went well.” Lila’s voice softened without permission. “Your money did that.”
“It was a contract.”
“It was a kindness. Don’t insult me by pretending it wasn’t.”
He went quiet.
Lila picked up a fork. Poked the chicken. It was grey. Precise. Soulless.
“Do you ever eat anything that isn’t… this?” she asked.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because ‘anything’ could kill me.”
“Right.” She set the fork down. “But you ate the pan de sal.”
His hand tightened on the water bottle. “That was—”
“A mistake?”
“A choice.”
The word hung there.
Lila didn’t know what to do with it. So she did the only thing she knew. She stood, went to the counter, and picked up the least offensive *ensaymada*.
“Try it,” she said.
He stared. “I don’t eat after—”
“It’s approved. Page 94 and 112. Nutritional yeast. Olive brine. Zero sugar. Zero carbs. It’s basically a salt lick with cheese.”
“I’m not—”
“Callum.”
He went still. She’d never said his name. Not like that. Not without Mr. or Wolfe* or asshole attached.
“Try it,” she said again. Softer. “If you hate it, I’ll quit. No breach penalty. You can hire Chef Arnaud back and his sterile kitchen.”
He looked at the ensaymada. Then at her.
He took it.
He bit.
He chewed. Once. Twice.
And made a face.
Lila knew that face. It was the same face the Swiss investor had made at her calamansi tartlet.
“No,” he said. Finished chewing like it was a chore. Swallowed. “God, no.”
Lila’s chest cracked open. “It’s bad?”
“It’s *offensive*.” He set it down. “It tastes like a foot. A foot that’s been in a gym bag. For a week.”
A laugh burst out of her. Mortified. Relieved. “Oh thank god. I thought I’d lost my mind.”
“You lost your palate.”
“It’s savory *ensaymada*, you—” She stopped herself. “It was a bad idea.”
“It was a crime.”
She threw a dish towel at him. He caught it. Reflexes.
They stared at each other. Her, flour in her hair, eyes red from crying. Him, drunk, tie loose, holding her dish towel like a flag.
The kitchen didn’t feel like his anymore.
“Why are you here?” she asked. Not mean. Just… tired. “At 2 a.m. In your kitchen. With me.”
He didn’t answer for a long time.
Then: “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Why?”
He looked at the *ensaymada*. At the binder. At her.
“Make something,” he said.
“What?”
“Make something that tastes like childhood.”
Lila’s breath caught. “Rule three. No talking.”
“I’m not talking. I’m commissioning.”
“That’s—”
“Please.”
The word shut her up.
Callum Wolfe didn’t say please. Bulldozers didn’t say please.
Lila swallowed. “Childhood for who?”
“Me.”
She nodded.
She washed her hands. Twice. Pulled out bread flour. Water. Salt. Yeast. The same ingredients as pan de sal. The same ingredients that had started this whole disaster.
“Is this a test?” she asked while the mixer ran.
“No.”
“Because if I poison you, I don’t get paid.”
“I know.”
She worked. Kneading by hand. The rhythm was old. Lola’s rhythm. Her mama’s rhythm. Hers.
Callum didn’t leave. He sat at the island. Watched. Not like a CEO. Like a man waiting for something he wasn’t sure he deserved.
“Tell me,” he said after a while.
“Tell you what?”
“Why pan de sal? At the gala. You had *sans rival*. You had ube. You had things that would ‘impress.’ Why the bread?”
Lila didn’t stop kneading. “Because you were going to hate everything anyway. So I figured I’d at least make you hate something honest.”
He huffed. A laugh without sound. “It worked.”
“I know.”
More silence. Just the mixer. The rain.
“My mom,” he said.
Lila’s hands stilled.
“She used to make it,” he said. To the counter. Not to her. “Pan de sal. Every Sunday. She wasn’t good. Like I said. Badly. Always too dense. Too salty. But she tried. She’d burn it half the time because she was on the phone with suppliers. She had a bakery. Small. Anda Street. Before your lola’s.”
Lila’s heart stopped.
“But you said—”
“I lied,” he said. “At the gala. She didn’t make it badly. I did. I was a kid. I said it was dry so she’d make cake instead. I wanted cake.”
He looked up. Grey eyes, wrecked.
“She made me cake for my ninth birthday. I asked for it.”
Lila’s throat closed.
The dough rose. She shaped it. Twelve small rounds. Let it be proof.
She didn’t talk. He didn’t either.
At 3:12 a.m., she put the tray in the oven.
At 3:24 a.m., the kitchen smelled like 1979.
Yeast. Salt. Warmth.
Callum’s eyes closed. Just for a second.
Lila pulled the tray out. The rolls were golden. Split on top. Steam curling.
She set one on a plate. Pushed it across the island.
No butter. No sugar. Nothing that could hurt him.
Just bread.
He stared at it.
“Safe,” she said. “I promise.”
He picked it up.
He tore it open. Steam hit his face.
He brought it to his mouth.
And bit.
Lila didn’t breathe.
He chewed. Slow.
Swallowed.
And then he did something she didn’t expect.
He cried.
One tear. Silent. It tracked down his cheek, cut through the stubble, and disappeared into the collar of his shirt.
He set the pan de sal down. Half-eaten.
“It’s not her,” he said. Rough. “Hers was worse.”
Lila’s laugh came out wet. “High praise.”
“It’s better.”
He wiped his face with the back of his hand. Angry at himself.
“Rule five,” Lila whispered.
He looked up.
“No feelings,” she said. “You’re breaking it.”
“I know.”
He stood. Pushed the plate away.
“Go home,” he said.
“I am home.”
“Not tonight.”
He walked to the elevator. Didn’t look back.
The doors closed.
Lila stood in the kitchen, alone, at 3:31 a.m.
On the island: one half-eaten pan de sal.
She picked it up.
It was still warm.
She took a bite.
Salt. Yeast. Childhood.
And for the first time, she understood.
Nostalgia could build cities.
If you let it.
End of Chapter 4
- Writer
