Larry Anderson was genuinely furious.
Now that Suzy had made her stance clear over the phone, there was no reason for him to keep swallowing his pride for some pretty-boy’s sake. Whatever restraint he’d been clinging to snapped cleanly in that moment.
He rose, fingers closing around the jagged shard of the broken bottle.
And then—another figure stepped into the room.
At first glance, the man looked like a chef. White coat, clean cuffs, carrying a tray with a bowl inverted on top. But the illusion didn’t last.
He also looked like an artist.
Long hair fell loosely over his shoulders. Balanced atop the upside-down bowl lay a calligraphy brush, its bristles stained a deep, unsettling red.
John Larson, clutching his bleeding head, stared at him in confusion. “You’re not one of my chefs.
