Signed away by my step father

CHAPTER 12

The sleek black town car didn't wait for the final school bell to finish echoing; it was idling at the curb the exact second the clock struck 3:00 PM. Daisy gave my hand one last, tight squeeze before I slid into the leather interior. I spent the forty-minute drive up into the hills staring out the window, mentally reviewing every French mother sauce, knife technique, and temperature ratio I had ever written down in my leather notebook.

When I arrived at the estate, Mr. Jennings was waiting for me in the foyer. Instead of guiding me to the east wing, he handed me a crisp, heavy white package.

"Monsieur Dupont is waiting in the main kitchen, Miss Sylvia," the butler said, his expression politely severe. "You have exactly ten minutes to change."

Inside the package was a flawless, tailored white chef’s jacket embroidered with a small, discreet midnight-blue V on the collar. The heavy cotton fabric felt like a suit of armor as I buttoned it up. I tied my hair back into a tight, slick bun, took a deep, steadying breath, and pushed through the frosted glass doors of the kitchen.

The room had completely changed from yesterday's quiet sanctuary. The space was alive with a fierce, clinical intensity. Burners hissed with high blue flames, the scent of roasting veal bones and clarified butter hung heavy in the air, and the stainless steel surfaces glittered under the harsh, bright lights.

Standing over a copper pot in the center of the room was a short, heavily built man with a sharp, silver mustache and a face that looked permanently displeased. Monsieur Dupont.

"Ah. The girl," Dupont said, not even looking up from his pot as his silver spoon whipped through a rich, velvety brown sauce. He spoke with a thick, biting French accent. "Monsieur Vance tells me you have a palate. He tells me you have hands. But in my kitchen, words are cheap, like the garbage pasta your stepfather served. Let us see if you are a cook, or just a little girl playing with matching jackets."

He slammed the silver spoon down on the counter with a loud clack and pointed a thick finger at a massive wooden crate sitting on the central island.

"Ten pounds of mirepoix," Dupont commanded, his eyes narrowing as he glared at me. "Onions, celery, carrots. I want a precise brunoise. Two millimeters by two millimeters. Every single cube must be identical. If one cube is crooked, the entire batch goes into the trash. You have twenty minutes. Allez!"

My heart hammered against my ribs. A two-millimeter brunoise required absolute, flawless knife control. If your blade slipped even a fraction, the cube was ruined.

I walked up to the station, my fingers wrapping around the handle of a heavy, perfectly balanced global chef’s knife. For a second, the sheer weight of Dupont's glaring gaze made my hand shake. I could feel the ghost of Richard's voice in my ear, whispering that I was useless, that I had zero skills.

No, I told myself, clamping my jaw shut. Not anymore.

I grabbed a large, peeled carrot. I squared off the sides with four rapid, precise vertical strokes, turning the round vegetable into a perfect rectangular block. Then, keeping my left knuckles tucked back in a flawless claw grip, I sliced the carrot into paper-thin planks, then into matchsticks, and finally, into a rapid waterfall of tiny, microscopically perfect cubes.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.

The rhythmic sound of my blade hitting the wooden board echoed through the kitchen, steady, fast, and unbroken.

Monsieur Dupont didn't say a word. He crossed his arms over his chest, stepping closer until he was standing right over my shoulder, watching the rapid movement of my steel blade.

Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. My forearm was burning, and sweat was pooling at my collarbone, but I didn't slow down. I moved with absolute, hyper-focused precision, my mind calculating the geometry of every single slice.

Just as I swept the final pile of perfectly uniform, emerald-green celery cubes into a glass bowl, the heavy glass doors of the kitchen swung open.

Valerian Vance stepped into the room. He had discarded his tie, the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt undone, his charcoal blazer slung carelessly over his arm. His striking silver-gray eyes swept over the pristine kitchen before locking onto me, standing flushed and breathless behind the island.

"Monsieur Dupont," Valerian murmured, his low, velvety voice cutting through the hiss of the burners. "What is the verdict?"

The terrifying French chef didn't answer immediately. He walked up to my bowl of diced vegetables, reaching in with his thick fingers to scoop up a handful of the tiny cubes. He spread them across his palm, inspecting them under the bright light like a jeweler analyzing diamonds.

He looked for a single crooked edge. A single oversized piece.

After a long, agonizing silence, Dupont let out a low, gruff grunt. He dropped the vegetables back into the bowl and turned to face Valerian, a reluctant, deeply impressed nod touching his chin.

"The cut is clean, Monsieur Vance," Dupont admitted, his sharp mustache twitching. "Perfect consistency. Fast execution. The girl does not just have a palate. She has the discipline of a soldier."

A massive wave of relief washed over my chest, so intense my knees briefly felt weak. I looked up, and for the first time, my eyes met Valerian’s without a shred of fear.

Valerian stood entirely motionless, a subtle, dark satisfaction rippling across his aristocratic features. He took a slow step forward, his silver-gray gaze dropping to the midnight-blue V embroidered on my collar, before tracking back up to lock onto my eyes with a deep, suffocating intensity.

"Excellent," Valerian murmured, a hint of a dangerous, possessive warmth finally touching his cold voice. "Keep training her, Dupont. I want her ready for the hospitality gala next month. It’s time the city sees exactly what th

e Vance Group has acquired."