MistNovel - Read Web Novel Stories & Fiction Online

The Grand Crestwood Hotel ballroom glittered like a constellation brought to earth. Crystal chandeliers scattered light across shimmering gowns and tailored tuxedos while Emma Lopez navigated through the crowd with a practiced smile. Her black flats pinched after twelve hours of catering work, sending dull throbs up her calves, but the overtime pay would cover another month of her grandmother's medications.

This world was not hers, though she worked in it with quiet efficiency.

She had fled the ballroom chaos an hour ago, retreating to her domain. The kitchen. Here, surrounded by gleaming stainless steel and the symphony of sizzling pans, she belonged. Her hands moved with practiced precision, plating delicate canapés with edible flowers and micro greens. Each creation was a tiny work of art, proof that she deserved to be here, even if she would never wear the gowns or taste the champagne.

She did not notice him at first. The executive chef was shouting orders, and the sous chef was cursing the oven temperature. Then the kitchen doors swung open, and the noise seemed to fade.

He stood in the doorway, tall and imposing in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than her monthly rent. Dark hair fell across his brow, and his presence commanded attention effortlessly. The kitchen staff froze, servers stopping mid-step.

"Who is responsible for these?" He held up one of her canapés, the prosciutto and fig creation she had perfected over weeks of experimentation.

Emma's heart hammered. Had she made a mistake? Used the wrong ingredient? Her hands, rough from years of kitchen work, trembled as she stepped forward. "I am, sir."

His intense brown eyes locked on hers. "I needed to meet the person behind these flavors."

The words struck her breathless. Not cook. Not caterer. The person behind the art.

He crossed the kitchen toward her, and the heat from the stoves suddenly felt insignificant compared to the warmth radiating from him. Up close, she could see sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw shadowed with stubble, and eyes so piercing they seemed to catalog every detail of her flour-dusted chef's coat and pinned-back hair.

"James Wilson." He extended his hand.

Her work-roughened palm met his manicured one. The contact sent a jolt through her veins, and for a moment, she forgot how to breathe. "Emma Lopez."

"Your technique is extraordinary, Emma." His voice was low, intimate despite the kitchen noise around them. "The balance of sweet and savory, the texture contrast. Where did you train?"

Pride swelled in her chest, momentarily overriding her awareness of their differences. "Culinary school on scholarship. Then years of practice. Cooking is everything to me."

Something shifted in his expression. Interest, yes, but deeper. As if he recognized something in her words that resonated with his own experience. "I can taste that. The passion in every bite."

The executive chef cleared his throat loudly. "Mr. Wilson, we have more canapés ready for service."

James's gaze never left hers. "When is your break?"

She should say no. Should remember her place. But something about the way he looked at her, as if she mattered beyond her ability to prepare his food, made her reckless. "Twenty minutes."

"Meet me on the terrace." It was not quite a command, not quite a request.

She found herself nodding.

The spring air on the terrace carried the sweet scent of jasmine. Below, the city glittered like scattered jewels. James leaned against the stone railing, his jacket discarded and tie loosened. Away from the ballroom's artificial glitter, he looked different, more real and less untouchable.

"You came," he said. His voice was a low rumble that seemed to resonate in her chest.

"I probably should not have." Emma kept a careful distance, aware of the danger this moment posed. The stone railing felt cold against her back. She was still wearing her chef's coat, still smelling of kitchen herbs and sweat, while he looked like he had stepped from a magazine cover.

"Probably not." He turned to face her fully, stepping closer. "But I am glad you did. You are different."

"You mean poor?" The words escaped before she could stop them.

"Honest," he corrected, his gaze steady. He leaned in, and she caught his scent, something expensive and masculine with notes of sandalwood and bergamot, mixed with something wild she could not identify. "Everyone in my world wears a mask. You do not."

They talked through her entire break and well beyond it. James spoke of crushing expectations and the loneliness that came with power. Emma found herself sharing dreams of opening her own restaurant someday, her constant worries about her grandmother's failing health. With him, she felt seen in a way she never had before.

When her supervisor finally came looking for her, fury evident in every line of his body, James intervened with quiet authority that both startled and thrilled her. As a major investor in the hotel chain, his word carried weight. He secured her the rest of the night off with full pay.

"I should go." The words contradicted the pull her body felt toward his.

"You should." James stepped closer until the space between them crackled with tension. The heat from his body reached across the remaining inches. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and her lips parted on a breath she had not realized she was holding.

His hand came up to cup her face, surprisingly gentle. "I have not been able to look away from you all night. I have never felt this way before."

For once in her responsible, meticulously planned life, Emma wanted to be reckless. This was a mistake, a beautiful and terrible mistake, but her body betrayed her with a shiver of anticipation.

His gaze held hers, dark and unwavering. A thousand unspoken questions passed between them.

"I should go," she whispered, the words a lie.

"You should." He did not move away. If anything, he leaned closer. "But I do not want you to."

His voice dropped, rough and commanding. "Come upstairs with me."

The words hung in the air between them. Emma's pulse hammered against her ribs. Every sensible part of her screamed to refuse, to walk away, to protect herself.

But when she looked into his eyes and saw the same desperate need reflected there, she made her choice.

"Yes," she whispered.

His hand closed around hers, warm and certain, as the elevator doors opened before them. She stepped inside, and as the doors slid shut, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirrored walls. Flushed, breathless, already lost.

She did not see the woman in the red dress watching from across the lobby, phone already pressed to her ear.