Chapter 3

Before I can react, Julian's hands are already on me.

He and Camille — both of them, together — shove me over the folded third-row seats into the cargo space. Boxes slam into my ribs. Garment bags crush in around my face. I curl my knees, try to twist sideways, and the cargo cover snaps shut overhead.

Dark. Pitch dark. The smell of dry-cleaning plastic and my own sweat and something metallic — my knee. Still bleeding from where it scraped the seat frame on the way over.

I can't straighten my legs. Can't roll over. Can't do anything except lie here and breathe through my mouth.

Outside, reporters swarm the car like flies.

"Where are you two headed this late, Chef Cross?"

"Camille's got a cocktail party." Julian's voice comes through muffled. Easy. Charming. Like I'm not crammed behind him like luggage. "Worried about her safety this late, so I'm driving her."

"You two have been together seven years now, haven't you? When's the wedding?"

A pause. I hear him swallow.

"We already booked our appointment." He holds up the confirmation page — I know exactly which one. I watched him fill it out two months ago. My name in the second slot. "Today just got eaten up by the competition. We'll go once things calm down."

Camille loops her arm through his. Kisses his cheek — loud enough that I hear it through the metal.

"Julian already picked out the dress and the rings!" She raises her left hand. A diamond catches the flashbulbs.

My stomach drops.

I know that ring. He forged it himself. Hammered and filed it by hand over three weekends, matching it to his own. One of a kind in the world. He told me so the night he slid it onto my finger.

Did he make her a new one? Or did he take mine back while I wasn't looking?

"All right everyone — Camille's party's starting. Let's save the rest for tomorrow."

The reporters scatter. Julian reaches for the wheel —

And my phone starts playing music. On its own. Loud. Bleeding through the cargo cover into the cabin.

I freeze. Look down. The Bluetooth icon blinks at me.

He'd been wearing his headphones the whole drive. Connected to my phone. My earbuds were muted.

My chest goes hollow.

He heard every word I said. The subway. The "can I come stay." The two times I called his name.

He heard all of it. He just didn't want to answer.

The cargo cover pops open. Light floods in.

"Isn't that the woman in the wedding dress from the awards ceremony? What's she doing back there?"

Julian points at me. Face twisted up like he's never seen me before in his life.

"You — you've got some nerve, sneaking into my car!"

"No — I didn't—"

He grabs my collar. Hauls me out. My knee hits the pavement again — same spot, same raw skin — and I feel it peel open fresh. I stumble up. The press closes in like a wall.

"Don't let her leave! Stalkers like this need a few nights behind bars!"

Julian's mouth opens. Closes. Camille grips his arm, nails digging in.

They walk me to the precinct. Camille and half the press pack in around the officer's desk. Everyone talking over each other. Embellishing. Inventing. Making it bigger than it was.

I try to explain. My voice comes out small. Shaky.

No one listens.

Julian stands off to the side. Jaw working. Finally he forces out — like it costs him something, like he's doing me a favor:

"Maybe… maybe we should let it go."

The officer doesn't look up. "Letting her off just encourages this kind of behavior."

"Chef Cross has that live special next week, doesn't he?" a reporter chimes in. "Half the industry's dying to try that Citrus Chili Shrimp from the semifinals. Let her sit here and think about what she's done."

Julian glances at me. One last chance. One last second where he could say something. Anything.

"Then… hold her."

He turns his back. Doesn't look at me again.

Citrus Chili Shrimp.

I remember it down to the gram. Not just because we built it together — but because it's on the first page of the second notebook.

Julian only took the first one. The other's still in my bag.

Without those notes — with his taste still gone — what exactly does he think he's going to cook on live television?