Chapter 4

"I'm not paying a cent for this painting," I said flatly, stepping toward the ruined artwork.

Julian immediately leaped out.

"See! I told you he'd try to weasel out of it! A peasant is always a peasant—break something precious and immediately try to dodge the bill!"

I turned to Mr. Vance and offered a polite, respectful nod.

"I won't pay, because this painting is a counterfeit."

The master appraiser sitting beside Mr. Vance stiffened, his face falling.

"What kind of garbage are you spewing?!" Vivian hissed venomously. "Shut your mouth, Sean! Apologize to Mr. Vance this instant!"

Julian sneered alongside her.

"Exactly! You're just a greasy line cook. What the hell do you know about fine art? Stop humiliating yourself!"

I pointed to the edge of the painting without touching it.

"The paper might be old. That tells you nothing about when this was painted.

"Look at the lower left corner. There's a white line around the rocks, right where the light bounced off the glass in the reference photo.

"The original doesn't have that line. The copyist painted the glare from the photograph into the scene."

Cold sweat began beading on the appraiser's forehead.

Julian began to tremble violently.

Vivian stared at me, her expression shifting rapidly from rage to shock, and finally to complete, alien confusion.

It was as though she was seeing the real me for the very first time in three years.

"To make amends for disturbing your evening," I continued, addressing Mr. Vance once more, "I would like to personally prepare a dish for you, as an apology."

Vivian lunged forward.

"Sean! Have you lost your mind?! What kind of venue do you think this is? Who do you think you are—"

"Let him go," Mr. Vance commanded, his deep baritone cutting through the room with unquestionable weight.

I followed the head waiter toward the industrial kitchen.

For the first time in three years, I pushed open those familiar swinging double doors.

The hiss of roaring burners, the scent of searing heat, the clatter of stainless steel.

What was once hell had become my sanctuary.

I shed my tailored suit jacket, rolling up the sleeves of my crisp white shirt.

The moment my fingers wrapped around the handle of a chef's knife, I felt the part of me that had died roar back to life.

The mastery I had locked away for three years broke completely free.

Vivian lingered by the kitchen entrance, peering in, entirely unable to comprehend how the useless pushover she had trampled on for years had transformed into this formidable presence.

My knife flashed under the bright lights as I worked through the ingredients.

I shaved the shallots so thin I could see the cutting board through them.

Aromatics were minced into a fine, fragrant mist that settled evenly across the prep line.

I set a heavy skillet on the stove. The first knob of butter hissed as it hit the pan.

"Does he actually think he's somebody now? Just because he prepped vegetables for a few years, he thinks he's a culinary deity?" Vivian muttered bitterly.

"Exactly. He doesn't even know his place! What an arrogant clown, putting on a show at Mr. Vance's gala," Julian echoed nastily.

I didn't spare them a single thought.

The moment the final plating came together, I lifted the gleaming platter and strode back into the grand hall.

The entire ballroom fell dead silent.

Every pair of eyes was glued to the masterpiece in my hands.

I had used Arthur's signature technique, one he hadn't served in years.

This time, I had made it my own.

I set the plate firmly before Mr. Vance.

"The Phoenix Rising."