Chapter 2 - The Woman Who Was Supposed to Die
Lena Brooks had imagined dying several times during her three years at Calder Estate.
Usually, those imaginings involved slipping on the kitchen's polished floors, falling down the basement stairs, or accidentally insulting one of the dangerous men who treated the mansion like their personal kingdom.
She had never imagined dying because she possessed a good sense of smell.
Yet there she stood, surrounded by men who could make people disappear, with Vincent Calder waiting for an answer.
“What did you notice?” he repeated.
Lena swallowed.
“The sauce smelled wrong.”
Everett Pryce threw up his hands.
“We have established that.”
“No,” Lena replied, finding courage somewhere beneath her terror. “You haven't.”
She looked at Vincent.
“The sauce I made smelled of rosemary and reduced wine. Yours smelled like something I remember from my grandmother's greenhouse.”
Nathan folded his arms.
“Are we seriously discussing gardening?”
Lena ignored him.
“My grandmother grew medicinal plants. Some were harmless. Some weren't. She taught me never to trust a plant just because its flowers were beautiful.”
Vincent approached the abandoned plate.
“Can you identify it?”
“Not by smell alone.”
“Then how did you know it was dangerous?”
“Because the scent reminded me of something my grandmother warned me never to put near food. I wasn't certain. I was frightened.”
Nathan smiled thinly.
“So you nearly assaulted my cousin over a childhood memory.”
“And Aaron nearly died after eating it.”
The smile disappeared.
Vincent looked toward Dr. Reed.
“Secure every remaining sample. Send them to an independent toxicology laboratory.”
Nathan immediately objected.
“Our usual people can handle this.”
“I said independent.”
For the first time, Lena noticed something peculiar.
Nathan's right hand was trembling.
Only slightly.
He tucked it into his jacket pocket.
Vincent noticed too.
But he said nothing.
Everett insisted on returning to the kitchen, claiming his staff needed supervision. Vincent refused.
“You'll remain here until I understand how someone tampered with my dinner.”
Everett went pale.
Nathan stepped forward.
“Vincent, this is ridiculous. Everett has served this family for eleven years.”
“Then he should welcome the investigation.”
Vincent turned to Lena.
“Who touched the sauce after you prepared it?”
She thought carefully.
“At six fifteen, I transferred it into a silver serving vessel. Chef Pryce inspected it. Then I went downstairs to check the desserts.”
“Who was in the kitchen?”
“Six employees. Two servers. Chef Pryce.”
“And Nathan,” Vincent said.
Lena froze.
She remembered.
Nathan had entered shortly before dinner carrying a bottle of expensive wine.
He had joked about the evening being special.
She had been decorating a chocolate cake when he passed behind her.
Nathan laughed.
“Of course I visited the kitchen. I selected the wine.”
Vincent's expression remained unreadable.
“Did you touch the food?”
“Don't insult me.”
“That wasn't an answer.”
Nathan's face hardened.
“No.”
Lena felt the air changing.
This was no longer a conversation about a ruined dinner.
It was about loyalty.
And in the Calder family, loyalty could be worth more than a human life.
Vincent instructed his security chief, Marcus Shaw, to collect kitchen surveillance footage.
Nathan looked toward the doors.
“There's no need to involve security in a family matter.”
“Someone tried to poison me,” Vincent replied. “That stopped being a family matter the moment Aaron hit the table.”
A phone rang.
Dr. Reed answered, listened, and frowned.
“The hospital has stabilized Aaron. They're running additional tests.”
Lena closed her eyes in relief.
Then Reed added, “They found an unusual substance in his blood, but identification will take time.”
Vincent dismissed everyone except Lena and Marcus.
The moment Nathan disappeared, Lena exhaled.
Vincent noticed.
“You're afraid of him.”
“I'm afraid of everyone in this house.”
“Even me?”
“Especially you.”
Something almost resembling amusement touched his mouth.
“Then why did you save my life?”
Lena looked at him.
“Because you were about to die.”
“That simple?”
“It should be.”
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he asked, “How much do you earn?”
She blinked.
“What?”
“Your salary.”
“Forty-eight thousand a year.”
Vincent looked toward Marcus.
“Why is the woman responsible for tonight's menu earning less than my chauffeur?”
“I'm not responsible for the menu,” Lena said. “I'm the pastry chef. I only helped with the sauce because Chef Pryce was short-staffed.”
Vincent studied her.
“You recognized a danger nobody else noticed.”
“I got lucky.”
“No. Lucky would have been Aaron refusing the food.”
His words struck her harder than expected.
Aaron had eaten because Vincent ordered him to.
Vincent seemed to understand what she was thinking.
For the first time that evening, guilt appeared in his eyes.
“I made a terrible decision,” he said quietly.
Lena had not expected an apology.
Certainly not from him.
Before she could respond, Marcus returned with a tablet.
“We have a problem.”
Vincent held out his hand.
Marcus played the kitchen footage.
At 6:19 p.m., Lena appeared carrying a tray of desserts.
At 6:20, Everett crossed the room.
At 6:21, Nathan entered.
Then the screen went black.
Six minutes later, the picture returned.
The silver sauce vessel had been moved.
Vincent watched the footage twice.
“Who disabled the camera?”
Marcus hesitated.
“The system registers an authorized security override.”
“Whose authorization?”
Marcus's jaw tightened.
“Yours.”
Silence.
Vincent slowly raised his eyes.
“I didn't authorize anything.”
Lena felt cold.
Someone had access to the estate's highest security permissions.
Someone powerful enough to frame Vincent himself.
Then Marcus's phone vibrated.
He read the message.
His face changed.
“What?” Vincent demanded.
Marcus looked at Lena.
“Her apartment was broken into twenty minutes ago.”
Lena gripped the edge of the table.
“My apartment?”
Marcus nodded.
“The building manager reported the door smashed. Someone searched every room.”
Her thoughts flew immediately to the small apartment she rented in Bellweather.
To the photographs on her refrigerator.
To the wooden recipe box her grandmother had left her.
And to her younger sister, Sophie.
“Sophie,” Lena whispered.
She grabbed her phone.
No answer.
She called again.
Straight to voicemail.
Vincent was already speaking to Marcus.
“Send a team.”
Lena backed toward the door.
“I need to go.”
“You're not going anywhere alone.”
“My sister might be there!”
Vincent approached her.
“Then we'll find her.”
His certainty should have reassured her.
Instead, it frightened her.
Because men like Vincent Calder did not make promises casually.
And when Marcus's phone rang again, the look on his face told Lena the night was about to become worse.
He turned the screen toward Vincent.
A photograph had arrived from an unknown number.
Sophie sat tied to a wooden chair.
Her eyes were wide with terror.
May you like
Beneath the photograph were seven words.
THE CHEF SHOULD HAVE LET HIM EAT.
