Chapter 6 - The Taste of Submission
For the next three days, Sadie turned Declan’s penthouse into a culinary fortress.
She didn't prepare the delicate, fussy plates of her Michelin-starred past. Instead, she cooked heavy, comforting dishes that smelled of garlic, red wine, and slow-roasted rosemary. She made hand-rolled pasta, rich wild boar ragù, and crusty sourdough bread that filled the modern penthouse with a warm, living scent.
Declan spent his days in the study, his voice carrying through the door in a series of sharp, ruthless commands as he directed his syndicate’s retaliation against the Morellos. But every evening at 8:00, he would step out, sit at the marble island, and watch her work.
"The pasta needs more salt," he said, taking a bite from her spoon.
"It doesn't need salt, Declan," she countered, her nose inches from his as she held the wooden spoon. "You're just used to cheap restaurant food that drowns everything in sodium to hide the lack of flavor."
"Is that what you think of your Michelin star?" he asked, his eyes holding hers in a quiet, intense challenge.
"I think the star belongs to Chef Richard, who doesn't know the difference between a shallot and a red onion," she said, her voice dropping. "I made the food. He took the credit. That's how it works."
"Not in my world," Declan said, his hand coming to rest over hers on the counter. His touch was warm, the raw cuts on his knuckles now covered in clean, neat black stitche. "In my world, if you do the work, you own the prize. And right now, Sadie, you are the most valuable asset I have."
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Before she could answer, Marcus entered the room, his face pale, his phone held out toward Declan.
"Boss," Marcus whispered. "It's Don Morello. He wants a sit-down. He says he has your sister."
