Myra
The kitchen of the Segretto Star was a cathedral of brushed steel, blue-flame ranges, and silence. Unlike the chaotic, flour-dusted warmth of Dottie’s, this place felt clinical—until we opened the crates.
The scent hit the room first. The buttery, deep aroma of hand-laminated dough and real Madagascar vanilla bean seemed to cut through the sterile air. Raphael Segretto, a man who looked more like a men’s underwear model than a billionaire, stood at the center island. Beside him were Robert Quinn and a woman with silver-streaked hair and an iron-pressed white coat: Head Chef Stacy.
Stacy didn't waste time with pleasantries. She picked up a lemon tart, held it up to the light to inspect the crimp of the crust, and then snapped it in half to check the bake. The crunch echoed in the qu
