The restaurant was a fortress. Chef Damien Voss had closed it to the public for the evening, a rare privilege extended only to those he deemed worthy of his “private menu.” Elena had received the invitation via a black card slipped under her apartment door two days earlier: One seat. My kitchen. 10 PM. Do not be late. Arrogant as ever, the man lived up to his reputation as the city’s most brilliant and insufferable culinary god.
She arrived precisely on time, her black dress hugging her curves. The front door was unlocked, as promised.
Damien stood at the center of the kitchen, tall and commanding in a white chef’s coat unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up.
“Elena,” he drawled, voice low. “You came. I knew you would. Most women can’t resist the promise of my tongue on their pala
