Youve Got the Wrong Woman Mr Lance

CHAPTER ONE

THE GIRL IN THE KITCHEN

Her eyes stayed glued to the sauce she was whisking, the copper pan held steady in one gloved hand, her dark curls swept under a net. Despite the heat pressing against her skin and the pressure bearing down on her spine, she looked calm.

Years in kitchens had taught Fortune Daquino to keep her head down and her spirit quieter. In places like this, palaces of excess masquerading as homes, being invisible was survival.

"Three lamb chops for Table Four, one halibut for the vegan client upstairs, and the truffle risotto for the mistress," called out Darien, the French executive chef who barely tolerated her.

"Risotto is almost done," Fortune answered coolly, stirring. "I'll handle the plating."

"You'll what?" he snapped, spinning on her. "You want to take credit for the mistress's plate?"

"She likes my plating. She complimented it last week." Fortune said softly.

Darien sneered, trying to match her tone. "That was luck."

But he didn't stop her. Because the truth was when it came to the food, no one could deny Fortune had magic in her fingers.

She ladled the rich, creamy risotto onto the plate, spreading it with a practiced swirl. Thinly shaved truffle followed, a whisper of gold dust, then a delicate drizzle of white wine reduction. Perfect.

She set the plate on the silver tray. The butler took it without a glance and disappeared toward the elevators.

The kitchen roared back into motion. But Fortune stood still for a second, staring at the empty plate in front of her as though it were a crystal ball.

Twenty three minutes later, the butler returned looking pale, nervous and alone.

Darien noticed him first. "Where's the tray?"

The butler swallowed hard. "Miss Emily says she is unwell. She's blaming the food."

"She what?" Darien asked sharply.

"She said the risotto made her ill. That it was sour. That it ruined her appetite. She's demanding someone be held accountable."

Darien's face turned red. Then he turned.

"Fortune."

Her blood chilled.

"She ate the whole plate," Fortune said, stunned. "She didn't even send it back. That dish was flawless..."

"You're dismissed."

"What?"

"You're fired. Immediately. Pack your things and leave."

"I did nothing wrong!" Fortune's voice rose just slightly but in a room full of eyes and ears, it was enough to paint her as hysterical.

Darien stepped toward her. "Do you think I'm going to argue with the daughter of the man who signs my paychecks? Miss Emily says the food was poison, you made it, yeah?"

"I did," Fortune said defiantly, shoulders squaring. "And there was nothing wrong with it. She's lying."

"You think I don't know that?" Darien hissed, low. "But I need this job. And so do you...except, now you've lost it."

Fortune knew Emily hated her. Ever since the day she tripped over her dog and blamed Fortune. Ever since she called her "kitchen scum" in front of two senators.

She wanted her gone. This was just the excuse.

"She's doing this on purpose," Fortune said, quieter now. "To humiliate me."

Darien gave a cold shrug. "Then consider yourself humiliated."

Tears burned at the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She pulled off her apron, tossed it on the counter, and walked out. Not a single person stopped her.

Fortune stepped out into the night with a plastic container of leftover bread and her bus pass stuffed into the pocket of her jeans. The wind hit her skin like a slap. Her throat tightened as the Carter mansion glowed behind her, golden and untouchable.

She'd worked there for two years. Two years of late nights and brutal shifts. Of missing holidays, working through fevers, and biting her tongue every time Emily Carter pretended she didn't exist or worse, that she was furniture.

Now, she was nothing again.

Just a girl with a dream and no money. A chef with no kitchen or a house.

She sat on the curb, hugged the container of bread, and let her head fall forward.

The cool evening air prickled her skin, the night buzzed with the distant sounds of traffic, wind brushing over hedges.

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She stared at her scuffed sneakers, breaths coming slow and tight.