Chapter 23

MILA

The next day, Felix met me outside my motel. He carried takeout coffee in one hand and waved at me with the other. He smiled at me as I approached.

“Good morning,” he said, leaning down to kiss my cheek.

I blushed, involuntarily. It wasn’t until the morning light that I realized what a significant height difference we had.

“Thanks for walking me to work,” I said awkwardly. We made our way to the main strip of Fresia. Despite the early hour, there were many people out and about–shopping, on their way to work, grabbing coffee like the one Felix has brought me. Even though he was easily one of the most well-known people in the country, no one seemed to particularly bother him as we strolled down the street.

It probably had something to do with the guard, conspicuously wearing a black suit and sunglasses, who trailed behind us.

“Of course,” Felix responded. He looked down at me, kindness in his eyes. “I want to really spend time with you, Mila. You are very important to me.”

A wave of heat flooded through me. I was so used to not being noticed by anyone that now, being faced with this–it was a lot. Nothing about this felt normal.

But Felix was still as charming and warm as I remembered. He laughed and joked with me on the whole commute. And he’d clearly done his research. The coffee he brought had been a vanilla latte, my favorite.

A part of me was almost sorry when we reached Samara’s Place. As much as I loved working there, it had been really nice to spend this time with Felix.

He must have sensed the apprehension in my eyes, because he bent down to whisper in my ear.

“I’ll see you tonight,” he murmured. “I’m looking forward to it.”

He straightened back up and looked me in the eye.

“Have a good day at work,” he declared.

For a second, it looked like he might want to kiss me. But then his eyes slid to the restaurant. We were both hyper-aware of my coworkers gathered in the main dining area, gawking at the Prince on a date with a lowly chef. It was probably for the best that we were not intimate or romantic in front of them.

As Felix walked away, I gazed fondly at his retreating figure. He really was remarkable, unlike any man I had ever met before.

Walking into Samara’s Place without my mask felt odd. I felt exposed, naked almost, as if being in this restaurant as my true self felt wrong.

Samara smiled widely as I approached the crowd of workers.

“Good morning, Mila!” she boomed, rushing over to hug me. “We’re starting prep for today’s lunch and dinner rush. I thought maybe you could make a few pies and then put your brilliant brain towards figuring out a new side dish? We have a ton of carrots that we have no idea what to do with.”

She was babbling to fill the space. It was clear that she was trying to protect me from the prying stares of my coworkers.

“Yeah, that sounds great,” I replied lamely.

I noticed Fiona across the room. She scowled at me, but then went back to folding the large stack of silk napkins in front of her.

I settled into my workspace and got to work at making the lemon prickly pear pies. Being in the zone of cooking always helped to clear my mind.

It only took me a few minutes to realize that my coworkers were acting… strangely.

Not hostile, not at all. There was just a lot of staring. At least three people offered to help carry my pie crusts to the oven on my behalf. Megara, one of the junior chefs, asked me at five different points during the morning if I wanted a glass of water.

Everyone in the kitchen had been very kind before, but this was something different entirely. Usually in the kitchen, there is a sense of collaboration. People are more than happy to gently correct others’ mistakes or encourage someone to speed up in order to meet the dining rush, but there was none of that today–at least not directed at me.

“Sophia,” I whispered to the chef in charge of soup, “What’s going on today? Everyone’s treating me weird. I almost dropped the mixing bowl like, five times, and no one said anything. People are barely talking to me at all.”

Sophia’s eyes darted from side to side, as if to make sure no one was watching our conversation.

“I haven’t noticed anything,” she said, blatantly lying.

I sighed and gave her a long look. “Sophia.”

She sighed and rested her soup ladle against the pot. “Look, there’s a sense now that if we somehow offend you, by correcting you or suggesting something, you might go and complain to the prince. And no one here wants to get on the bad side of the royal family.”

My face flushed. “I don’t get offended when other people offer my suggestions. Besides, I would never ask Felix to retaliate against anyone in the kitchen!”

Sophia shrugged. “Yeah, I know. But the fear is still there.”

I leaned against the counter, my head pounding in frustration.

“Look, I know that my relationship with Felix might cause some hesitation or whatever,” I said, choosing my words as carefully as possible. “But I’m still me. That’s never changed.”

“Right,” Sophia said slowly. She stirred the soup. “Just your name has changed.”

She made a fair point.

“And,” she added, “no one else in this kitchen calls him Felix.”

The rest of the day passed slowly. I worked on my little carrot and squash dish, attempting to pretend like everything was normal.

As the dinner rush approached, I was surprised by the arrival of Fiona at my workspace.

“Mila,” she said. There was no joy in her voice.

“Hi, Fiona,” I said. I tried to keep my tone as steady as possible.

“Why did you bother coming back here?” Fiona asked. There was no venom in her voice, only curiosity.

“I like working here,” I told her. It was the truth.

“Sure, but don’t you think it’s a little weird for the girlfriend of the Prince to work as a sous chef? Maybe you should focus more on your relationship with His Royal Highness and less on this job. Someone in your position is only going to steal opportunities from others, even if they are more deserving.” Her face was smug.

Her words stung, but what stung the most was that she had a point. If this was how people were treating me on day one, how would they treat me if I started ending up in tabloids?

“Besides,” Fiona continued, “we all know you only got that badge because you’re dating the Prince.”

She waltzed away before I could say another word.

After the dinner rush had slowed and I was packing up for the day, Samara called me into her office. I trudged towards her door, trying to ignore the sense of dread growing inside me.

“Mila! Hello!” she waved as I approached. “Come, have a seat.”

I obeyed, sitting in a large padded chair across from her. Samara pushed a large recipe book to the side so that she could more easily lean across the desk.

“Hi, honey,” she said. “How was your day?”

“Odd,” I admitted.

She nodded sympathetically. “I understand. I noticed how the other chefs were treating you.”

“Do you think you could talk to them?” I asked her, desperation creeping into my voice. “I just want things to go back to normal.”

“Mila, sweetie,” Samara said, “there is no normal now. This is how it’s going to be from now on. And I love you and I adore your work, but this just isn’t sustainable.”

I tried to swallow. My throat tightened.

“I’m afraid I have to let you go.” Samara’s voice was gentle, but her words still cut like a thousand knives. “The atmosphere in the kitchen is just too weird. It’s affecting everyone else’s work. And at the end of the day, I have to put my business first.”

I nodded in understanding. Moisture pricked at my eyes, but I blinked it back. I barely remembered thanking her and her giving me a big hug and an advance on my payroll.

I didn’t allow myself to cry until I got outside onto the sidewalk.