The creak of the back door was faint—but it sliced through the stillness like a blade.
Marco turned sharply, instincts kicking in, and crossed the room with purposeful strides. Elena followed him, wrapping the sheet tighter around her body. Her breath caught as he eased the door open.
Nothing. No figure. No movement.
But on the stone step outside was a small box. Marco hesitated before picking it up. It was wooden, like the one used at Bellamy's—but this one was darker, older, and stained at the edges.
He opened it slowly.
Inside was a single cloche-covered plate.
A note lay beside it, in that same looping handwriting.
"My menu starts now."
Marco stared at it. "This is how Royce works—seduction disguised as service."
Elena moved closer. "What's under the dome?"
He lifted it.
A piece of raw meat—bleeding slightly, resting on a silver tray. It had been seasoned with herbs and a faint dusting of edible gold, but the sight of it was deeply unsettling. Too intimate. Too intentional.
"It's a threat," Marco muttered, jaw tight. "He's saying he knows where we are. And what we did."
Elena's arms wrapped around herself. "We should go to the police."
Marco looked over at her. "They've never touched Royce. He doesn't break laws. He bends people."
Silence hung between them.
She watched him closely. "Then what now?"
Marco met her eyes. "We don't let him control the game."
He reached for his phone, tapping out a message. "There's someone I need to see. Someone who left Bellamy's before it all went to hell. She might know how to get ahead of Royce."
Elena tilted her head. "She?"
Marco nodded. "Her name's Norah. She ran the wine cellar—and she kept the guest lists. If Royce is planning something, Norah will see it coming."
As he spoke, Elena caught the shift in him—not fear, but focus. This wasn't just about protecting the restaurant. This was about confronting a past he never wanted to return to.
"I'm coming with you," Elena said.
Marco hesitated, but only for a second. "Then get dressed. It's a long walk into the woods."
Her brow lifted. "Woods?"
He gave a crooked smile. "Norah doesn't exactly live on Main Street."
Fifteen minutes later, Elena was pulling on her boots, heart racing with something new—adrenaline. Marco packed a small satchel, slipping in a flashlight, an old wine key, and a folded napkin embroidered with the Bellamy's crest.
As they stepped outside, the night swallowed them whole. The air smelled of pine and old earth. Crickets pulsed in the distance, but every sound felt louder. The moon was thin and weak, hiding behind a sheet of clouds.
They walked in silence for a while, their hands brushing occasionally. Then Marco spoke.
"After I left Bellamy's, I didn't cook for months. I couldn't. Every time I stepped into a kitchen, I felt like I was still chained to Royce's rules."
Elena looked up at him. "What changed?"
"You."
Her breath caught.
"You reminded me that cooking can feel like connection. Not control."
They paused at the edge of a path—overgrown, lined with moss-covered stones. Marco pushed open a gate she hadn't seen before, barely hanging on its hinges.
"Norah's through here."
They walked deeper, until the cottage appeared—small, round, almost like a fairytale hut, lit by soft yellow light inside.
Marco knocked.
A long pause.
Then the door creaked open, revealing a woman in her forties with streaks of silver in her black hair and sharp eyes that flicked between them.
"Well, I'll be damned," she said. "The chef returns."