Chapter Text
The cobblestone streets of Vieux-Montréal were slick with the remnants of a bitter dawn drizzle, catching the gray, unforgiving light of a six-o'clock morning. It was October, and the air off the Saint Lawrence River already carried a lingering, jagged chill that bit through wool and leather.
Shane didn’t feel the cold. He felt the heat.
There was a burn deep beneath his ribs, radiating from the weight of the morning paper tucked tightly under his arm. He hadn't needed to read the review; the headline printed beneath his face was already seared into his retinas: The Prodigy of Rue Saint-Paul: At 22, Shane Hollander Secures His First Michelin Star.
To the rest of the culinary world, it was a coronation. To Shane, it felt like both a first step and a target painted directly on his back. He had dedicated his entire life to it一three years at Ferrandi Paris, countless stages in Europe and in Montreal before landing at Bouillon St. Paul, and infinite sleepless nights improving his techniques in his kitchen, no relationships, no time for himself. But the taste was slightly bittersweet.
Shane turned the corner, his boot heels clacking sharply against the pavement, and reached the heavy iron-bound back door of Bouillon St. Paul. His fingers, rough and patterned with the pale, faded history of old burns and micro-scars, fumbled slightly with the keys. He needed the silence of the dead kitchen. He needed the stark, cold gleam of stainless steel to clear his head for as much time as he could before the meeting with J.J. at 8:00. He needed to be in control.
He pushed the heavy door open, stepping into the service hallway, expecting the familiar, stale chill of a dark kitchen.
He stopped dead.
The air wasn't cold. It was thick, warm, and rich with the uninvited scent of deeply browned cultured butter, charred alliums, and a sharp cloud of a spice blend that absolutely did not belong to his menu. Underneath the hum of the walk-in refrigerators, a faint, rhythmic pulse of European electronic music vibrated through the floorboards.
Shane’s jaw tightened. Sacrilege.
He almost punched the swinging door to the main kitchen open, his posture instantly rigid. "Who the fuck are you," he barked, his voice cutting through the heavy air like a boning knife, "and why are you touching my fucking stoves?"
At the main line—at Shane’s personal station—a man was leaning casually against the prep table. He was massive, easily broad enough to block out the light from the overhead heat lamps, with a mess of dark blonde hair that caught the fluorescent glare. He wore a black chef’s jacket, the top two buttons left arrogant and undone, the sleeves rolled up to reveal thick, heavily tattooed forearms.
The intruder didn't flinch. He didn't even look up immediately. Instead, he calmly dipped an offset spatula into a small copper pot of reduction, brought it to his lips, and tasted it with a slow, deliberate hum.
Shane couldn’t help noticing the hands. They were big, marked with scars only a lifetime of diligent cooking could give, but not only that一there was an intriguing kind of grace about them. They belonged in a kitchen. Just not his fucking kitchen.
Only then did he turn around, wiping his fingers on a side towel slung carelessly over his shoulder. He possessed a sharp, striking face, dominated by piercing blue-green eyes and a smug, easy smirk that made Shane's blood pressure instantly spike.
"You must be Hollander," the man said. His voice was a low, gravelly drawl, thick with a distinct, unbothered Russian accent. "The prodigy. I thought you'd be taller based on the papers."
"I don't give a shit about the papers," Shane snapped, taking three sharp, aggressive steps into the kitchen, invading the taller man's shadow. "I give a shit about my kitchen, and since you’re inside it, it’s Chef Hollander to you. So, drop the towel and tell me what the hell you are doing in my kitchen."
The Russian looked him up and down, stopping his gaze at the paper under his arm, arching his brows as he chuckled, a low, infuriating sound, before moving his eyes back to Shane’s. He didn't move an inch, completely unfazed by Hollander’s lethal glare. Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a folded piece of heavy cream paper, and tossed it onto the stainless-steel counter between them. It landed right next to Shane's pristine cutting board.
"Your boss hired me," the Russian said, leaning forward just enough to force Shane to look up. "Ilya Rozanov. Your new Sous-Chef. Fresh out of Paris, if you care about the pedigree. And technically, Chef..." He checked the silver watch on his massive wrist, his smirk widening. "...since it is 6:35 AM, this is our kitchen now."
Shane’s breath hitched in his throat. He stared at the signature at the bottom of the contract. It was J.J.'s handwriting—fluid, arrogant, and binding. The fucker had gone over his head. He had imported a high-profile, European bad-boy chef to ride the coattails of Shane's Michelin success, entirely for the press and the spectacle, he supposed, without consulting him.
"I don't care who signed that paper," Shane whispered, his voice trembling with a terrifying, quiet fury. "On this line, I am the law. If you step out of bounds, if you change a single grain of salt on my menu, I will ruin you. Do you understand me, Rozanov?"
Ilya didn't look threatened. If anything, the fire in Shane’s eyes seemed to amuse him. He reached past Shane’s shoulder—so close Shane could smell the faint scent of expensive cologne mixed with kitchen smoke—and picked up a clean spoon. With agonizing slowness, Ilya reached into a container of the jus Shane had spent twelve hours perfecting the day before.
Ilya tasted it. He smattered his lips, his eyes locked onto Shane's.
Then, he made a slight, dismissive face.
"Your reduction lacks acidity, Hollander," Ilya said softly, tossing the spoon into the dirty-sink bin with a sharp clink. "It is technically perfect. Flawless execution. But it’s boring. Like textbook. You cook like someone who is terrified to make a mistake, yes?"
The word landed wrong, twisting his stomach. Boring? He had been called obsessive. Cold. Difficult. Tyrannical, once. Never fucking boring. Shane turned to take a spoon and reached into the same container, tasting the reduction in a movement so ingrained it happened automatically. He was genuinely confused, it was perfectly executed. “What are you talking about? It tastes exactly how it’s supposed to taste.”
Ilya just stared at him for a few seconds, giving something that resembled a smile, but couldn’t quite get there. He tapped the counter twice with his knuckles, picked up his phone, and turned off the music.
"See you tomorrow, Chef," Ilya murmured, flashing one last, razor-sharp smile before strolling past Shane toward the locker room.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Shane hissed, “Clean up the mess you left in my kitchen, Chef.”
Ilya turned to him, shoulders locked, facing him defiantly. He stared at Shane with intrigue in his eyes.
Shane took two steps toward him. “I want it spotless when I come back, Rozanov.”
Rozanov grinned wider than he had through this whole interaction. He, too, took a step forward, his face now closer to Shane’s than it should’ve been.
“Yes, chef,” he replied, as he dropped his gaze from Shane’s eyes to his lips. Though it lasted for nothing more than a second, it didn’t go unnoticed.
He turned to the station, while Shane exited the kitchen to find his office. His hands were shaking, clenched into tight fists at his sides, his eyes staring fixedly at the floor before him, focused on getting behind a closed door. But even as the heavy door shut behind him, he could still smell the unfamiliar spices clinging to the air of his kitchen.
Shane closed his office door with precision, as if he could seal it. “Fuck,” he muttered while slamming his palms flat against the cool, dark wood of his desk, bending forward as he let out the breath he’d been holding since he saw that black-jacketed, blond, wavy-haired man at his station.
His office was small and tasteful, dark paneling through-and-through. A point of solitude inside the chaos of a kitchen. On the wall behind him, his framed diploma from Ferrandi Paris hung straight and immaculate. On the desk, sat the freshly printed dinner menus for the week, exactly how he’d left them, everything organized with mathematical precision.
The phantom smell of those spices still haunted his nostrils, mocking him. Boring.
Shane gripped the edge of the desk until his knuckles turned white. He had survived Paris. He had survived eighteen-hour shifts under narcissistic, insecure French chefs who threw copper pots at the backs of line cooks' heads. He had been called an obsessive freak, cold-hearted, and an impossible perfectionist. He could take those. He wore them like the armor he needed to survive this industry.
But fucking boring? Boring implied his food didn't have a pulse.
And then, there was that second... That single, torturous fraction of a second where Rozanov’s eyes had dropped to his mouth. It hadn't been a mistake. It had been a deliberate, mocking calculation to see exactly how much ground Shane would yield.
“Who the fuck even is this guy?” he asked himself, jolting from where he was to his chair, turning his computer on. Shane couldn’t remember the man’s first name for the life of him, so he typed “Rozanov+chef+Paris” into Google.
It took him less than a minute to find the answers he wanted in countless articles about the man: 22 years old, Russian, as big a promise as Shane himself. Studied in Spain, Portugal and finally France, where he’d built a reputation as a bold, innovative chef—as well as arrogant, loud-mouthed and a playboy.
The glow of the computer screen reflected in Shane’s glasses as he pored through the articles detailing Ilya Rozanov’s European conquests. That was the name. His mind was miles away, trying to comprehend everything that had happened in the last few hours. He didn’t look at the hour until a knock pulled his mind back into the office.
It was 07:55 A.M.
“Yes,” Shane said, taking off his glasses and using his hands to straighten the hair he’d spent the last hour ruffling.
J.J. pushed the door open,radiating the scent of expensive cologne, a dry-cleaned wool overcoat, tailored suit, and fresh espresso. He looked exactly like what he was—a multimillion-dollar business man who treated hospitality like a blood sport.
“Hollander! There he is, the man of the hour,” J.J. boomed, using a handshake to pull Shane out of his chair and into a quick, sturdy half-hug, giving two rhythmic thumps on his back. J.J. handed Shane a small take-out coffee cup and sat on the edge of the wooden desk, one leg dangling freely.
“Did you see the Gazette this morning?” He looked to his side, finding the folded newspaper Shane had abandoned on his desk, which emitted crisp snaps as it unfurled. J.J.flicked the headline with his middle finger, “They’re calling you the golden boy of the Old Port. We are fully booked straight through January. We’re turning away local politicians, Shane!"
Shane took a sip of the coffee, trying to tame the anger resurfacing back onto his skin before speaking. He failed to look calm, feeling his posture tightening into a rigid state. “Shouldn’t we talk about the Sous-Chef you hired without informing me first?”
J.J.’s smile didn't fade; it just shifted, hardening into something more calculating. He took a slow sip of his own drink. "Ah. I take it you met Rozanov."
“I found a stranger hijacking my station and mocking my prep at six-thirty in the morning,” Shan hissed, crossing his arms and leaning further into his chair. "We have an agreement, J.J. I know I only own fifteen percent of this restaurant, but my contract states I have absolute creative control over this kitchen. That includes the hiring and firing of my staff. You do not bring a new Sous-Chef into my space without consulting me."
“He wasn’t supposed to be here yet, only next week. I guess he couldn’t wait to get out of Paris,” J.J said, putting both of his hands together. “I was going to talk to you today and introduce you next week.”
Shane opened his mouth to protest, but was immediately interrupted.
“I didn’t bring you a stranger, Shane. I brought you a secret weapon. A secret ingredient, if you will,” J.J. said smiling, sliding forward on the table, closer to Shane. “Look, what you did was historical, Hollander. It’s the first Michelin Guide year in Montreal and you put us in. It’s huge.”
“I’m aware.”
“But,” J.J. continued, “I needed a sous to balance the scales here. You are a technical purist, Shane. You cook like a surgeon. Yes, I love it, and the critics love the precision, but the media? The media wants a story. They want friction."
“Media?” Shane huffed a bitter laugh. “This isn’t a reality show, Boiziau. It’s a Michelin-Starred kitchen.”
"It’s a business," J.J. shot back, his voice dropping to a commanding edge that reminded Shane exactly who held the remaining shares. "Rozanov is a brand. He’s unpredictable, he’s innovative, and the European press eats out of his hand. More importantly, he knows what a two-star kitchen looks like. I didn’t hire him to replace you, Shane. I hired him to push you. If we want that second star by next October, I need a line that isn't afraid to stir the pot."
“Why didn’t you asked me, then? Tell me, even?”
“Because I knew exactly what you would say, Shane…” J.J. got to his feet. “I know you wouldn’t agree with this. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I need you to see the big picture, okay?”
Shane didn’t respond. His arms remained crossed, as he was still absorbing all the words he’d heard. J.J. took the one step between them, resting his hand on Shane’s shoulder. “Tabarnak, Hollander! You just won us a Michellin Star. Enjoy your achievement, man. You’re going to freak out when you see your party tonight,” he patted Shane’s shoulder and turned to leave the office.
He stopped at the door, smiling again, “Tonight we drink, tomorrow we hungover, and Wednesday we can go back to being stressed, oui? Don’t be late tonight!”
“Never am.”
When Shane’s cab parked in Ville-Marie, it took him a few seconds to get out. He leaned his head against the leather headrest as if it would give him better access to oxygen. He could hear the celebration before the cab had even entered the grove of cedar trees surrounding J.J’s family estate, even from inside the car—and by the sound of it, he would freak out about this party.
He stepped out of the car right into the walkway of the estate. The house, just like the party, was massive. The low, golden light of the wall lamps softened the limestone façade, clashing with the restless energy vibrating in the air.
Shane had been here a few times before, but he would always be amazed by this estate. From afar, it could look like a fortress, all that pale stone rising from the hillside. But, up close, it was impossibly elegant, refined with details that made it look like an European villa—the terracotta roofs, the arched gallery terraces, the rows of columns that softened the weight of the stone.
It would’ve been breathtaking, if it were not for the crowd. There were loud groups of smokers on the front steps. He could see people on the patio, through the open front door, all the way up to the rooftop terrace. Small tables scattered all over the place, glowing with amber pinspots and countless champagne flutes—half empty, half forgotten in favor of glasses filled with elegant cocktails.
Shane started making his way up the stone steps leading to the patio. The smoke from the group’s cigarettes cut through him sharply, the familiarity blooming a warm, terrible comfort in his chest. Tonight would be a hard night to pretend he didn’t want a cigarette… Europe had this effect of turning new, bad habits into permanent ones.
It was hard crossing the patio and getting to the door. Shane saw a few familiar public faces—influencers, models and a few personalities from the culinary and hospitality world— all focused on him. Beaming at him, congratulating, smiling, snapping selfies with him. He felt at least a dozen hands touching his arms. Inside, the atmosphere of the house shifted from stately to intimate and, somehow, that made the energy of the party aggressively different, highly charged.
Part of the room was a conservatory, glowing beneath a vaulted glass ceiling framed in black iron. From the glass, Montreal spread across the horizon, the lights of the modern buildings glittering beneath the dark sky, while this house remained untouched, secluded among the trees. Inside, the room was lit only by amber spotlights and infinite amounts of candles—and the moonlight, spilling across jewel-colored tiles.
The music was loud, some sort of lounge EDM, with a soft bass that still managed to vibrate through him, staying there, not dissipating. The people were loud, smiling, drinking. Shane was still at the threshold, scanning the room, when the music stopped suddenly. “There he is, the man of the hour,” J.J. shouted from the middle of the crowd. Shane felt the heaviness of having every eye in the room turned to him. “The prodigy, the golden boy of the Old Port. Congratulations, Hollander!”
The party erupted in cheers, encouraging shouts and clapping intensifying the feeling that the bass of the interrupted music had left within him. Then, the music blasted around them again with a more intense, fast-paced beat.
Just like that, a group of people came his way to congratulate him. The hugs and taps on the back from a few of them, fellow staff members who had held the line through the sweat and blood of that kitchen, made him feel properly fulfilled. From the others, mostly strangers, he didn’t care at all.
Shane felt a warm relief once he saw his parents’ beaming faces walking toward him. “Oh my God, Shane! Congratulations, baby,” Yuna Hollander said, wrapping him in a strong hug.
His father, David, put his arm around Shane’s shoulder, holding him tight beside his own chest. “Congratulations, son. This is incredible!”
“Thanks, guys! I still can’t fully believe it yet,” Shane said, smiling shyly at the floor. “I wasn’t sure you would make it, I’m happy you’re here.”
“Oh Shane, as if we would miss this! We’re so proud of you,” Yuna replied, stroking his arm gently.
“Yeah, of course we are. We do have to get back soon, though; we both have meetings very early tomorrow. Y’know, the Treasury doesn’t wait.”
“Neither do the celebrity scandals I have to deal with—oh, speaking of celebrity,” Yuna said, a large smile tugging on her lips, “Rose is already here!”
Shane found Rose sitting close to a window, taking a picture of the mess of glasses and small canapés on a small round table. She, as always, was a vision. The dim light softened her features even more, making her light-auburn hair glimmer.
“Hey, handsome,” she said, forgetting the picture she was taking completely, to jump into Shane’s arms. “Congratulations, baby!”
Shane hugged her tight, letting himself drown in the comfort of her floral scent. “Hey—thank you, dear.”
Rose took his face in her hands, stroking his freckled cheeks, “Oh my God, Shane! Can you even believe this? You are amazing,” she said, squealing at the last word, tapping her feet frantically.
“Barely,” he said, mesmerized by his best friend’s candidness, by how her big, blue eyes sparkled every time she was excited.
“Well, you better,” she said, taking her hands off his face to grab two champagne flutes from a passing waiter’s tray, handing one to Shane. “Cheers to you, Chef Hollander.” Shane clinked their glasses together, unable to stop the smile from blooming on his face. “Cheers!”
Shane spent the last hour drinking with Rose and his parents, all of them listening to her nonstop gossip about a few of the cast members in the new movie she was filming in L.A., which, he couldn’t deny, was entertaining as hell. All of them wore proud smiles and gave him the affectionate hugs only the people who knew everything he had to do and give up on to be here, could.
Another hour after his parents left the party, the room became hotter, the air thicker. He stepped away from Rose to enter the first bathroom he could find, throwing some cold water on the back of his neck, trying to fight the eerie feeling, the strange mass of emptiness in his stomach.
It was cold, and it made him curious, creating an itch that urged him to scratch, but all his senses told him not to. To not even look there. To understand a Michelin star was his goal, and he was a damn prodigy to even get one at twenty-two, in the very first year the Guide had decided to cover the province of Quebec.
His senses couldn’t avoid drowning in all the champagne that went to his head and bubbled up all the thoughts he wanted to evade.
Ever since he decided to pursue what he honestly felt like it was his call, he engineered every step of his career—Ferrandi. Paris. The right kitchens, partners, menu, staff. No wasted movement. No wasted time. No wasted self.
And this was it. He got here. There was nothing left to do except wonder if he would ever get that high again. If the thrill of working for and getting a second Michelin star would be enough to fill that emptiness; scratch that itch. Maybe it would take building a whole damn dynasty to do that.
Maybe building a dynasty was exactly what J.J. expected of him, given that he wasn’t able to wait a full day to hire a new Sous to maybe run for a second star. The ink on the guide wasn't even dry, and the noose was already tightening.
He stepped out of the bathroom, seeking actual fresh air, to find Rose laughing hysterically—telling someone about something he couldn’t quite follow—when he absentmindedly let his gaze drift across the party, only to see broad, muscular shoulders cutting through the crowd.
Ilya Rozanov.
“Fuck my life,” Shane whispered to himself, instinctively squeezing Rose’s wrist, the closest point of contact he could find. She was still laughing too hard to notice that the room narrowed for Shane.
The movements of the people dancing in the room became slower, following the music’s beat.
Rozanov strode confidently further inside, with one hand in the pocket of his loose, black trousers. His black button-down hung open just enough at the collar to expose the hollow space between his neck and his collarbone. Something gold glimmered against his skin, making Shane feel a wave of heat pool low on his stomach.
Right then, Shane noticed everything he’d denied himself this morning—the sharp curve of Rozanov’s jaw; the way his curls fell and framed his face beautifully; the sleeves pulled back, exposing the tattoos on his strong forearms.
The magnetic contrast between his fair complexion and the dark outfit and the way that, somehow, his eyes held that contrast too, made Shane’s skin crawl. This is bad.
The packed room blurred into white noise, the laughter and the heavy bass suddenly draining away at the exact second Ilya’s eyes found his. With their gazes locked, Shane lost control of his body; his ability to command his legs to move, his lungs to fill with air.
Ilya stopped dead in his tracks. Shane Hollander was a fucking view, prettier than the city’s skyline behind him. He had to make sure he wasn’t drooling all over his own shoes, schooling his expression with effort once he noted Shane’s linen trousers, tailored perfectly to his body.
They weren’t too revealing, but once he looked up… the cream-colored knit polo seemed like a second skin, showing Shane’s strong, defined arms and abdomen. The first button was opened, showcasing skin that looked soft to the touch; and just that small strip of skin made Ilya shiver with desire.
He couldn’t look away.
Those seconds stretched for an eternity until J.J. found Ilya, pulling him away from the time warp to introduce him to a group of people around them. Only then did Shane feel his blood pumping through his body again, with a hitching pulse.
He turned to Rose, who was still distracted. “I’m going outside for a bit. Be right back.”
She kept talking to whoever was in front of her, tapping his shoulder and giving him a soft nod.
Shane actively avoided walking anywhere near Rozanov and J.J., taking the longer route to the bar, ordering an old fashioned before exiting the party. He made his way to the back gardens, following the small path between the trees until he found the dark pond, fed by a small cascading waterfall.
He leaned against a carved stone pillar ornament, listening to the sound of the rippling water falling over the rocks to try to steady himself. But Rozanov’s face kept flashing before his eyes.
Shane took a sip of his drink, and tried to appreciate how the water reflected the string of globe lights above him. But Rozanov’s hands bringing a spoon to his lips hazed his mind; the memory of his lips—
“Shane Hollander,” the thick Russian accent was unmistakable, startling Shane. “Running away from your own party?” Rozanov asked, grinning.
Shane turned to face him, placing a hand on his chest, trying to calm his heartbeat. “Fuck, Rozanov! You scared me.”
Rozanov gave him an apologetic smile as he reached for his pocket, taking out a pack of cigarettes. “Sorry.”
He took one cigarette between his thumb and index finger, raising it to his own mouth. Shane’s eyes followed the whole movement with an overwhelming intensity, tightening his jaw.
“Hollander?” Rozanov asked, snapping Shane’s attention back from the depths of his own mind. Only then he saw the Russian’s arm extended toward him, offering a cigarette.
“Hm?”
“Do you want one?” Rozanov asked with the cigarette hanging from the corner of his lips, lighting it with one hand. By the tone of his voice, this seemed like a repeated question.
Oh my God, finally, yes, please there’s nothing I want more right now, except maybe—
“Yeah, I guess.” Shane reached for the one cigarette standing out of the pack. “Thanks.”
Ilya simply nodded. He took a step closer to Shane, handing him the lighter. Shane felt an electric jolt through his body when their fingers brushed together. He avoided Ilya’s gaze, but in turn, the Russian didn’t take his eyes off Shane.
Shane clicked the lighter, unable to protect the flame from the breeze coming from the trees, snuffing the spark before it could actually catch the tobacco. He tried again, but his fingers were helplessly clumsy under the weight of Rozanov’s unyielding stare.
The light was low, but Ilya could still see the stream of freckles on Shane’s nose, scattering across his blushed cheeks. Without a word, Rozanov stepped closer. Looking at Shane like this, so close, gave him a rush that ran through his whole body, a different type of adrenaline begging him to get even closer.
Rozanov brought both of his large, scarred hands around Shane’s, shielding the flame from the wind. The heat of his palms felt hotter than the lighter’s flame. Shane held his breath as the flame finally caught, the amber glow illuminating the sharp angles of Ilya’s face just inches from his own. This time, Shane couldn’t stop himself from looking back.
Ilya smirked and pulled his hands away slowly, taking a long drag from his own cigarette. Shane inhaled the bitter smoke deeply, letting the rush of nicotine soothe the chaotic pounding in his ears. He leaned back against the stone pillar, blowing the smoke away from the Russian, trying to look as detached as possible.
"I didn't think J.J.'s guest list included people who trespass into other chefs' kitchens before dawn," Shane said, his voice regaining a bit of its quiet, defensive edge.
Ilya chuckled, leaning his shoulder against the opposite side of the pillar, looking out over the dark water. "It’s not trespassing if you have key, Hollander. Also, I like to know what kind of house I am moving into. I wanted to see if the golden boy’s food lived up to its... reputation."
Shane's jaw tightened around the filter of his cigarette. "And you decided it’s boring?”
Ilya turned his head, his blue-green eyes heavy and challenging under the shadows of his curls. He took another step closer. "I decided you have perfect hands, Hollander.” His face was closer to Shane’s, carefully studying it. “But you're playing a very safe game."
Shane avoided looking his way again, trying to casually take a few steps back. “I’m not changing my menu,” he said, giving the best impression of his own professional voice.
Rozanov’s smile cut through his face, “We’ll see.”