Chapter 1

Isla

Garlic. Butter. Success. The holy trinity of Slo’s kitchen. Tonight, a fourth element had entered the mix: the sour, unmistakable smell of a reputation beginning to curdle.

I stand at the pass, wiping a smear of saffron reduction from the rim of a ceramic plate. My hands are steady—they always are—but the rhythm of my line is off. A kitchen is a living organism; it breathes, it pulses, and right now, it’s holding its breath.

"Chef, table four wants to cancel," Marco, my sous-chef, murmurs. He doesn't meet my eyes. He’s staring intensely at a tray of micro-greens as if they hold the secrets of the universe. "And the reservation for the ten-top at eight? They just called. Said they found a 'more suitable' venue."

I don't look up. The heat of the lamps beats down on my neck, making my skin—a deep, rich brown that usually glows under the pass lights—feel tight and hot. I place a single, perfect cilantro leaf onto the scallop ceviche.

"Heard," I say. My voice is calm, but my stomach twists into a hard, painful knot.

I wipe my hands on my apron, the rough linen familiar against my palms, and finally look up. My crew is moving, but they’re disjointed. The dishwasher is scrubbing a pot a little too aggressively. The grill cook is glancing at his phone when he thinks I’m not looking. They are whispering. I catch the tail end of it from the pantry station: “…saw the video. She looked crazy…”

I grab my phone from my back pocket. It’s vibrating against my hip so hard it feels like a second heartbeat, erratic and panicked.

I shouldn't look. I know the rule: never check social media during service. It’s the kiss of death. But the silence in my own kitchen is deafening.

I look.

The screen is bright, assaulting my eyes. A video is paused on a freeze-frame of my face, twisted in a snarl, my finger pointing aggressively. The caption, bold and damning, reads: Celebrity Chef Isla "Slo" Davenport Melts Down on Paying Customer. The apple doesn't fall far from the political tree.

I tap play.

The audio is tinny but unmistakable. "Get the hell out of my restaurant," the digital version of me screams. "My cooks have more class in their aprons than you have in your entire bloodline."

I watch myself. I look unhinged. My curls, usually a crown I wear with pride, look wild and unkempt in the shaky footage. My eyes are wide, furious.

What the video doesn't show is the ten minutes prior. It doesn't show the man in the garish suit snapping his fingers at my waitress, calling her "sweetheart" with a sneer that made my skin crawl. It doesn't show him grabbing her wrist when she tried to clear his wine glass, pulling her off balance. It doesn't show the fear in her eyes.

The edit just shows the angry Black woman. It cuts out the provocation and leaves only the reaction. It’s a caricature. It’s a weapon.

The comments are scrolling so fast they blur.

She’s always been trashy.

This is the Senator’s daughter? Yikes.

Boycott Slo’s. Entitled brat.

"Chef?" Marco’s voice is tentative.

I shove the phone back into my pocket, but the damage is done. The digital world is bleeding into my physical one. The ticket machine, usually the heartbeat of the restaurant, has stopped printing.

"Fire table six," I order, my voice sharper than I intend. "And tell the host to stop taking calls. If they want to cancel, let them go to voicemail."

"Isla."

I freeze. Nobody calls me Isla in this kitchen during service. It’s Chef. Always Chef.

I turn toward the swinging doors.

Standing there, looking wildly out of place in her gray pencil skirt and sensible heels, is Beatrice. My father’s scheduler. She looks like she stepped directly out of the Senate floor and into my chaotic, grease-stained sanctuary. She’s clutching a terrifyingly expensive leather bag and looking at a grease trap with mild horror.

"Beatrice," I say, wiping my hands on a towel. "I’m in the middle of dinner service. If the Senator wants a table, he can wait three months like everyone else."

Beatrice doesn't smile. She never smiles. She has been managing Oliver Davenport’s life since I was in diapers, and she treats me with the exhausted patience of a zookeeper handling a particularly rebellious tiger.

"The Senator isn't hungry, Isla," she says. Her voice cuts through the clatter of pans. "He requires your presence. Now."

"I have a full dining room," I gesture to the floor. "I’m not going anywhere."

"Check your phone again, dear."

I frown. I pull the device back out. A text message from the lead investor of the restaurant group.

We’ve seen the video. The board is convening an emergency meeting in the morning. We back a chef, Isla, not a liability. Fix this tonight, or we pull the funding. All of it.

The floor seems to tilt beneath my feet. This restaurant is mine. My sweat, my tears, my savings, my escape. It’s the one thing in the world that doesn't belong to the Davenport Dynasty. It’s the one place where I am just Isla, the woman who understands flavor, not Isla, the Senator’s disappointment.

If they pull the funding, Slo’s is dead by the end of the month.

I feel a sudden, sharp need for tactile comfort. My thumb finds my forefinger, rubbing the pads together in a rhythmic, frantic motion, seeking the friction, the reality of my own skin. It’s a tell I’ve had since I was a kid, and right now, I can't stop it.

"He can fix it," Beatrice says softly. It’s a lure. "He has a team handling the narrative. But you need to be there. You need to get in the car."

"I didn't do anything wrong," I say, though the words taste like ash. "That guy grabbed my staff."

"Perception is reality, Isla. You know that better than anyone." Beatrice checks her watch. "The press is already gathering out front. We need to go out the back."

I look at Marco. He’s pretending to check a sauce, but I can see the fear in his posture. He has a kid. If this place goes under, he’s out of a job.

"Take the pass," I tell him. "Don't overcook the sea bass."

I untie my apron. It feels like surrendering armor. I toss it into the hamper and grab my leather jacket, pulling it on over my chef’s whites. It’s a ridiculous outfit—custom denim, combat boots, and a frantic energy that feels like static electricity under my skin.

"Fine," I snap at Beatrice. "But I’m taking my own car."

"We don't have time for arguments," she says, turning on her heel. "The alley. Now."

I follow her through the back of the kitchen, past the dish pit where the steam hits my face, hot and wet. I push through the heavy steel security door and step into the alley.

The D.C. humidity wraps around me instantly, heavy and suffocating. The alley smells of wet cardboard, old fryer oil, and impending rain. It’s a stark contrast to the sterile, air-conditioned world my father inhabits.

A black SUV is idling by the dumpsters, looking menacingly sleek against the graffiti-stained brick. The windows are tinted so dark they look like voids.

Flashbulbs pop at one end of the alleyway. The paparazzi have found the back exit. They are like sharks smelling blood in the water.

"Isla! Isla! Did you assault that man?"

"Isla, is the Senator stepping down?"

"Isla, give us a smile!"

I flinch, shielding my eyes. Beatrice is already opening the back door of the SUV, ushering me toward it like I’m a prisoner being transferred.

"Get in," she hisses.

I scramble into the backseat, desperate to escape the blinding lights and the shouting. I slide across the leather seat, expecting to see my father’s silver hair, expecting his disappointed frown, expecting the lecture that starts with “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

But the seat next to me is empty.

I look toward the front. The driver is a man I don't recognize. He’s huge, his neck thick with muscle, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses despite the twilight.

"Where is he?" I ask Beatrice, who is climbing into the passenger seat. "Where is my father?"

The door slams shut, sealing us in silence. The lock engages with a heavy, final thud.

The driver turns slightly. He doesn't look like a campaign volunteer. He looks like a man who breaks things for a living.

"The Senator is at Headquarters," the man says. His voice is gravel and authority. "He isn't asking, Ms. Davenport."

He hits the gas. The car lurches forward, tires screeching against the asphalt, speeding away from my restaurant, my life, and the only freedom I’ve ever known.