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Vincent Charbonneau had always believed in the art of subtlety. It was the key to his culinary prowess-the ability to balance flavors, to elevate a dish with the faintest hint of something unexpected. But in matters of the heart, subtlety became a curse, a shackle that bound him to a love he could never openly confess.
He first met Rody Lamoree nearly five years ago. Rody was already a rising star in the film industry, known for his charm, his rugged good looks, and that infectious smile that seemed to brighten every room he entered. Vincent had been hired as his personal chef after Rody's agent insisted he needed someone to manage his diet amid the chaos of his burgeoning career.
From the start, Vincent knew it would be difficult. Rody had a way of making people feel special, as though they were the only ones who truly mattered in that moment. It wasn't long before Vincent found himself drawn to the actor-not just because of his looks, but because of his warmth, his sincerity. Rody treated him with respect, with kindness that was rare in their world.
Vincent had been in love with him almost from the beginning.
But Rody had never seen him that way. Why would he? Rody was a man who could have anyone he wanted, and what he wanted-what he had-was a beautiful, talented wife. Manon Vacher Lamoree. The very name sent a pang of jealousy through Vincent's heart, though he would never let it show. She was everything he wasn't: glamorous, adored, perfect in every way.
They had met at an awards show, or so the story went. Two rising stars who saw something in each other, who found solace in the shared experience of fame's spotlight. Their whirlwind romance had captivated the public, culminating in a wedding that was splashed across the covers of every major magazine.
Vincent had been there, of course. He had catered the event, standing in the background as Rody and Manon danced under the twinkling lights, lost in each other. He had watched as they exchanged vows, their love so palpable, so undeniable, that it had felt like a physical blow to his chest.
He had smiled through it all, though. He had to. No one knew the truth-the depth of his feelings, the quiet agony of loving a man who would never see him as more than the person who cooked his meals.
And so Vincent remained, always there but never truly present. He knew every nuance of Rody's tastes, his preferences, the way he liked his coffee in the morning, how he preferred his steak cooked medium-rare, the small indulgences he allowed himself when he was between roles. He knew how Rody's smile changed when he spoke about Manon, how his voice softened when he mentioned her name. Vincent knew everything about Rody, yet Rody knew almost nothing about him.
It was a one-sided love affair, but it was all Vincent had.
Tonight, the Lamoree household was hosting a small dinner party. Just a few close friends-directors, actors, people who lived in the same glittering world as Rody and Manon. Vincent had spent the day preparing, crafting a menu that he knew would impress, yet all the while, there was a dull ache in his chest that he couldn't shake.
As the guests arrived, Vincent remained in the kitchen, listening to the laughter and conversation filtering through the walls. He imagined Rody mingling, smiling that easy smile, Manon by his side, her hand on his arm. It was a scene he had witnessed countless times before, and each time, it cut a little deeper.
He busied himself with the final touches, ensuring every dish was perfect. It was what he was good at-perfection. His work was the only place where he felt in control, where he could pour all of his unspoken emotions into something tangible. But even as he worked, his mind drifted to Rody.
The door to the kitchen swung open, and Vincent stiffened, his heart skipping a beat as Rody walked in. He looked as handsome as ever, his auburn hair tousled in that effortlessly charming way, his green eyes bright with the energy of the evening.
