Chapter 12 The Chef
Vivienne's POV
Before we left the warehouse, Raphael called his chef. He cooks for him in the house. I watched as he pulled out his phone, his fingers moving quickly across the screen before he brought it up to his ear. There was a tension in his shoulders that hadn't been there before, a tightness that suggested this wasn't just a casual call.
"Your chef? Don't you have other people that you could have called?" I asked, my voice filled with curiosity and a bit of confusion.
It seemed strange to me that out of all the people he must know, all the employees, all the staff, all the contacts in his phone, he would choose to call the person who cooked his meals. Surely there were drivers, assistants, or security people who would be better suited for whatever situation we were in.
His jaw tightened visibly, the muscles working beneath his skin as he clenched his teeth. I could see the irritation flash briefly in his eyes before he controlled it.
"I do but right now no one is to be trusted but I trust my personal chef. He is the only person I trust."
The emphasis he placed on those last words made it clear that this wasn't up for discussion or debate.
The words hung heavy in the air between us. I could see the weight of whatever situation we were in reflected in his eyes. There was something dangerous happening, something that made even Raphael who seemed so powerful and in control unable to trust the people around him. It sent a chill down my spine to think about what could make someone so cautious, so careful about who they allowed into their circle. What kind of world did he live in where trust was such a rare and precious commodity? What had happened to make him this way?
I wanted to ask more questions, to understand what was going on, but something about the set of his jaw and the coldness in his eyes told me that now wasn't the time. So I kept quiet, wrapping my arms around myself as we waited in the dim warehouse, the shadows seeming to grow longer and darker as time passed.
After a few hours of waiting, the chef finally arrived. The time had dragged by slowly, each minute feeling like an eternity as we sat there in the uncomfortable silence. I had tried to make conversation a few times, but Raphael's short, clipped responses made it clear he wasn't in the mood to talk. So I had given up and simply waited, my mind racing with possibilities and scenarios about what was happening.
He came with one of Raphael's cars to take us home. The vehicle was sleek and expensive-looking, exactly what I would have expected from someone like Raphael. It was a black luxury sedan with tinted windows that gleamed even in the dim light of the warehouse area.
The chef pulled up smoothly to the warehouse entrance, the tires barely making a sound on the pavement, and I could see him through the windshield, an older man with kind eyes and a professional demeanor. He looked to be in his sixties perhaps, with graying hair neatly combed and wearing a simple but clean outfit.
"Please hop in, sir," he said when he came to the warehouse. His voice was respectful and calm, showing no signs of surprise or concern about picking us up from such an unusual location. He opened the door for Raphael first, then gestured for me to get in as well. There was something reassuring about his presence, something stable and grounding that made me feel slightly less anxious about everything that was happening.
I climbed into the back seat, the leather cool against my legs. The interior of the car smelled clean, with a faint hint of the air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. It was such a stark contrast to the musty, dusty smell of the warehouse that we had just left. Raphael settled in beside me, maintaining a careful distance, his body angled slightly away from mine as if he wanted to preserve some space between us.
We drove in a comfortable silence. The quiet in the car was thick and uncomfortable, broken only by the soft hum of the engine and the occasional sound of other vehicles passing by on the road. The city lights began to appear as we left the industrial area where the warehouse was located, their glow painting streaks of color across the windows as we drove past. I kept checking my phone for any missed message. My fingers swiped across the screen over and over again, refreshing my messages, checking my notifications, hoping that something, anything would appear that might explain what was happening or give me some sense of normalcy.
But there was nothing. No texts from friends asking where I was. No missed calls from family. No notifications from social media. Just silence. The empty screen seemed to mock me each time I looked at it, reminding me how isolated I felt in this moment. I wondered if anyone even noticed I was gone, if anyone was worried about me, if anyone was looking for me.
I glanced over at Raphael sitting beside me in the back seat. His face was turned toward the window, watching the scenery pass by as we made our way through the city streets. His expression was unreadable, neither worried nor relaxed, just blank.
Whatever thoughts were running through his mind, he kept them locked away behind that carefully controlled exterior. The streetlights cast moving shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones and jaw. He looked tired, I realized, noticing the faint lines around his eyes and the slight slump in his usually perfect posture.
The chef drove carefully, following all the traffic rules, taking turns smoothly. He seemed completely focused on the task of getting us safely to our destination. His hands were steady on the wheel, his movements precise and practiced. Every so often, I would catch his eyes in the rearview mirror, but he would quickly look away, keeping his attention on the road ahead. I wondered what he knew about all of this, whether Raphael had told him anything, or if he simply accepted these strange requests without question because that was part of his job.
I went back to my phone again, my thumb moving almost automatically now to check for messages. Still nothing. I sighed quietly and leaned back against the leather seat, feeling the exhaustion starting to creep into my bones. It had been a long and strange day, and I had so many questions that remained unanswered.
My body ached from the tension I had been carrying, and my mind felt foggy from trying to process everything that had happened.
The silence continued as we drove through neighborhood after neighborhood, getting closer to wherever Raphael called home.
The buildings gradually changed from commercial structures to residential areas, the architecture becoming more upscale and exclusive with each passing block. I wondered what awaited us there, and why the situation required such extreme caution that only his personal chef could be trusted to help us. What were we running from? Or who were we running from?
My phone screen dimmed in my hand, and I let it, too tired to check it again. Outside the window, the city continued to move and breathe, people going about their normal lives, completely unaware of the drama unfolding in this quiet car. I envied them their normalcy, their simple concerns and everyday problems.
Whatever I had gotten myself into with Raphael, it was clear that there was no going back to that kind of simplicity now.