Chapter 3

Imogen entered the staff dining room like a queen surveying her impoverished subjects. Her sapphire dress shimmered, a jarring splash of color against the utilitarian beige and chrome. The chatter that had filled the room died down, replaced by a tense silence punctuated only by the clinking of cutlery. Every eye followed her as she swept to the buffet line.

She grimaced, her nose wrinkling in disgust. "This is what you call food? It looks like gruel. And these... these gray lumps? Are those supposed to be chicken?" She poked at a piece of grilled chicken with a long, painted nail, then recoiled as if it had bitten her.

Eldon Michael, the Executive Chef, stepped forward, his expression calm, though a muscle in his jaw twitched. "Ms. Short, this is the staff cafeteria. We serve nutritious and balanced meals for our employees. Our Michelin-starred restaurant, 'The Gilded Spoon,' is on the next floor, should you prefer fine dining."

Imogen let out a sharp, derisive laugh. "Oh, darling, I know where your little fancy restaurant is. And I'm sure it's just as bland and uninspired as this slop." She pulled a small, ornate cooler from her designer bag. "Luckily, I brought my own." She opened it, revealing an array of meticulously arranged, organic, pre-prepared dishes.

"Now," she announced, her voice ringing with self-importance, "I'll just warm these up. And perhaps add a few of these... vegetables to my plate." She reached for a serving spoon, intent on scooping some steamed broccoli onto her plate, alongside her expensive provisions.

"Ma'am, I'm afraid I can't allow that," Eldon said, his voice firm. He put a hand on the serving spoon, gently but decisively stopping her. "For health and safety regulations, outside food cannot be mixed or consumed with our prepared meals in the staff dining area. It's a cross-contamination risk."

Imogen's eyes, already narrow, became slits. "Cross-contamination? You think my food is contaminated? This is organic, chef! Probably more sterile than anything you produce in your greasy kitchen!"

"Regulations are regulations, Ms. Short," Eldon insisted, unyielding. "They apply to everyone, regardless of what they bring."

"Oh, they do, do they?" Imogen's hand flew to her designer purse, her fingers fumbling for her phone. "We'll see about that. Greyson will have something to say about your 'regulations'." She dialled furiously, her eyes never leaving Eldon's face, a triumphant smirk growing on her lips. "He won't tolerate such insolence from a mere kitchen hand."

I watched from a few tables away, my heart pounding. This was it. The public spectacle, the ultimate test. Would Greyson side with the moral high ground, or with the manipulative woman who held some mysterious power over him?

Imogen put the phone to her ear, waiting, her gaze a challenge to Eldon. "Greyson? Darling, it's Imogen. I'm in the staff cafeteria, and your 'Executive Chef' is making a scene. He's refusing to let me eat my own food, citing some ridiculous 'health and safety' nonsense. He's being utterly disrespectful, telling me my food is contaminated!" She paused, listening, then her eyes flicked to Eldon. "He needs to be put in his place, Greyson. Right now." She held the phone out to Eldon. "He wants to speak to you, chef."

Eldon, looking grim, took the phone. "Holden," he said, his voice tight. "This is Eldon Michael. Regarding Ms. Short's request..." He listened for a moment, his face growing paler. "Sir, with all due respect, these are standard health protocols. We cannot risk a food safety incident. It reflects poorly on the hotel's reputation, and could have serious legal repercussions." He paused again, listening to Greyson's urgent, muffled words.

Then, Eldon's eyes met mine across the room. There was a flicker of warning, a shared understanding of what was happening. He didn't flinch. "Greyson, you know I uphold the highest standards. These rules are in place for a reason. Even for Ms. Short."

The phone was snatched from Eldon's hand by Imogen. "He's still arguing, Greyson! He's still being difficult!" She put the phone back to her ear, listening intently, then a triumphant, ugly smile spread across her face. "Yes, darling. Of course. I understand." She put it on speakerphone, the voice of Greyson Holden, loud and clear, echoing through the suddenly silent cafeteria.

"Eldon," Greyson's voice boomed, sharp with barely suppressed anger. "What is going on down there? I'm in a critical negotiation with Mayor Thompson, and Imogen is calling me, furious, because of your insubordination."

"Sir, it's a matter of policy-" Eldon tried to explain.

"I don't care about your policies right now, Eldon!" Greyson's voice rose, laced with a dangerous edge. "Imogen is a valued guest, a friend of my family! She should be treated with the utmost respect and accommodation!" There was a brief, awkward silence, then Greyson's voice, colder, more cutting, "Eldon, you will allow Ms. Short to eat whatever she pleases. And then, you will apologize to her. Publicly. For causing this scene and disrespecting her."

A collective gasp swept through the cafeteria. Eldon's face was a mask of shock and betrayal. He stood there, frozen, his shoulders slumping slightly. He looked at Imogen, who was now beaming, basking in her victory.

"And that's not all," Greyson's voice continued, as if he were addressing a disobedient child. "I expect all staff present to extend their apologies to Ms. Short. This kind of unprofessional behavior will not be tolerated in my hotel. Do I make myself clear?"

Imogen, still on speakerphone, slowly turned the phone around, directing the camera towards the stunned faces of the hotel staff. Her eyes, filled with malicious glee, swept over each of us, lingering on me. "Oh, and Greyson, darling," she purred into the phone, "that little trainee, Ella, the one who tried to tell me where I couldn't go earlier? She's here too. She was just as rude. Perhaps she needs to apologize for her complete lack of etiquette."

Greyson's voice hardened instantly. "Ella Casey, if you are there, you heard me. You will apologize to Ms. Short immediately. This kind of disrespect is unacceptable. Do it, Ella." His voice was a flat command, devoid of any warmth, any recognition of our pact, of me.

My blood ran cold. The command hit me like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. My fiancé. My partner. The man I loved. He had thrown me, me, the woman he swore to cherish, under the bus. He had publicly shamed Eldon, a truly principled man, and now he was demanding my humiliation.

This wasn't a misunderstanding. This wasn't bad judgment. This was pure, unadulterated betrayal. It was a choice. And he had chosen her.

A slow, chilling calm settled over me, replacing the burning anger. My gaze drifted from Imogen's smug face to the phone she held, to Greyson's distant, unforgiving voice. The pact. Our agreement. It was over.

"Greyson," I said into the phone, my voice steady, dangerously quiet. "Are you absolutely sure about this?"