Sienna Wilson's pulse thrummed violently against her ribs. The heat of the kitchen was suffocating, the clang of metal, the hiss of oil, the sharp voices of competitors and staff blending into an unbearable cacophony. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the delicate piping bag, her vision blurring for a fraction of a second.
This was it.
Her moment.
The competition that could define her future.
And yet, something felt off.
A familiar face had appeared in the audience—a ghost of a memory she couldn't quite place. It unsettled her, sent a ripple of panic through her chest. Her breathing quickened. She needed to hear a voice she knew, someone to anchor her back into the present.
Hector.
Abandoning her workstation, she untied her apron with jerky fingers and slipped through the double doors leading into the hotel's grand lobby.
The opulence of the space barely registered—gleaming marble floors, gilded accents, towering chandeliers casting golden light across plush furniture.
She paced, clutching her phone, her thumb pressing Hector's name over and over.
Straight to voicemail.
A lump of frustration formed in her throat. She turned sharply, too sharply—
And collided with something solid.
Her phone slipped from her fingers, clattering against the polished floor. She stumbled back, wide-eyed, and snapped her head up, ready to unleash her irritation on the reckless stranger who dared—
Her words died in her throat.
The man before her was a vision sculpted by the gods.
Broad shoulders clad in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit. Light brown hair, tousled just enough to look both careless and deliberate.
A sharp jawline, lips set in a dispassionate line. But it was his eyes that pinned her in place—storm-dark, dangerous, and carrying the weight of unspoken threats.
His gaze raked over her with an unmistakable flicker of distaste.
And then, he spoke.
"¿Dónde diablos tiene los ojos este cerdo?" (Where the hell does this pig has it's eyes?).
Sienna blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the Spanish. But the sneer in his voice? That she understood perfectly.
"Hey," she snapped, regaining her senses, "if you're going to insult me, at least do it in English.".
His expression remained impassive, as if she weren't worth the effort of a proper reaction.
Annoyance flared in her chest. She planted her hands on her hips, her hazel eyes burning into his. "Are you deaf? I said—"
He turned, as though to leave.
Oh, hell no.
Sienna reached out on instinct, fingers latching onto the crisp sleeve of his suit jacket. The moment she did, he stilled. Then, with measured slowness, he looked down at her hand as though it were a particularly offensive stain.
His gaze lifted back to hers, something unreadable flickering in those dark irises.
She swallowed.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she demanded, though her voice lacked the venom she intended.
"You just made me drop my phone, you motherf—"
"Excuse me?" His voice was quiet, but laced with lethal amusement.
She exhaled sharply. "You heard me. You owe me a new phone."
His lips curved—barely. Not quite a smirk, but an expression that carried the whisper of one.
"Un buen día para entrar en contacto con la mala suerte." (A good day to get in touch with bad luck). He muttered in Spanish, shaking his head.
Sienna gritted her teeth. "I said, speak in English, mister."
The man sighed, as if speaking to her exhausted him. "Who are you exactly?"
"How is that any of your business?" she shot back. "It's not like you own the place."
His smirk deepened then, and the air between them shifted—charged, electric.
If only she knew.
A man in a crisp suit approached them with purpose. "Boss, the car is ready downstairs."
Boss?
Sienna turned to the new arrival, eyes narrowing. "Are you his bodyguard or something?"
The man said nothing.
Her gaze snapped back to the stranger before her, whose expression had settled back into its cold indifference. With a flick of his wrist, he spoke to his subordinate.
"Vincenzo, dale un cheque.
Encuéntrame abajo." (Vincenzo, give her a check. Meet me downstairs.)
Vincenzo withdrew a sleek leather checkbook and, without sparing her another glance, scrawled something across it before tearing it out.
He extended the paper toward her, his face as unreadable as his employer's.
Sienna barely had time to process what was happening before the stranger turned on his heel and strode away, his coat billowing slightly with the movement.
She blinked at his retreating figure, then at the check in Vincenzo's hand.
She snatched it from him, confused and indignant. "What the—"
Vincenzo, like his boss, didn't stick around for her reaction.
He simply turned and followed the other man, leaving her standing in the middle of the lobby, staring down at the slip of paper.
Her breath hitched.
$2,000.
Her eyes widened, disbelief slamming into her like a wave.
What the actual—
A voice jolted her back to reality.
"Sienna! What the hell are you doing out here? The competition's about to start!"
Her stomach plummeted.
Oh. Oh no.
Clutching the check in one hand and her phone—miraculously unbroken—in the other, she spun around and bolted back toward the kitchen.
But even as she ran, one thought lingered in her mind.
Who the hell was that man? And why did she feel like she had just brushed against something—someone—dangerous?