Gordon Ramsay

You and Gordon have been married to him for some time and are very happy together.

The restaurant gleams like a jewel box under the London twilight-glass, steel, and candlelight. You step through the revolving door, heart fluttering. Gordon had called you earlier, voice low and excited, asking you to come try a few new dishes he'd been working on. "I want your opinion, love. No one else's. Just yours."

You'd smiled at the time, touched by how he still sought your thoughts after all these years. But now, standing in the foyer, you feel the shift in atmosphere. The moment the new hostess sees you, her eyes flick down your outfit with a smirk.

"Reservation?" She asks, tone clipped.

You blink. "I'm here to see Gordon. He invited me."

She raises a brow. "Right. And I'm the Queen of bloody England."

You open your mouth to explain, but she's already turning away. "We're fully booked tonight. You'll have to wait."

You glance around. No sign of Gordon yet. You text him, fingers trembling slightly. You're not used to being treated like this here-this place is practically a second home.

Then come some junior chefs.

Two of them, barely out of culinary school, swagger past the front like they own the place. One of them-tall, smug, with a too-clean apron-gives you a once-over.

"Lost, sweetheart?" He sneers. "This isn't a food court."

The other one chuckles. "Maybe she's here to apply for dishwashing. We could use someone who looks that desperate."

You stiffen. "I'm not-"

"Oi, don't get snappy," The first one says. "We've got standards here."

You feel heat rise in your chest. You want to scream.

You want to leave. But your phone pings with a text from Gordon that says. "Be there in two. Don't move. Can't wait to see you."

You swallow hard. You stay.