Speaker 1: Calaroga Shark Media, Hello, and welcome to Romance Weekly.
Speaker 2: This episode is titled The Grateful Game, Episode four, The
Final Course.
Speaker 1: Temptation comes in many forms. Tonight it's masked and moving
through my dining room in Designer eveningwhear twelve of Chicago's
most dangerous power players, all here for my underground dinner,
All here for the trap that's about to spring. In
both directions, I adjust my fox mask in the kitchen mirror.
The copper wire and autumn leaves catch the light like flames,
like the heat in Marcus's eyes when I'd shown him
Tonight's menu this morning, earlier today. Each course tells a story,
I'd explained, warm behind me at my prep station. Each
ingredient carries a message. His hands had settled on my hips,
professional distance forgotten, and what message is this? He touched
the list of components for the first course, oysters with blood,
orange mignonette, and silver leaf. That some things that look expensive.
I leaned back against him, feeling his breath catch are
actually quite cheap, like Catherine's insurance payouts. His lips brushed
my ear exactly. I turned in his arms, my voice dropping.
And some things that seem simple. I traced his bottom
lip with my thumb. Are worth everything? His kiss had
tasted like coffee and danger present. Chef Sophia's voice pulls
me back. They're all here, including your father. I nod,
adjusting my chef's whites beneath them. My skin in still
hums from this morning's encounter, from every encounter with Marcus
since that first night. But now isn't the time for memories.
Now is the time for revenge served at precisely the
right temperature. Let's begin, I say, picking up the first plates.
It's time to feed the wolves. The private dining room
pulses with hidden energy masks glitter in the candlelight. A
peacock for Catherine, a dragon for my father, a raven
for the health department chief, and there at the far end,
that silver wolf mask that makes my pulse quicken. First course,
I announce my voice, carrying the authority I've earned. Oysters
with blood, orange mignonette, silver leaf, and truth. Catherine's laugh
carries across the table. Truth, Chef Chen, how provocative if
she only knew the silver leaf isn't just decoration, It's
from one of her insurance payout check dissolved and made edible.
A little culinary alchemy Marcus helped arrange. They're literally eating
their own corruption. I feel his eyes on me as
I move around the table describing the dish. His presence
is like a current under my skin, making every movement
charged with memory of this morning, of the wine cellar,
of every heated moment between the wine cellar, where we
have exactly eight minutes until the second course. As if
reading my thoughts, Marcus rises. Excuse me, he says to
the table, I'd like to discuss the wine pairing with
our chef. Beneath her peacock mask, Catherine's lips curve. She
thinks she knows all the games being played tonight. She's wrong.
The moment the cellar door closes behind us, Marcus has
me pressed against the wine racks. His mask pushes up
as his mouth finds mine, hung and urgent, God watching
you command that room, He growls against my lips. Do
you know what you do to me? Show me, I challenge,
even as my hands find the buttons of his shirt.
We have six minutes until second course. I only need five.
His hands slide under my chef's coat, finding the lace
i'd worn just for him, just for this moment. Everything
about us is stolen time and secret touches. Like now,
his mouth trails down my throat as his fingers trace
the lace edge beneath my chef's coat. Five minutes he
murmurs against my pulse, to remind you why we're really here,
The plan, I gasp as his hand slides higher. The
evidence is in motion. His touch is maddening, precise, knowing
like he's memorized my body's recipe. But first I arch
against the wine rack. As his fingers find their mark.
Through half closed eyes, I see our reflection in the
cellar's mirrored wall. Masks a skew, his shirt unbuttoned, my
chef's coat parted. We look like something out of a
Renaissance painting. Decadent, dangerous, divine. They'll notice we're gone, I
manage to say, even as my hands pull him closer,
let them. His mouth captures mine again, swallowing my moan.
Let Catherine think she knows what's happening in her little game.
The wine rack rattles softly as he presses closer. Four
minutes I whisper into his ear until second course. Plenty
of time he growls, lifting me to remind you who
you belong to.
Speaker 2: Now.
Speaker 1: What follows is pure fire, hands, lips, teeth, marking territory
we've claimed as ours. Every touch carries months of longing,
weeks of secrets, days of planning. When I come apart
in his arms, I have to bite his shoulder to
stay quiet. Three minutes, he says, against my temple, both
of us can our breath. Time to tell you the
last part of the plan. I straighten my chef's coat
with shaking hands, which is he fixes his mask, but
not before I see the intensity in his eyes. Second course,
when you serve your father, check under his dragon mask? Why,
because that's where he's hidden, proof of every payoff, every scheme,
everything we need, I freeze. How do you know his
smile is wolf sharp in the cellar's dim light, because
I put it there while you were distracting Catherine with
the oysters. Clever, dangerous man. Now, he says, straightening my
mask with tender precision, Go serve them their secrets, Chef,
I'll be watching you always are. His laugh follows me
up the cellar stairs. Two minutes until second course. Time
to feed the wolves their own tails. Back in the
dining room, my skin still humming from Marcus's touch. I
present the second course, duck Breast with cherry, gastrek and regret.
The gas streak is deep, crimson, almost black in the
candle light, like secrets, like sin, like the mark Marcus's
teeth left on my shoulder that I can still feel
burning under my chef's coat. My father shifts uncomfortably under
his dragon mask. As I place his plate, I catch
the slight bulk beneath the mask's edge, Marcus's planted evidence,
proof of every restaurant he helped Catherine destroy. An interesting
choice of words, Maya, Catherine says, swirling her wine, regret.
I meet her eyes through our masks. Some flavors are acquired,
tastes like betrayal. Her spine stiffens. From his seat, Marcus
takes a deliberate sip of wine. Our signal time for
phase two. Speaking of betrayal, I continue moving around the table,
did you know duckmate for life? Until something I pause
behind my father's chair, or someone breaks that bond. The
Health Department chief chokes slightly on his wine. I feel
Marcus watching as I work the room. His gaze is
like a caress, reminding me of the wine cellar moments ago,
of his hands, his mouth, his whispered instructions. The sauce,
I explain, is made with cherries soaked in cognac aged mature,
much like certain investments. Catherine's knuckles whiten around her fork.
She knows, she has to know. I return to the
kitchen to prepare the third course. But Sophia meets me
at the door. Maya, she whispers, they're here, right on schedule.
How long ten minutes should I know? I touch her arm.
Everything's happening exactly as it should. In the kitchen, I
plate the third course with trembling fingers, not from fear,
from anticipation, from the lingering effects of Marcus's touch, from
knowing what's about to unfold. The third course will change everything,
just like that first night in the wine Cellar changed me.
The third course quivers on its plate a study and
exposure butter poached lobster so delicate, the flesh is nearly translucent,
clear consumme that reveals hidden treasures beneath black truffles, gold leaf,
and tiny scrolls of edible paper. Each scroll contains a
different confession printed in squid ink. Marcus's idea my execution
like everything between us now third course, I announce returning
to the dining room transparency. Catherine's laugh catches slightly. Really, Chef, Chen,
aren't we pass these little metaphors? Are we? I serve
her first, leaning close, close enough to smell her fear
beneath expensive perfume. Some things need to be crystal clear.
My father speaks for the first time tonight. Maya eat Dad.
My voice carries steel beneath its silk. I made this
especially for you. As I move around the table, I
feel Marcus's presence like a hand on my skin. His
wolf mask tilts slightly, another signal the FBI agents Sophia
mentioned are in position. Catherine lifts her spoon, then freezes
through her peacock mask. I see her eyes widen as
she reads the scroll in her consumme. Each Dinah finds
their own secret floating in the clear broth dates amounts
names fascinating technique. Marcus says, his critic's voice carrying authority.
The chef has made truth not just visible but edible.
The Health Department chief pushes back from the table. This
is outrageous. Sit down Marcus commands all pretense gone and
read your confession. My father's hand trembles as he unfolds
his scroll. Maia, you don't understand. I understand everything. I
stand at the head of the table, power thrumbing through
me like the aftermath of Marcus's touch. Every insurance scam,
every forced closure, every false health code violation. Catherine rises,
musk glinting. You've made a terrible mistake. The only mistake,
Marcus says, standing was thinking you could control her, that
any one could. The dining room doors open, men in
dark suits enter, no masks needed. Their authority is clear,
Catherine read. The lead agent announces James Chen and associates
You're under arrest for insurance fraud, racketeering. What happens next
is chaos, beautiful planned chaos. As Catherine lunges for the door,
as my father reaches for his mask, as accusations and
confessions fill the air like smoke, Marcus's hand finds mine
beneath the time for dessert, he murmurs, I squeeze his fingers.
Meet me in the wine cellar two minutes after all,
every good meal needs a sweet finish. The wine cellar
is dark when I descend, carrying one last plate, a
single dessert for two, dark chocolate crimur with passion fruit,
topped with those delicate sugar threads that shatter, like secrets,
like promises, like masks. Marcus is waiting, wolf mask in hand,
in the dim light. His eyes are hungry for more
than just dessert. You were magnificent up there, he says,
pulling me close, watching you take them apart, course by course,
all part of the plan, I remind him, But my
voice catches as his hands find bare skin under my
chef's coat.
Speaker 2: The plan.
Speaker 1: His laugh is low, dangerous. Tell me, Chef chen, was
this part of your plan? His mouth captures mine, tasting
of revenge and victory and need. The dessert plate wabbles
between us, careful, I gasp against his lips. This is
the last piece of evidence. He pulls back just enough
to look at the dessert evidence, taste it. He takes
the spoon, lifts a bite to his mouth. His eyes
widen as he reads the message I've written in chocolate
on the plate's rim. Maya I had to know, I say,
taking the spoon from his trembling hand. Had to know
if this was just part of your investigation, if I
was just his kiss, silence is me, deep and sure
and full of promises. You were never just anything, he
breathes against my mouth. From that first night in this cellar,
when we were wearing masks. We're not wearing them now.
The dessert plate clatters safely on to a shelf as
he lifts me against the wine rack. Above us, I
hear the FBI finishing their arrests, hear Catherine's protests, my
father's excuses. But down here, in our sanctuary of bottles
and shadows, nothing exists but this, his hands, marking territory
they've claimed as their own, my mouth writing confessions on
his skin, our bodies speaking truths no mask could ever hide.
Stay with me, he whispers into my hair as we
catch our breath. Not just for the investigation, not just
for revenge. I trace his jaw line, memorizing him by
touch For what, then? For this? He kisses me again, softer, now, sweeter,
for us, For whatever recipe we want to create. Above us,
sirens fade into the Chicago night. The conspiracy is ended,
the masks are off, But here in the wine cellar
where it all began, something new is simmering yes, I
tell him, tasting possibility on his lips. Yes to all
of it, the dessert sits forgotten chocolate message melting slowly.
Some cravings can't be masked. Some hunger never ends. Stay
hungry with me, and in the dark of the wine cellar,
we feast on truth, on trust, on Tomorrow, No masks required.
Speaker 2: Romance Weekly is a production of Calaroga Shark Media executive
producers Mark Francis and John McDermott. Portions of this podcast
may have been created with the assistance of AI.
Speaker 1: Calaroga Shark Media