Kaiden's POV
There are few things in life more satisfying than giving my older brother grief. It's not even about the material—though, trust me, Zaire hands me plenty. It's about the art. The craftsmanship. The precision.
Today, my masterpiece is the Great Pill Disaster of Two Days Ago.
Zaire's at the kitchen counter, slicing something with the grim focus of a man training for the Iron Chef: Wedding Edition. He's got containers lined up like he's about to cater a PTA meeting.
I lean against the doorway, arms crossed, smirk ready.
"Morning, Grandma. What's for breakfast? Oatmeal and a strongly worded letter to the editor?"
He doesn't look up. That's how I know I've hit a nerve.
"You should've kept some of those pills for yourself," he mutters.
I grin. "Please. Unlike you, I don't need chemical backup to resist temptation. I'm naturally immune."
And there it is. The exact moment the universe wrote my name on its revenge list.
---
The sound of heels on the hallway tile pulls my attention. Seraphine. She steps in like she's about to command a boardroom and steal its secrets in the same breath.
Zaire hands her one of his carefully packed lunches like he's her personal Michelin-star chef-slash-bodyguard. I roll my eyes so hard they almost sprain.
Then Jill's sabotaged menu lands in front of me.
Albino Ghost Pepper Jam.
Squid ink from left-handed squid.
Dragonfruit harvested under a waning gibbous moon—because apparently produce now comes with an astrology chart.
I laugh. "This is what's supposed to break me? Please. I know guys who can source plutonium in an afternoon. I'll have this list knocked out before dinner."
---
We head to the garage. Zaire's car waits, boring and practical. My motorcycle gleams like the lovechild of danger and freedom.
I pat the seat. "How about we ditch the rolling retirement home and ride in style?"
Seraphine smirks—a dangerous expression—and walks right past me to her bike. A sleek, polished beauty that says she doesn't just ride, she owns the road.
I blink. "…You own a bike?"
"Surprised?" she says, sliding her helmet on.
"Any more surprises like that," I tell her, "and I'll start planning our wedding."
She laughs like I'm joking. I'm about 60% joking.
---
The market is chaos wrapped in spice and sizzling oil. People shouting prices, steam rising from grills, the smell of chili and sugar battling for dominance. This? This is my kingdom.
I call in favors, charm vendors, and within thirty minutes I've tracked down five impossible ingredients. I'm running on adrenaline and ego when I spot it—Albino Ghost Pepper Jam.
A delicacy so rare it makes grown chefs cry. Also, it has a Scoville rating somewhere between flamethrower and surface of the sun.
Perfect.
I pop the lid, scoop a spoonful, and knock it back in one go.
My grin says, Piece of cake.
My stomach says, Congratulations, you've just committed arson in your own body.
---
At first, it's manageable—a slow burn, the kind of heat you can bluff through. But as we move deeper into the market, that burn spreads like gossip in a small town.
My internal monologue: You're fine. Totally fine. Just sweating because… humidity. Yeah. And your vision's a little blurry because… you forgot your sunglasses?
My external self: still flirting, still making jokes, still the picture of composure.
Seraphine gives me one of those side glances—sharp enough to cut through my act. She doesn't say a word, just hands me a bottle of water like it's a peace offering.
I take it casually. "Thanks. Just… staying hydrated."
She tilts her head. "Want an antacid?"
I scoff. "I'm good."
---
Five stalls later, my definition of "good" has downgraded from perfectly fine to holding it together through sheer force of will.
The spice isn't just in my mouth anymore. It's everywhere. It's in my bloodstream, whispering to my organs that it's time to panic.
I keep smiling, because I'm Kaiden, and if I die here, I will die hot and mysterious.
She pauses at a stand selling imported herbs. I take the moment to discreetly press a hand to my stomach. My stomach responds by reminding me—in the language of slow, tightening cramps—that I am a fool.
When she turns back, I'm leaning casually against a post, looking as if I'm simply admiring the view. Which I am. The view just happens to be blurry because my eyes are watering.
------
By stall number twelve, the spice has evolved. It's no longer "hot."
It's sentient.
It's studying me.
It's planning my funeral.
Seraphine is chatting with a vendor about some rare saffron, perfectly calm, and I'm standing there wondering if my intestines are staging a coup.
I force a grin. "We've almost got everything."
She glances at the list. "Just one more—honey from black lotus blossoms."
Easy. I know a guy. I always know a guy.
Problem: this guy is three blocks away, uphill, in the sun.
By the second block, I'm starting to think gravity has gotten heavier. I'm sweating in places I didn't know had sweat glands. My helmet, which earlier made me look rugged and mysterious, now feels like a personal sauna set to "slow roast."
Internal Kaiden: You're fine. Just keep walking. Don't let her see you break. You've survived worse. You once ate deep-fried scorpion for a bet.
Stomach Kaiden: We're not mad. We're disappointed. And also mad.
We finally get to the honey vendor, who greets me like an old friend and slips me the jar under the table, no questions asked. Normally, I'd make a big show of my "legendary" connections, but right now, I'm using all my energy to keep my posture upright.
Seraphine notices. She always notices.
"You okay?"
"Of course," I say, my voice about half an octave higher than usual.
She studies me for a beat longer, then—smirk. That subtle, knowing kind of smirk that says she's filing this away for later use.
---
The ride back is the longest fifteen minutes of my life. Every bump in the road feels like a personal attack. I'm gripping the handlebars like they're the only thing keeping me from falling into the abyss.
When we finally pull into the garage, I take my helmet off too fast, forgetting my head is attached to a neck that's currently dizzy from both heat and humiliation.
She swings off her bike with infuriating grace.
"That was… fun," she says, clearly entertained.
I manage a nod that probably looks more like a slow collapse in progress.
"See you soon, Kaiden." And then she's gone—no gloating, no comment. Just that smirk again.
---
The second the door shuts behind me, I'm sprinting—well, speed-shuffling—to the bathroom.
Half an hour later, I'm lying on the floor, one hand on my stomach, the other clutching my phone as I type a strongly worded message to my "ghost pepper guy" about the ethics of food-related warfare.
In the kitchen, I can hear Zaire humming. That smug hum. The hum of a man who knows karma just did his work for him.
I hate him.
I hate ghost peppers.
I hate the fact that the memory of Seraphine's smirk still makes my stomach do flips—different flips than the pepper, but flips nonetheless.
---
Morning.
I stride into the kitchen like I own the place—fresh shirt, sunglasses indoors, coffee in hand. Total picture of health.
Theo's at the table, scrolling his tablet. Zaire's at the counter, nursing his coffee like it's the only thing keeping him alive.
No one says anything.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet where you know someone's about to stab you in the back—with words.
Theo glances up first. "How's the stomach, Kaiden?"
I don't flinch. "Perfect. Why?"
Zaire smirks—slow, dangerous. "Because I've seen footage of prisoners look more comfortable than you did yesterday."
Theo doesn't even look away from his tablet. "Street market security cam. You. Ghost pepper. Immediate regret."
I wave it off. "I was fine."
Theo: "Sure. If 'fine' means sweating like a busted fire hydrant."
Zaire: "And clenching so hard you walked like a penguin."
Theo: "In front of Seraphine."
I shoot back. "Yeah? At least I didn't nearly pass out in an elevator because I OD'd on anti-succubus pills."
Zaire just shrugs. "I survived."
Theo: "Barely. And your bathroom hasn't."
Now they're both grinning at me.
This is bad.
This is the "we will bring this up at every holiday dinner until you die" grin.
Zaire: "Remember that time Kaiden tried to impress Sera—"
Theo: "—and lost a fight to a pepper?"
Zaire: "I do. It was glorious."
I stand. "I'm going out."
Theo: "To get more peppers?"
Zaire: "Or to buy wet wipes?"
The door shuts behind me, but I can still hear them laughing.
I hate them.
…And I might actually buy more peppers.
---
I glance at my phone while waiting at a stoplight. End of the month.
End. Of. The. Month.
Has it really been a month already?
I think back, trying to remember what I've actually done… and all I get is an endless highlight reel of driving across the city, across other cities, across places I'm pretty sure aren't on any legal map, hunting down ingredients that sound like the fever dream of a bored witch.
---
The worst offender?
A sausage made of intestines.
Yeah, I know.
You think, "Kaiden, you idiot, of course sausage casings are intestines."
No. This was different.
The vendor described it like a "rare, heritage delicacy," so my brain went, Oh cool, artisanal.
When it arrived, it looked like something pulled straight out of a crime scene. I had to physically stop myself from apologizing to my stomach in advance.
And all this… for a menu Jill probably stole from the "Dare You To Eat This" channel.
Finally, Sera admits it's not just the ingredients—it's the chef. She needs someone who can actually cook these monstrosities the way Jill wants them.
That's where I shine.
Half my life is connections. The other half is knowing how to make those connections answer their phones. In under 48 hours, I have her a specialist chef—one of those quiet geniuses who can turn "boiled nightmare" into "Michelin star."
But she still doesn't look satisfied.
I know that look.
It's the same look she had when I said ghost peppers were "no big deal" and then proceeded to sweat like a busted sauna.
And I'm damn sure not about to serve guests an entire dinner of what Jill calls "food" unless there's a plan B.
Then her face lights up. That smile—the kind that tells you she's already three steps ahead and about to crush someone's soul politely.
"Mary, do you have a list of all our contacts? Good. Book them all. Tell them if they're able to cater for the wedding and another event, I'll add 30% extra."
Her voice is smooth, businesslike, and just a little dangerous.
Right on cue, Jill calls.
I can hear her without even putting the phone on speaker. She's one of those people who thinks "indoor voice" is just a suggestion.
"Oh my God, Sera, I just realized… I actually never ate those foods at all. And looking at them now? Ugh, they look so disgusting. I hope you didn't waste the entire month getting them, I think I might throw up just looking at the pictures."
I watch Sera's face. Calm. Not a twitch.
"That's alright, Jill. I understand. What menu are you after, then?"
Jill rattles off a new list—one dish from a different restaurant all over the city. "Think you can make that happen? I know it's difficult but I just can't help it, it's my specia—"
"I understand, Jill. And you're right—it is your special day… which is why I hired all of them."
The silence on the other end is pure gold.
Then:
"What?"
"I hired every single chef and restaurant owner. They'll make sure to have those dishes ready on whichever day you like."
Sera says it with Jill's own fake-sweet tone, so perfectly copied it's basically a verbal mirror slap.
There's a loud crash—something breaking—
…and the call ends.
I can't help myself. "You think that was her throwing her phone or her dignity?"
Sera finally cracks, laughing so hard she has to wipe her eyes.
That's when I decide—I'm going to make her laugh like that again.
---