Blood, Sweat, and Desire: Prologue

Blood, Sweat, and Desire

Prologue

A dream can die so quickly. That’s what Michael would later realize, but now he is only thinking how lucky he is, how he’s waited his whole life to be here, how this is his time.

Sunlight pierces the delicate veil of dawn, casting a golden hue across the luxurious room. Michael, dressed in his pristine, white chef’s uniform, blinks against the harsh light as he studies himself in the mirror. It had been a restless night. He had gotten little in the way of sleep, and it shows in his reflection.

The weight of responsibility bears down upon him; his wealthy clients have paid handsomely for his culinary expertise. This weekend he’s been tasked with impressing their friends, and Michael is not one to disappoint.

He glances at the clock—6:30 a.m.—same as always, to meet the Browns’ high breakfast expectations.

As Michael enters the kitchen, the scent of yesterday’s indulgence still lingers: the rich aroma of garlic, butter, and red wine intermingling with the subtle notes of fresh herbs. He takes a moment to appreciate the quiet solitude before the chaos of the day begins—the soft hum of the refrigerator, the gentle ticking of the clock.

Michael cracks his knuckles and rolls up his sleeves. His movements are precise and efficient, like an orchestra conductor—every tool has its place, and every step is choreographed. This is Michael’s domain and sanctuary.

He reaches for the industrial-sized pepper grinder, but whips his arm back at the sight of a crimson stain on the pristine white tiles. His pulse skyrockets and his neck tightens with trepidation as he follows the trail of droplets that lead him to the pantry door.

Please let it be nothing.

Michael knows whatever lies beyond could disrupt his life entirely, yet the compulsion to investigate is too strong to resist.

Gritting his teeth, he grabs the cold metal handle and eases open the door, revealing a scene that sends his heart into his throat.

A man, one of the guests, is slumped against the shelves, a butcher knife lodged in his neck. Blood stains the walls and floor of the pantry like a gruesome masterpiece.

Michael gasps in horror, paralyzed as the metallic scent of blood mingles with the aroma of fresh coffee and pastries, bringing bile up the back of his throat.

“Help!” he cries out, his voice cracking under the weight of shock. “I need help down here!”

Michael’s pleas echo through the grand house, and soon doors burst open.

“Michael?” a woman’s voice says. He whips around to see his boss standing behind him, her face racked with worry as she clutches a ratty robe tight against her slim frame. Even in chaos, her beauty is undeniable. “What is going on?”

But before he can answer, a guest rushes into the room and gestures toward the grisly path leading to the pantry. “Is that—blood?”

“Everyone, stay back!” Emily’s hands tremble as she attempts to remain composed despite the overwhelming situation. Dark circles beneath her eyes show the emotional turmoil she’s been put through over the weekend.

Another woman shoves past the others, her lips pursed with determination. But when she reaches the pantry, she stops dead in her tracks.

The guest standing behind her gasps, “My God.”

He lunges forward, attempting to cover his wife’s eyes from the grisly sight in front of them, but it’s too late. She whimpers and stares, aghast at the macabre display. Her gaze scans her friend’s faces, trying to comprehend how something like this could have happened.

Michael watches as Jack Brown moves closer, his steely stare evaluating the situation with a businessman’s clinical precision. He squats down beside his friend’s body and applies two fingers against his neck, feeling for any hint of life beneath the still skin.

The room seems to hold its breath, clinging desperately to hope that this is all a terrible mistake.

“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head. “He’s dead.”

The words drop like a guillotine, slicing through the fragile veneer of denial. Disbelief turns to dread, and Michael can feel the tension in the room ratcheting up another notch, a palpable undercurrent of fear now mingling with their shock.

Emily bursts into sobs. “I don’t understand. Who…who would do this?”

She wraps her arms around herself, as though seeking protection from an unseen threat. But just as soon as the sobs start, they subside, and Emily straightens her spine. “Are you sure he’s dead, Jack? Check again.”

“Trust me,” he replies, “you don’t fake that kind of injury.”

A jolt of panic rushes through the crowd as someone gasps, “Oh my God…there’s been an intruder—a home invasion!”

Everyone turns toward the source of the shriek, only to find her frozen in place, wide-eyed and pale.

Michael strides forward. “It’s okay,” he says confidently, though his voice wavers. “I checked all the doors when I got up. They’re still locked.”

Emily looks stricken. “What if they’re still in the house?”

“That’s a possibility,” Jack says. “We need to call the police.”

Michael swallows hard as he pulls out his cellphone, his fingers hovering over the numbers as if they are burning hot. He wants to make the call—it’s the obvious thing to do—but deep down he knows it will change everything.

Will he still have his job? His dream? Everything he has worked so hard for? The Browns’ lives will be forever changed, but they will still need to eat, right? So many questions swirl around his mind as he presses the call button.

Michael forgets he’s holding his breath until a calm voice on the other end of the line says, “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

He exhales long and slow before speaking. “Hello? Yes, we need help. There’s been a murder.”

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