—
Vincent Charbonneau had always believed in the art of subtlety. It was the key to his culinary prowess-the ability to balance flavors, to elevate a dish with the faintest hint of something unexpected. But in matters of the heart, subtlety became a curse, a shackle that bound him to a love he could never openly confess.
He first met Rody Lamoree nearly five years ago. Rody was already a rising star in the film industry, known for his charm, his rugged good looks, and that infectious smile that seemed to brighten every room he entered. Vincent had been hired as his personal chef after Rody’s agent insisted he needed someone to manage his diet amid the chaos of his burgeoning career.
From the start, Vincent knew it would be difficult. Rody had a way of making people feel special, as though they were the only ones who truly mattered in that moment. It wasn’t long before Vincent found himself drawn to the actor-not just because of his looks, but because of his warmth, his sincerity. Rody treated him with respect, with kindness that was rare in their world.
Vincent had been in love with him almost from the beginning.
But Rody had never seen him that way. Why would he? Rody was a man who could have anyone he wanted, and what he wanted-what he had-was a beautiful, talented wife. Manon Vacher Lamoree. The very name sent a pang of jealousy through Vincent’s heart, though he would never let it show. She was everything he wasn’t: glamorous, adored, perfect in every way.
They had met at an awards show, or so the story went. Two rising stars who saw something in each other, who found solace in the shared experience of fame’s spotlight. Their whirlwind romance had captivated the public, culminating in a wedding that was splashed across the covers of every major magazine.
Vincent had been there, of course. He had catered the event, standing in the background as Rody and Manon danced under the twinkling lights, lost in each other. He had watched as they exchanged vows, their love so palpable, so undeniable, that it had felt like a physical blow to his chest.
He had smiled through it all, though. He had to. No one knew the truth-the depth of his feelings, the quiet agony of loving a man who would never see him as more than the person who cooked his meals.
And so Vincent remained, always there but never truly present. He knew every nuance of Rody’s tastes, his preferences, the way he liked his coffee in the morning, how he preferred his steak cooked medium-rare, the small indulgences he allowed himself when he was between roles. He knew how Rody’s smile changed when he spoke about Manon, how his voice softened when he mentioned her name. Vincent knew everything about Rody, yet Rody knew almost nothing about him.
It was a one-sided love affair, but it was all Vincent had.
Tonight, the Lamoree household was hosting a small dinner party. Just a few close friends-directors, actors, people who lived in the same glittering world as Rody and Manon. Vincent had spent the day preparing, crafting a menu that he knew would impress, yet all the while, there was a dull ache in his chest that he couldn’t shake.
As the guests arrived, Vincent remained in the kitchen, listening to the laughter and conversation filtering through the walls. He imagined Rody mingling, smiling that easy smile, Manon by his side, her hand on his arm. It was a scene he had witnessed countless times before, and each time, it cut a little deeper.
He busied himself with the final touches, ensuring every dish was perfect. It was what he was good at-perfection. His work was the only place where he felt in control, where he could pour all of his unspoken emotions into something tangible. But even as he worked, his mind drifted to Rody.
The door to the kitchen swung open, and Vincent stiffened, his heart skipping a beat as Rody walked in. He looked as handsome as ever, his auburn hair tousled in that effortlessly charming way, his green eyes bright with the energy of the evening.
“Vincent, everything smells incredible,” Rody said, his voice warm, familiar. It was the voice that Vincent had come to cherish, even as it haunted him.
“Thank you, Rody,” Vincent replied, his tone polite, measured. He kept his gaze fixed on the cutting board in front of him, slicing through a lemon with precise, deliberate movements.
Rody leaned against the counter, watching him. “You’ve really outdone yourself tonight. Manon was just saying how lucky we are to have you.”
There it was again-that pang, sharp and unyielding. Vincent forced a smile, though it felt brittle, like it might shatter if Rody looked too closely. “It’s my job to make sure you’re both happy.”
“You do more than that,” Rody said, his voice softening. “You’ve become part of our lives, Vincent. I don’t think we could manage without you.”
Vincent’s hand stilled, the knife hovering above the lemon. The words were meant to be kind, but they only deepened the ache in his heart. Part of their lives. But never the part he wanted to be.
He set the knife down carefully, taking a breath before he turned to face Rody. “I’m glad I can be of service,” he said, keeping his voice steady.
Rody’s expression shifted, a flicker of concern crossing his features. “You seem…distracted tonight. Is everything okay?”
For a moment, Vincent considered telling the truth. Telling Rody everything-how every day, every meal, every moment spent in his presence was both a blessing and a curse. How he had fallen in love with him, despite knowing it was hopeless. How the sight of Rody with Manon, so happy, so in love, made him want to scream, to cry, to disappear.
But he couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t. So instead, he forced another smile, this one even more fragile than the last. “Just tired, I suppose. It’s been a long day.”
Rody’s concern didn’t waver, but he nodded, accepting the excuse. “Well, don’t push yourself too hard. You’re important to us, Vincent.”
Important. The word hung in the air between them, heavy with all the things left unsaid.
“I’ll be fine,” Vincent replied, his voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you, Rody.”
Rody gave him a small, lingering smile, then turned and left the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind him. Vincent watched him go, his heart sinking further with every step Rody took away from him.
Alone again, Vincent leaned heavily against the counter, his hands gripping the edge as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. He closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing, trying to push down the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.
But it was no use. The tears came anyway, hot and bitter, spilling down his cheeks as he stood there in the empty kitchen. He had loved Rody for so long, had held onto that love even when he knew it was futile, even when it tore him apart inside. And he would continue to love him, silently, painfully, because there was no other choice.
Vincent knew he would never be the one Rody looked at with love in his eyes. He would never be the one Rody reached for in the middle of the night, or the one he shared his dreams with. He would always be on the outside, looking in, a silent witness to the life Rody lived with someone else.
The dinner party continued in the other room, the sounds of laughter and conversation a cruel reminder of the world Vincent could never be a part of. He wiped his tears away, taking a deep, shaky breath, and forced himself to focus on the task at hand. There were still desserts to prepare, dishes to serve, and a role to play.
He would put on his mask again, the one that showed nothing of the storm raging inside him. He would smile and be polite, he would serve the meal he had poured his heart into, and then he would disappear back into the shadows, where he belonged.
And later, when the guests had gone, when the house was quiet and Rody and Manon were upstairs, wrapped in each other’s arms, Vincent would clean the kitchen. He would wash the dishes, scrub the counters, and put everything back in its place, all while knowing that no matter how much he tried, he could never wash away the feelings that had taken root in his heart.
But he would do it anyway, because it was the only way he knew how to survive.
By the time Vincent had finished and the kitchen was spotless once more, it was late. The house was dark, the only light coming from the small lamp in the corner of the kitchen. He stood there for a moment, staring at the space where he had spent so many hours, where he had poured his love into every dish, every meal, every carefully crafted moment.
He knew it would never be enough.
With a heavy heart, Vincent turned off the light and walked out of the kitchen, his footsteps echoing softly in the silence. He paused at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes drifting upwards towards the master bedroom where Rody and Manon slept.
For a brief moment, he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like if things were different. If he could be the one beside Rody, holding him, loving him in the way that he so desperately longed to. If he could be the one Rody turned to in his quiet moments, the one who knew not just the taste of his favorite dishes, but the depths of his soul.
But reality crashed back in like a wave, cold and unforgiving. Vincent was not Rody’s lover. He was just the chef, the one who made the meals, who kept the kitchen running, who stayed in the background while the spotlight shone on Rody and his beautiful, perfect wife.
Vincent turned away from the stairs, swallowing the lump in his throat as he forced himself to move. He stepped outside, the cool night air hitting his face like a welcome reprieve. The stars above were scattered across the sky, indifferent to his pain, and the city lights below seemed to mock him with their brightness.
He walked aimlessly, his feet carrying him through the empty streets as his mind replayed the evening’s events over and over. Rody’s smile, the way his eyes had softened when he spoke to Vincent, the concern in his voice when he’d asked if everything was okay. Rody cared-Vincent knew that. But it wasn’t the kind of caring Vincent wanted, needed.
Eventually, Vincent found himself at the edge of a small park, the silence broken only by the rustle of leaves in the breeze. He sat down on a bench, his hands trembling slightly as he buried his face in them. For a moment, he allowed himself to break, to let the tears fall without holding back. There was no one here to see him, no one to judge him for the weakness he had tried so hard to hide.
He cried for the love he could never have, for the years he had spent loving a man who would never be his, for the loneliness that had become his constant companion. He cried for all the times he had wished things were different, knowing they never would be.
As the tears subsided, Vincent wiped his face with the back of his hand, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. He felt drained, empty, like a hollow shell of the man he once was. But the world would keep turning, and he would have to return to his role, his life, his unrequited love.
Vincent sat there for a long time, staring at the ground, his thoughts a tangled mess of longing and despair. Eventually, he pushed himself to his feet, his body moving on autopilot as he made his way back to the Lamoree household. The night was quiet, almost peaceful, but it offered him no comfort.
When he arrived back at the house, everything was dark and still. He slipped inside silently, careful not to make a sound as he returned to the kitchen. He went through the motions of cleaning up once more, though there was nothing left to clean. It was something to do, something to keep his mind occupied, something to stop the aching loneliness from swallowing him whole.
Finally, when there was nothing left to distract him, Vincent paused in the middle of the kitchen, his eyes falling on the empty countertop. There was a lemon sitting there, the one he had sliced earlier. Without thinking, he picked it up, the smooth skin cool against his fingers.
He brought it to his nose, inhaling the sharp, citrusy scent that had always been his favorite. It was a scent that brought him comfort, that reminded him of simpler times before Rody, before this love that had consumed him. But now, even that comfort felt tainted, overshadowed by the bittersweet reality of his situation.
Vincent sliced the lemon in half, the juice pooling on the cutting board. He stared at it for a moment, then squeezed the juice into a glass, adding a bit of sugar and water. It was something he had made for Rody countless times, a small gesture of care that had gone unnoticed, just like everything else Vincent did.
He took a sip, the tangy sweetness coating his tongue. It was good, refreshing, but it didn’t fill the void in his chest. Nothing would.
As he stood there, sipping the lemonade in the dark, Vincent allowed himself one final moment of weakness. He let his thoughts drift to Rody, to the man he loved with every fiber of his being. He pictured Rody’s smile, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed, the sound of his voice, deep and soothing.
But the image was incomplete, always incomplete, because Rody wasn’t his. Rody was upstairs, with her, the woman who had everything Vincent wanted but could never have. And no matter how much he wished it were different, he knew that would never change.
Vincent finished the lemonade, setting the glass down with a soft clink. He looked around the kitchen one last time, taking in the familiar space that had become both his sanctuary and his prison. Then, without another word, he turned and left, retreating to his small apartment a few blocks away.
The walk home was slow, each step heavy with the weight of his unspoken love. By the time he reached his door, Vincent felt as though the world had shifted, become something colder, more distant. He entered his apartment, locking the door behind him, and immediately went to the kitchen.
It was small, nothing like the one he worked in at the Lamoree house, but it was his. He opened the fridge, pulled out a bottle of wine, and poured himself a glass. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but tonight, he needed something to dull the edges of his pain.
Vincent sat down at the small table in the corner of the room, the glass cradled in his hands as he stared at the wall. The silence was deafening, pressing in on him from all sides, amplifying the emptiness inside him.
He took a sip of the wine, the bitterness of it matching the bitterness in his heart. He thought of Rody, of the life he lived, of the love he shared with Manon. And he wondered, not for the first time, what it would take to stop loving him.
But the answer was always the same. He couldn’t. He couldn’t stop loving Rody, no matter how much it hurt, no matter how much it tore him apart. He was trapped, caught in a web of his own making, bound by the love that had become his greatest torment.
Vincent drank slowly, savoring the way the alcohol burned its way down his throat, numbing the pain just a little. It was a temporary fix, he knew, but for tonight, it was enough.
He finished the glass, then poured himself another, his thoughts growing hazy as the alcohol took hold. He closed his eyes, letting the darkness envelop him, letting it carry him away from the reality he couldn’t bear to face.
In the quiet of his apartment, Vincent allowed himself to dream. He dreamed of a world where Rody loved him back, where they were together, where Vincent wasn’t just the chef, but something more, something real.
But even in his dreams, that world was always out of reach.
And so, when morning came, Vincent would rise, put on his mask, and return to the life he had chosen. He would cook for Rody, smile when Rody complimented his work, and pretend that everything was fine.
But beneath the surface, the love would remain, unspoken and unfulfilled, a silent scream that echoed in the depths of his soul.
Vincent knew he would carry this love with him to his grave. And that, more than anything, was the saddest truth of all.
—
Vincent drained the last of his wine, setting the glass down with a soft thud. He stared at it for a long time, his thoughts swirling in a fog of alcohol and heartache. Eventually, he rose from the table, his movements slow and deliberate as he made his way to the bedroom.
He didn’t bother undressing, simply collapsed onto the bed, the world spinning around him. He closed his eyes, hoping that sleep would come quickly, that it would offer some respite from the pain.
But even as he drifted off, Rody’s face lingered in his mind, a constant reminder of the love that would never be his.
And as the night deepened, the city outside quieting into a stillness that matched his own, Vincent’s dreams were filled with everything he could never have.
And in those dreams, he found the only peace he would ever know.
—
In the cold light of morning, Vincent awoke to an empty apartment, the remnants of his dreams fading away like mist in the dawn. He lay there for a long time, staring up at the ceiling, the weight of reality settling back onto his shoulders.
But he was used to it by now. The ache in his chest, the hollow feeling that never truly went away-it was all just part of his life, part of loving someone who would never love him back.
With a heavy sigh, Vincent pushed himself out of bed, his movements slow and weary. He went to the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, and stared at his reflection in the mirror. The man who looked back at him was a stranger-tired, worn down, defeated.
But there was nothing to be done about it. This was his life, his reality. And no amount of wishing or dreaming could change that.
So Vincent did the only thing he could. He got dressed, made himself a cup of coffee, and prepared to face another day. A day where he would stand in the background, where he would cook and serve and smile, all the while hiding the love that was slowly killing him.
And as he stepped out of his apartment, the sun rising over the city, Vincent knew that he would continue on, just as he always had. Because there was no other choice.
But deep down, he also knew that no matter how many days passed he’d never stop feeling this way. The love he carried for Rody would always be there, a constant ache in his chest, a reminder of what he could never have.
He cried for the love he could never have, for the years he had spent loving a man who would never be his, for the loneliness that had become his constant companion. He cried for all the times he had wished things were different, knowing they never would be.
As the tears subsided, Vincent wiped his face with the back of his hand, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. He felt drained, empty, like a hollow shell of the man he once was. But the world would keep turning, and he would have to return to his role, his life, his unrequited love.
Vincent sat there for a long time, staring at the ground, his thoughts a tangled mess of longing and despair. Eventually, he pushed himself to his feet, his body moving on autopilot as he made his way to the Lamoree household. The early morning was quiet, almost peaceful, but it offered him no comfort.
In that moment, Vincent felt more alone than ever. The kitchen that had once been his sanctuary now felt like a prison, the walls closing in around him. The life he had built, the persona he had crafted, it all seemed so hollow, so meaningless in the face of the love he could never have.
He couldn’t do this anymore. He couldn’t keep pretending, keep hiding behind his carefully constructed facade. But what choice did he have? Rody would never love him, would never see him as anything more than the man who prepared his meals. And Manon… Manon would always be there, always the one who had Rody’s heart.
His body ached, his eyes were puffy and sore, but the emotional pain had dulled, replaced by a numbness that was almost worse. He forced himself to stand, to shake off the remnants of the night before, and began preparing for the day ahead.
The routine was familiar, almost comforting in its monotony. He chopped vegetables, simmered sauces, all with the same precision and care as always. But there was a hollowness to his movements, an emptiness in his heart that he couldn’t ignore.
As the morning wore on, the house began to stir. He heard Rody and Manon moving around upstairs, their voices muffled but filled with the warmth of a couple who had spent the night wrapped in each other’s arms. Vincent’s chest tightened at the sound, but he pushed it down, focusing on the task at hand.
Rody was the first to come downstairs, looking as bright and cheerful as ever. He greeted Vincent with a smile, completely unaware of the torment that had consumed him just hours before.
“Morning, Vincent,” Rody said, his voice filled with that familiar warmth that Vincent both craved and dreaded. “What’s for breakfast?”
Vincent forced a smile, the mask slipping easily back into place. “Just the usual, Rody. I hope it’s to your liking.”
“I’m sure it will be,” Rody replied, his smile widening. He didn’t notice the way Vincent’s hands trembled slightly as he set the plate down in front of him.
Manon joined them a few minutes later, her presence like a knife to Vincent’s heart. She was beautiful, radiant even in the early morning light, and it was clear from the way she looked at Rody that her love for him was as strong as ever.
Vincent watched them from the corner of his eye, his heart aching as they shared a quiet moment, lost in their own world. He couldn’t bear to look directly at them, couldn’t stand to see the love in their eyes, knowing it would never be directed at him.
Breakfast passed in a blur, Vincent moving mechanically through the motions. When it was over, he cleared the dishes and returned to the kitchen, where he could finally breathe. But even here, in his sanctuary, he couldn’t escape the pain.
He couldn’t keep doing this. He couldn’t keep pretending that everything was fine, that he was content with his life, with his role as the silent, invisible presence in Rody’s life.
But what else could he do? He was trapped, bound by his own love, his own feelings. There was no escape, no way out of this unending cycle of longing and despair.
As the day wore on, Vincent continued to work, but his mind was elsewhere, lost in thoughts of what could never be. The hours passed in a haze, and by the time the sun began to set, he was exhausted, both physically and emotionally.
He couldn’t go on like this. Something had to change. But what? What could he do? The answer eluded him, slipping through his grasp like sand.
Vincent closed his eyes, leaning back against the bench as he let out a shaky breath. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep going, how much longer he could endure this pain.
But for now, all he could do was survive. One day at a time, one moment at a time. And maybe, just maybe, he would find a way to make peace with the life he had, even if it was a life without the love he so desperately craved.
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