"L-Lord Zach?" Chef Pierre's voice cracked slightly as he stepped into the dirty kitchen, startled to find the estate's notoriously composed heir sitting at the long marble counter in a robe, boots still muddy, elbows on the surface, and staring at a basket of untouched mangoes like they'd just insulted his intellect.
"Mon dieu, what are you doing here this early? Would you… like some fresh pastries?"
Zach didn't move at first. His eyes remained locked on the mangoes—three small, slightly bruised fruits that now looked oddly accusatory in the soft kitchen light. He blinked slowly, the kind of blink reserved for people who just realized they'd lost a very long argument with a dream they weren't even sure they had.
He finally turned his head, slowly, like an ancient machine rebooting. "No," he said. "I don't want pastries. I want answers."
Chef Pierre blinked. "Pardon?"
