Turning back to the steward with a beam of polite enthusiasm, she clasped her hands. "Mr. Vogel, could you guide us to the kitchen? We were hoping for a small snack before training—maybe something light. Also, I really want to meet Chef Élise Moreau. I heard she's the soul of the kitchen."
Vogel gave a small bow of his head and gestured for them to follow. "Right this way, Lady Drakos."
As they trailed after him down the velvet-lined corridor, Alessandro leaned slightly closer, his voice lowered into a conspiratorial purr.
"Were you always this... joyful? Like a raggio di sole?"
She blinked, glancing sideways at him. "A what now?"
"Beam of sunlight," he translated with a grin, clearly pleased with his own choice of words.
Thalia tilted her head, considering. "I think I used to be even brighter, honestly. Before the pre-entry assessment... and a lot more when I was a little girl, before the orphanage. Life was a lot... lighter then."
He let the silence sit just long enough to honor it, then chuckled. "You still have golden retriever energy. Big, joyful, tail-wagging soul. It's rare."
Thalia smiled, softer now, less sunshine and more dawn. "You think so?"
"I know so," he said firmly. "You're the bubbliest one here, hands down."
"Is that a bad thing?" she asked, almost shyly, her eyes searching his face.
He stopped walking for a second, enough to make her pause too, and shook his head. "No, mia principessa greca. Not bad. It's a blessing. Don't lose it."
Before she could say anything else, they arrived at a pair of tall double doors carved with ivy and rose motifs. Mr. Vogel gave them a few measured knocks before slowly opening them. A wash of warmth and the scent of fruit, butter, and spices spilled into the hallway.
"Chef Élise," Vogel called gently, stepping just inside, "Lady Drakos and Lord Giordano are here for an early snack. Lady Drakos also hoped to meet you in person."
The kitchen was as grand as a cathedral—white marble counters, hanging copper pots that gleamed like trophies, shelves lined with jars of every imaginable spice and herb. It smelled like stories and comfort and a hundred sunlit breakfasts.
Chef Élise turned from one of the counters. She stood about 5'11, wiry and elegant, with curly ginger hair swept into a neat bun under a pristine white cap. Her skin was dusted with freckles, and her green eyes were impossibly bright.
As she spotted Thalia, her expression lit up. "You're as beautiful as they said," she said, her Irish lilt as rich as cream. "You're the Greek Lady who sang praises of my dinner last night?"
Thalia smiled like a child meeting her hero. "It was divine, Chef Élise. I couldn't find the words to do it justice."
Alessandro chimed in with more understated charm. "Truly delicious, Chef. Compliments to the artist."
Élise grinned, and her eyes sparkled. "Well then, how can I help you two troublemakers? Breakfast proper isn't served until eight." She glanced at the watch on her wrist. "And it's only 6:28."
Thalia leaned forward with an exaggerated pout and her best puppy-dog eyes. "Is there any chance you have something small? Maybe a fruit salad?"
The Chef didn't hesitate. "As it happens, I do." She moved with practiced grace to a massive glass-front fridge and retrieved a crystal bowl that glimmered like treasure. "I call it the Imperial Orchard. Just made it ten minutes ago. Halved red and green grapes, pear slices, pomegranate jewels, green apple matchsticks, crumbles of blue cheese, candied walnuts, and a balsamic-honey glaze. It's Lord Albert's favorite."
She set it on the central island, then grabbed two slender crystal goblets and a pair of delicate golden spoons. As she began filling them, Alessandro tilted his head.
"Who's Albert?" he asked, frowning slightly.
"The billionaire's son," Thalia said without thinking, and all three turned to look at her. She blinked, caught herself, then shrugged. "He came to my pre-entry assessment. Caused a bit of a stir. Planted some... seeds. Let's just say he left a... mark on some of the fallen contestants back there."
The steward and the chef both exchanged grimaces.
"Sounds like Lord Albert," the chef muttered, her lips curling ever so slightly with disdain.
"Is he much older than us?" Alessandro asked, raising a brow.
"He looked thirty-seven," Thalia murmured, dragging a hand through her side braid in clear discomfort. "Could be edging into his forties, I don't know." Her voice lowered, nearly a whisper. "Honestly, I didn't like him. At all. It's hard not to recognize who he is—he's the younger spitting image of Lucien Vallois De Sévigné. Same bone structure. But where Lucien exudes grace, charisma, and that effortless billionaire elegance… this man doesn't. He's got the same sharp features, sure, but with dark blue eyes instead of Lucien's. And he lacks everything else—no poise, no presence. He's shorter than his father too. Less built. Slim, almost lanky. And the way he spoke to us?" Her voice tightened. "Like we were insects beneath his boot."
"Ugh. That unhinged brat," Kaspar groaned from across the kitchen, rubbing his face with both hands. "He's thirty-one, by the way."
Thalia blinked. "Oh," she mumbled. "He looks older than that. Older but with the behavior of a tantrum-prone teenager."
The chef leaned in conspiratorially as she served them each a bowl of her special fruit salad, her expression brightening with mischief.
"We don't like him either," she whispered, lips barely moving, before straightening up with a playful wink. "Go on, kids—enjoy your snack. Would you like anything special for breakfast? Name it, and I'll make it."
Alessandro's face lit up like a child on his birthday. His voice warmed with enthusiasm, and his accent thickened naturally, his usual effort to keep it neutral slipping away.
"I would die for some Cornetto al Pistacchio, Brioche Siciliana con Gelato al Limone... paired with a proper Cappuccino, Chef," he said, every syllable rolling off his tongue in a syrupy Sicilian cadence.
The Wolf, quietly watching, smirked inwardly. Alessandro's mask had slipped, just a little, again. The Casanova seemed to be unconsciously struggling to keep up the façade of being Florentine, and the Wolf was not about to call him out. They kind of liked the Italian, he was one of the strongest potential allies here.
The chef chuckled, a soft and melodic sound, clearly enjoying the moment. Her eyes then turned toward Thalia, expectant and kind.
"And you, darling?" she asked, voice light.
Thalia smiled politely, setting her fruit salad down before speaking clearly.
"Thick, creamy Greek yogurt with raw honey," she said, "crushed walnuts and figs, cinnamon, no sugar. Some Strapatsada—tomatoes, eggs, and feta—and a sketos Kafés Ellinikós, please."
The chef tilted her head with an affectionate smile. "Missing your countries, are you?"
Both Alessandro and Thalia nodded in unison, a brief but honest moment of homesickness shared between them.
The chef giggled softly. "Then I'll do my best to honor your cultures. I hope it'll remind you of home, even just a little," she said, resting her hand over Thalia's gently. "I'll make it perfect, Lady Drakos."
Touched, Thalia squeezed her hand lightly. "Efharistó, Chef Élise."
"Parakaló, my dear," Élise replied with a wink. "Now off you go. Breakfast will be served at the same table where you had dinner."
With grateful nods, the two exited the kitchen, walking side by side through the quiet hallway until they arrived at the familiar table outdoor, facing the infinity pool. Thalia led the way, settling in the same spot as the night before, at the edge of the long table. Alessandro took the seat beside her, on her right.
She leaned toward him slightly, lowering her voice to a private hush.
"She speaks Greek," Thalia whispered. "And judging by how easily she understood your Italian when you rattled off those dishes, she speaks that too."
Alessandro raised an eyebrow, voice equally quiet. "Which means the billionaire is really selective with his staff, no?"
Thalia shook her head slowly, eyes sharp. "Casanova, do you really think ordinary people are chosen to serve the players in a twisted game like this?"