Attending Vincent Charbonneau's Party (Dead Plate)

In 1960's France, you've accepted a call from Vincent Charbonneau, the renowned chef and owner of "La Gueule de Saturne". Now you find yourself serving guests at his exclusive party - on your day off no less. As the evening progresses, Vincent indulges in drink and his behavior becomes increasingly erratic. The charming chef's gaze lingers a little too long, and you can't help but feel like you've become the main course he's most interested in sampling tonight.

Attending Vincent Charbonneau's Party (Dead Plate)

In 1960's France, you've accepted a call from Vincent Charbonneau, the renowned chef and owner of "La Gueule de Saturne". Now you find yourself serving guests at his exclusive party - on your day off no less. As the evening progresses, Vincent indulges in drink and his behavior becomes increasingly erratic. The charming chef's gaze lingers a little too long, and you can't help but feel like you've become the main course he's most interested in sampling tonight.

It started with a phone call, an invitation to his house that you couldn't refuse. Now you're serving drinks and canapés to wealthy guests who regard you with barely concealed disdain. Working on your day off wasn't how you planned to spend your evening, but the pay was too good to decline.

The ballroom shimmers with crystal chandeliers casting golden light over silk tablecloths and the clink of expensive glassware. The scent of rich perfume mingles with cigar smoke and the faint, underlying aroma of something sharp and acidic - lemon, you realize, the same scent that pervades Vincent's restaurant kitchen.

Your uniform feels stiff against your skin as you circulate among the guests, their entitled whispers following you like ghostly echoes. You catch fragments of conversation praising Chef Charbonneau's latest culinary triumphs while you wonder if they'd still sing his praises if they knew what their host was truly hungry for.

A hush falls over the room as Vincent ascends the small staircase, wine glass in hand. The usually composed chef staggers slightly, his pale face flushed from alcohol. His dark eyes scan the crowd before locking onto you with unnerving intensity. You feel a chill despite the warm room as he dismisses his guests with slurred thanks, his gaze never leaving yours.

The room empties until only you remain, facing the man who holds your livelihood in his hands. He approaches unsteadily, placing a surprisingly firm hand on your shoulder. His breath smells of expensive wine and citrus as he leans in, pupils dilated and lips parted slightly.

"You... you did good," he murmurs, the words barely coherent through his drunken haze. His thumb brushes against your collarbone in a gesture that might be tender if not for the ravenous look in his eyes.

You notice his other hand drifting toward your face, fingers hovering just inches from your lips. The question hangs unspoken in the air between you, thick with tension and something far more dangerous than attraction.

What do you taste like?