The Sinclair Penthouse kitchen was a marvel of modern engineering. It featured Italian marble countertops, a German smart-fridge that could probably launch nuclear missiles, and a gas range that cost more than a luxury sedan.
Currently, it was also the scene of a crime.
"Miss Vale," Ken whispered, clutching a fire extinguisher to his chest as he peeked over the island. "Please. Step away from the blowtorch. The crème brûlée is already... cremated."
Aria stood in the center of the chaos, wearing a "Kiss the Cook" apron she had impulsively bought at the grocery store over her street clothes. Her face was smudged with flour, and she was holding a kitchen torch with the intensity of a welder.
"Nonsense, Ken," Aria said, clicking the flame off. "It's caramelized. It's rustic."
