matt is undressing her. just as he’s about to remove her panties, she stops him. she takes hold of his hand and make him feel it: his name embroidered in braille on her red lace panties, matching the colour of his suit. he’s instantly turned on, and gives her the best night she’s ever had.
PS: PLS TAG ME WHEN YALL DO IT I DONT WANNA MISS OUT
summary: you knew competing with frank’s lifestyle would be demanding, but what happens when it becomes too much?
tags: frank x fem!reader (but nothings super specified) (in this chapter at least), angst, hurt/comfort, hurt/no comfort, frank and reader are an emotional mess, whos suprised, im not cs i wrote it, slight codependent undertones???, possibly ooc, references to media bc im annoying, toxic rls
A/N: first fic. if uve seen my acc before no u haven’t. is it still a prequel if i post it first or no…
One could say it would be ridiculous to call you and Frank a couple rooted in purity. Sure, from the outside the two of you were no picket-fence, absolute pair. But you were perfectly smooth in the way you weren’t; rough around the edges, gritty, and codependent yet it worked. For the most part.
It started slow. The date nights and movie marathon weekends were blighted with a quick text. Always something along the lines of:
“Sorry mama. Backed up tonight, gonna be home late. Don’t wait up for me.”
And in the beginning you tried, truly, but the ungodly hours at which Frank came home only got worse the longer you let it go on. After months his absence began to span for days. When you’d finally ask him about it over dinner, or when the two of you brushed your teeth, he’d simply rasp a vague explanation and you could practically see him building walls around himself.
Part of you felt crazy. Were you asking too much? Nagging too much? Becoming overbearing in the way that gave Frank the right to distance himself from you? You realized there was no use in asking him about that either, because when he was home he’d often let his mood loom around until both him and your shared apartment felt cold and gray.
It wasn’t always brooding. There were the nights when maybe Frank saw the worry in your eyes, or remembered your his girl, and you’ve stayed with him regardless of who he’s become. Those were the nights you two spent wrapped up together on the couch where his large hands roamed all over. Those were the nights when his soothing rhythms along your soft thighs were what put you to sleep or dragged you back to your room where he took care of you for hours.
And while those times were good, they weren’t quite good enough.
It was another late, rainy night when Frank had come home covered in blood and minor bruises which was rare. You were sat on the couch in black sweatpants that were likely his, and a small white tee. You tried to ignore the nerves that hit your stomach, but it happened every time he came home, because you knew how things would go.
“Hi Frankie,” you offered from the couch before crossing to reach him in the foyer. He gave a soft, “Hi baby,” as he set his stuff down, his hands found your waist immediately after. You felt your stomach drop and again worked to ignore it, because there was nothing wrong. At least not then, not addressed, not spoken.
You checked the bruising on his face and then his hands, which were clean of broken skin for once. “Not too bad today, huh?” He simply shook his head, “Nope.” You never knew painfully casual until then.
He went to shower and in the meantime you cooked up a simple dinner, more of a distraction than an effort to feed yourself. But it was fruitless, your hands gripped the counter until your knuckles turned white while you stirred. You couldn’t make out a single thought in your head, you didn’t even know what was happening.
Frank made his way to the living room, spreading out on the couch. You wiped at tears you didn’t know were falling. Eventually you realized what was eating at you so slowly. Could you really go on like this on a five-word maximum? Could you keep feeling like the longer you stayed with Frank, the farther you drifted apart?
What really sold the deal was the fact that you love him. The screen of your phone lit up and it’s his picture that illuminated your face. There’s memorabilia of your first few dates hung on the wall in black frames throughout your apartment. No matter where you looked you saw it, knew it was there, but just couldn’t feel it.
It really started when the two of you ate dinner that night. The rain hit hard against the industrial-style windows of your apartment, thunder threatening in the distance. “‘S good,” Frank said, breaking the silence. “Thanks,” you replied, not looking up from where your fork danced on the plate.
You heard him sit back in his seat with a sigh. His hands were clasped together, forearms pressed against the table and he was staring. Hard.
At first it was quizzical, brows raised in expectancy. “Alright, what is this?” Your stomach dropped, as if it could any more. “What?” You finally met his eye and thunder boomed in the near vicinity. His expression softened the moment your eyes locked and there it was. He loves you.
His hand reached for yours across the table. “Talk t’me, baby don’t do this,” he said quietly, low in his chest. You couldn’t help the tears that spilled then, and took your hand from his to wipe hard at your wet face. “Every time I do talk to you it’s pointless.” It’s pathetic, quiet, and a half-sob that makes your face and neck heat. You hated every second of it.
“What?” His eyes hadn’t left you, and it made you regret talking in the first place.
“I try to talk to you all the time but you brush me off, Frank,” you told him, more assertive than before.
His hand swiped over his jaw. “‘Cause I don’t want you dealin’ with my mess, sweetheart, you know that.” It landed, hit you right in the chest and small, silent tears fell slowly down your cheeks.
“But you don’t think it hurts me too, Frank? I feel like I can’t talk to you because you’re always so bottled up. I’m walking on eggshells everyday because you go out and nearly kill yourself and refuse to talk about it,” you gushed, voice raising as you grew more upset.
His jaw hardened, and he leaned back in his chair once more. “You think I want this? You think I have control over this? I wake up and the first thing I’m reminded of is the fact that there are people out there dyin’. That I have to protect ‘em. That I have to protect you.” His fists clenched on top of the table. Never a threat to you, always frustration with himself.
“I understand that but I want to know that you’re somewhat… okay. That we’re okay— that you love me.” You wiped hard at your face again, sniffling.
“Is that your point? That what— I don’t love you enough—“
“Yes, Frank, it is, and I don’t understand why you’re so bothered by that,” you shouted, fully ignoring the fast pace of your heart as you got up to put your dish away.
“You make all these promises. ‘Oh baby, this weekend I’m free. ‘S our weekend.’ and ‘Tonight’s special, got somethin’ for us.’ And you used to have the decency to shoot me a quick fuckin’ text to let me know you were blowing me off but not anymore.”
Your plate clattered in the sink along with your fork and knife.
“You just show up and shut me out like I don’t matter to you and then we have sex.”
You paused, and turned around to face his back as he sat at the table.
“Is that all this is to you? Sex? You have a bad day— bad week— bad month but it’s okay because you’ve got a quick lay at home just waiting for you?”
He stood up then, shoulders slumped in some sort of defeat as he walked over to the counter. “Stop it-“
He added something about you putting words in his mouth but you ignored it.
“No. I’m just good sex to you and half the fuckin’ rent. I feel stupid, Frank. I’m an idiot to sit here and put up with your bullshit. I’m waiting around like a damn dog for a guy that doesn’t even love me,” you spewed, shoving the rest of the nights dinner in the fridge. You hadn’t realized you were yelling until you stopped, chest heaving with every breath.
“I do love you, baby I do,” he said low and earnestly from his chest. He rushed over the moment you wept. “This,” he pointed between the two of you, “‘S not just what happens in bed.” His hand found your shoulder and he pulled you into his arms the second you started to cry. You hated every second of it, the crying, being wrapped up in Frank, and how good it felt because it’d become so rare.
“We can sit here, ‘n I can tell you a million times. I love you, that won’t ever change, baby.”
“I can stay home tomorrow, how’s that?”
You groaned and pushed away from him then. “That’s what you always say, that’s the point I’m trying to make-“
“Baby I promise-“
“Like you haven’t promised a dozen other times and fell short,” you spat, leaning against the opposite counter now.
The silence that followed was irksome.
His fingers grazed the crooked bridge of his nose as he sighed. He was frustrated. With you, himself, and probably everything else in the world. It made you feel worse, like some boiling mess inside you thats been eating at you tripled.
“I’m sorry,” you broke the silence to barely even whisper. He didn’t have the chance to look up before you were walking past, “I shouldn’t have said anything. And now I made you upset, so I’m sorry.” He grabbed your hand before you left the kitchen and you found that his big soft eyes were wet with tears. He pulled you into his chest. You stood there for what easily could have been hours.
The rain had lightened to a soft pit-pat on the windows, and the apartment was filled with loud silence. Your tears had mainly stopped, and your breaths attempted to steady.
“Frank.”
“Hm?”
Thunder boomed nearby, just enough to make you flinch, and the muscles in your back tense. The now broken serenity brought you back down to earth, to the downfall of the one thing in your life that was supposed to be steady.
“I just… I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
His eyes snapped to yours immediately, brows furrowed. “What?” It was quiet, like maybe he didn’t hear you, or want to believe that he comprehended what he did.
“I can’t be here, I can’t be with you,” you stammered before reaching for a jacket hung on the wall, likely Frank’s.
“We can talk about this, please.”
The weather must have been in on this, as white streaked across the glass of your apartment. The downpour, the feelings, the truth, it all boiled you over. You bit your lip to quiet yourself.
“I know we didn’t before but we can now, we can fix this. I’ll do better.”
And maybe Frank didn’t believe himself, maybe he knew there was no coming back. His head hung low at the sound of your silence, his own palm cleaning the emotion from his face.
Tears stung in your eyes for what was probably the millionth time that night and you cursed under your breath.
“Not… not right now, okay? I just can’t do this tonight, Frankie it hurts. It…” Your words trailed off and you met his eyes for what you didn’t know would be the last time.
“I love you.” It came out broken, barely spoken, and more of a cry than anything else. Your hands fumbled with the cold metal of the doorknob, as your emotions finally crashed onto you.
He texted you. He knew you were off walking alone so late at night in the torrential rain. He hated it, hated that you were off to your old roommates place because you had nowhere else to go, hated himself for letting you leave, hated himself even more for wanting you to stay.
“It’s pouring down out there, at least let me drive you.”
But you opened the message and never responded.
“Be safe.”
“Please baby.”
He watched as three dots showed up on the screen. Watched as they faded away.
Then he called, countless times, treating your voicemail as a confessional.
He’d slid to the kitchen floor since you left but never moved other than that.
You came back the next day to get your things. You knew he wouldn’t be home, you could feel it. So with shaky hands, you let yourself in and left no trace of you in his life. The key was left under the mat.
Can you make Gordon Ramsay x Wife!Reader, but in Hells Kitchen and she's pregnant and someone sends her a raw food and Gordon is mad as hell😂
THAT'S MY WIFE!
Gordon Ramsay x Pregnant!Wife!Reader
Hell's Kitchen
Masterlist
The dining room of Hell’s Kitchen was packed to capacity, buzzing with noise, laughter, conversation, and that electric, high-energy atmosphere that always filled the room on dinner service nights. The lights were dimmed low, warm and inviting, the tables set with crisp white linen, polished cutlery, and shining glassware, while from behind the double swinging doors at the far end, you could hear the constant, rhythmic clatter of pans, the hiss of grills, the shouts of orders, and the unmistakable, booming voice of Gordon Ramsay cutting through everything like a knife.
You were sitting right in the center of the room, at a prime table near the kitchen pass, the best seat in the house — exactly where you always sat when you came to visit. You looked beautiful, glowing, radiant, your hair styled softly, wearing a pretty dress that flowed comfortably over your growing bump. You were six months pregnant now, round and happy, every movement a gentle reminder of the little life growing safely inside you, the baby you and Gordon had been waiting for, dreaming about, talking about every single night. Your hand rested naturally over your stomach, your fingers stroking lightly over the fabric, a soft, permanent smile on your face as you looked around the room.
Everyone knew exactly who you were. Everyone knew you were Gordon’s wife. Everyone knew you were the most important person in the whole building, the only person who could make that terrifying, shouting, strict chef soften instantly just by walking into the room. The guests around you kept glancing over, smiling, nodding, saying hello, excited to see you there, excited to see the famous Gordon Ramsay’s partner, the woman who had his heart completely and utterly.
And behind the pass, Gordon was working harder, sharper, and more focused than he had worked all season.
He stood tall, broad-shouldered, his chef’s whites pristine, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his blue eyes scanning every single plate that came up, missing absolutely nothing, his expression intense and serious. But every few seconds, his gaze would flick away from the food, from the chefs, from the tickets, and land straight on you. And every single time he looked at you, that hard, sharp face of his would soften completely. His eyes would warm, his lips would twitch up into a small, proud smile, and he would stand a little taller, a little prouder, just knowing you were there, just knowing you were watching him.
You were his world. You were everything to him. And now, carrying his child, you were more precious, more sacred, more important to him than air itself. He would burn the whole building to the ground before he let anything happen to you.
“Let’s go! Come on, move it, move it, we have tables waiting, get the food out, hot, fresh, perfect, or don’t send it at all!” Gordon shouted, his voice booming loud and clear across the kitchen, sharp and commanding, exactly like everyone knew him. “Standards! We have standards here! I don’t care how busy it is, I don’t care how tired you are — perfection or nothing! Now let’s GO!”
The chefs ran back and forth, sweating, stressed, rushing, shouting back “Yes, Chef!” at the top of their lungs, plates flying up to the pass, orders stacking up, the heat rising, the pressure cranked up to the absolute maximum. It was chaos, beautiful, controlled chaos, exactly how Gordon liked it, exactly how he ran his kitchen.
You watched him work, your heart swelling with love and pride. You knew exactly how hard he worked, exactly how much he cared, exactly how much he wanted every single person here to succeed, to learn, to be better. You knew that behind every scream, every curse, every harsh word, was a man who cared more about food, about quality, and about people than almost anyone else in the world.
A waiter approached your table, smiling politely, carrying a large, heavy plate covered with a silver cloche. “For you, Madam. From the kitchen.”
You smiled back, sitting up a little straighter, your hand still resting protectively over your bump. “Thank you.”
He set the plate down gently in front of you, then lifted the cloche with a flourish, revealing the dish underneath: a beautiful presentation of herb-crusted rack of lamb, roasted vegetables, rich red wine jus, everything arranged perfectly, colorful, appetizing, looking absolutely stunning.
It looked incredible. It looked exactly like the kind of food Gordon would be proud of. It looked exactly like something you would love.
You didn’t hesitate. You were hungry — pregnancy made you hungry all the time — and you trusted the kitchen. You trusted Gordon. You knew he would never let anything bad reach your table, or anyone’s table. You picked up your knife and fork, cut straight through the thickest part of the meat, lifted the piece to your mouth, took a big bite, chewed once, twice, swallowed it down happily, and smiled, ready to take another bite.
And then… you froze.
Your smile faded instantly. Your hand stopped halfway to your mouth. Your eyes went wide, confused, then shocked, then horrified.
The texture. The taste. The coldness.
It wasn’t cooked.
It was completely, totally, utterly raw.
The meat was cold, bloody, soft, slimy, pink all the way through, no sear, no heat, no cooking whatsoever. You had just eaten raw lamb. You had just swallowed it down. You could still feel it in your throat, in your stomach, heavy, wrong, dangerous. You pressed a hand hard over your mouth, your eyes filling instantly with tears, your heart starting to race fast and hard against your ribs.
Raw food. Raw meat. You were pregnant. You couldn’t eat raw meat. It was dangerous. It could make you sick. It could hurt the baby. It could cause infections, bacteria, illness, things that could harm you and the little one growing inside you.
Panic shot through you like ice. You sat there, frozen, terrified, your face draining of every drop of color, your hand shaking as you lowered your fork back onto the plate with a loud, sharp clatter.
From behind the pass, Gordon saw everything.
He saw you smile. He saw you take the bite. He saw you swallow. He saw you stop. He saw the color drain from your face. He saw the way you grabbed your stomach, the way your eyes filled with fear, the way you looked down at the plate in absolute horror.
And then his eyes dropped to the plate in front of you.
From where he stood, he could see it perfectly. He could see the meat. He could see the way it glistened wet and cold. He could see the blood running onto the vegetables. He could see exactly what it was.
“No.”
The word came out quiet at first, breathless, disbelieving. Then it exploded.
“NO! FUCK NO! WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!”
Gordon roared so loud the windows rattled. He slammed both hands down onto the pass so hard every plate jumped, every knife clattered, every single person in the kitchen and the dining room jumped out of their skin. His face turned bright red, then purple, his eyes blazing like blue fire, his whole body shaking with absolute, uncontrollable rage. He vaulted over the pass — vaulted over it, like it was nothing, like a man possessed — and stormed straight across the dining room floor, boots thundering hard against the wood, making the whole room shake, every step faster, heavier, more terrifying than the last.
He stopped right at your table, leaned over, stared down at the plate, stared at the raw meat, stared at the bite mark you had taken, stared at your pale, frightened face, and then he turned, slowly, deadly, terrifyingly, toward the kitchen doors, and screamed so loud, so raw, so full of fury that it echoed off every wall, every ceiling, every surface in the whole building.
“WHO THE FUCK SENT THIS OUT?! WHOEVER COOKED THIS, GET YOUR FUCKING ARSE OUT HERE RIGHT NOW! RIGHT FUCKING NOW! BEFORE I TEAR THIS WHOLE PLACE APART!”
The double doors swung open fast, and a young chef came running out, white as a sheet, shaking, terrified, eyes wide with fear, knowing already exactly what he had done wrong, knowing already that his life was over. He stopped in front of Gordon, head bowed, shoulders hunched, trembling from head to toe.
Gordon didn’t even give him a second to breathe. He stepped right into his face, close enough that their noses almost touched, pointing a shaking, furious finger straight at the plate in front of you, his voice roaring, screaming, every word loud, sharp, and full of pure rage.
“LOOK AT THIS! LOOK AT THIS FUCKING ABOMINATION YOU CALL FOOD! YOU CALL THIS COOKED?! YOU CALL THIS DONE?! IT’S RAW! IT’S FUCKING RAW! IT’S COLD! IT’S BLOODY! IT’S DISGUSTING! IT’S UNFIT FOR ANIMALS LET ALONE HUMAN BEINGS! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?! ARE YOU BLIND?! ARE YOU STUPID?! DO YOU HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHAT YOU’RE DOING?!”
He grabbed the plate, lifted it high, pointed the raw meat right in the chef’s face, shaking it so hard the juices ran down his arm.
“YOU SENT THIS OUT! YOU SENT THIS OUT TO A TABLE! YOU SENT THIS OUT TO HER! LOOK AT HER! LOOK AT WHO YOU JUST SERVED THIS FUCKING RUBBISH TO!”
He slammed the plate back down onto the table so hard sauce splattered everywhere, then leaned even closer, his voice rising to a deafening, ear-splitting scream that everyone would remember forever.
“THATS MY WIFE! YOU GIVE HER RAW FOOD YOU FUCKING ARSE, AND WHAT’S WORSE SHE’S PREGNANT!”
The whole room went dead silent. Not a breath, not a sound, not a single movement. Everyone froze. Everyone stared. The guests, the cameras, the other chefs, the waiters — all of them stood still, terrified, shocked, watching Gordon absolutely lose his mind, watching the most protective, furious, terrifying display of anger they had ever seen.
Gordon was shaking, his chest heaving, his face bright red, sweat pouring down his face, tears of rage pricking at his eyes, every muscle in his body tight and hard with fury. He pointed at you again, at your bump, at your pale, frightened face, his voice cracking with how loud and angry he was.
“SHE IS CARRYING MY CHILD! MY BABY! OUR FUTURE! AND YOU SEND HER RAW MEAT?! YOU SEND HER SOMETHING THAT IS FULL OF BACTERIA, FULL OF GERMS, FULL OF EVERYTHING THAT COULD MAKE HER SICK, HURT HER, HURT MY CHILD?! ARE YOU FUCKING INSANE?! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW DANGEROUS THIS IS?! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU HAVE JUST DONE?!”
He stepped forward, shoving the chef back hard, making him stumble, his voice roaring even louder, wild and unhinged.
“SHE ATE IT! SHE TOOK A BITE! SHE SWALLOWED IT! BECAUSE SHE TRUSTED YOU! BECAUSE SHE TRUSTED THIS KITCHEN! BECAUSE SHE TRUSTED ME TO MAKE SURE NOTHING LIKE THIS EVER HAPPENS! AND YOU FAILED! YOU FAILED COMPLETELY! YOU ARE USELESS! YOU ARE PATHETIC! YOU ARE A FUCKING DISGRACE TO THIS PROFESSION!”
He turned around, screaming at the rest of the kitchen staff who were now all lined up in the doorway, terrified to even look at him, his voice booming across the whole room.
“AND THE REST OF YOU! WHERE THE FUCK WERE YOU?! HOW DID THIS GET PAST ANYONE?! HOW DID NONE OF YOU NOTICE IT WAS FUCKING RAW?! ARE YOU ALL AS USELESS AS THIS IDIOT?! DO YOU ALL HAVE YOUR HEADS STUCK SO FAR UP YOUR OWN ARSES YOU CAN’T SEE WHAT’S RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOUR FACES?! DO YOU NOT CARE?! DO YOU NOT GIVE A SHIT ABOUT QUALITY?! ABOUT SAFETY?! ABOUT THE PEOPLE EATING YOUR FOOD?!”
He spun back to the terrified chef, leaning right down into his face, eyes blazing, spitting with anger, every word sharp and cutting like a knife.
“YOU THINK COOKING IS JUST THROWING THINGS IN A PAN AND SENDING IT OUT?! YOU THINK IT DOESN’T MATTER IF IT’S COOKED OR NOT?! YOU THINK YOU CAN HALF-ARSE IT, LAZING ABOUT, DOING NOTHING, AND GET AWAY WITH IT?! YOU THINK THIS IS A JOKE?! YOU THINK THIS IS A FUCKING GAME?! IT’S NOT! IT’S A RESPONSIBILITY! IT’S A DUTY! IT’S SOMETHING YOU TAKE PRIDE IN! AND YOU HAVE SHOWN ME TODAY YOU HAVE ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!”
He slammed his fist onto the table, making the cutlery jump, making you flinch, his voice raw and desperate, full of fear as well as anger.
“MY WIFE! MY UNBORN CHILD! YOU PUT THEM IN DANGER! YOU PUT THEIR HEALTH, THEIR LIVES, EVERYTHING I LOVE AND CARE ABOUT AT RISK BECAUSE YOU ARE TOO FUCKING STUPID AND LAZY TO CHECK IF MEAT IS COOKED! HOW DARE YOU! HOW FUCKING DARE YOU! I COULD THROW YOU OUT ON THE STREET RIGHT NOW! I COULD BAN YOU FROM EVERY KITCHEN IN THE COUNTRY! I COULD RUIN YOU! AND YOU WOULD DESERVE EVERY SECOND OF IT!”
He stopped for just one second, breathing hard, running a shaking hand through his hair, sweat dripping down his neck, his eyes wild and terrified as he looked back at you. The anger was still there, hot and burning, but underneath it was pure, blinding fear. Fear for you. Fear for the baby. Fear that something bad might happen, fear that you were hurt, fear that he hadn’t protected you enough.
He turned away from the chef instantly, rushed around the table, dropped to his knees right beside your chair, grabbed your hands in his, holding them tight, his face softening completely, all the rage vanishing in a heartbeat, replaced by pure love, pure worry, pure tenderness.
“Love… baby… look at me, look at me, please,” he whispered, his voice shaking, thick with emotion, his thumbs brushing frantically over your knuckles, his eyes searching yours, terrified. “Are you okay? Are you feeling alright? Tell me you’re okay, please God tell me you’re okay… did you swallow it all? Do you feel sick? Do you have any pain? Tell me everything, tell me right now, please…”
You were still pale, still shaken, your heart still racing, but you squeezed his hands back tight, tears spilling over and rolling fast down your cheeks, nodding quickly.
“I’m okay, Gordon… I think I’m okay… just scared… just shocked… it was so raw… I didn’t know…”
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead hard against your bump, closing his eyes, breathing shakily, whispering quiet prayers, his hands moving gently, carefully, over your stomach, checking, feeling, waiting, desperate to feel any movement, desperate to know the baby was safe.
“I’m so sorry… I’m so fucking sorry, my love… I can’t believe this happened… I should have been faster… I should have checked… I should have known… I never, ever wanted you to go through this… never wanted you or our baby to be put at risk… I’m so sorry…”
He kissed your bump over and over, soft, desperate kisses, then stood up, wrapped his arms tight around you, pulling you right against his chest, holding you so close, so safe, like he was trying to shield you from everything bad in the whole world, his hand stroking the back of your head, his voice low and fierce in your ear.
“I promise you… I swear to you… nothing like this will ever happen again. Not to you. Not to our child. Not while I’m alive. I will tear this place apart before I let anyone ever hurt you again. You are safe. You are my whole world. And I will protect you with everything I have.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, brushing tears away from your cheeks with gentle fingers, his blue eyes full of love and absolute devotion.
“I’m calling the doctor right now. We’re going straight to the hospital. We’re getting you checked over, everything checked, making sure you and the baby are 100% perfect. I don’t care about the service, I don’t care about the show, I don’t care about anything except you two. You come first. Always.”
He turned back to the kitchen, and the anger was back, cold, sharp, deadly, even worse than before. He pointed straight at the chef, his voice low, dangerous, terrifyingly calm.
“You. You are gone. You are fired. You are out of this kitchen, out of this building, and you will never work in this industry again as long as I am alive. You have no place here. You have no talent. You have no respect. And you almost hurt the only two things that matter to me in this whole world. Get out. Before I do something I regret. GET OUT!”
The chef didn’t argue. He didn’t say a word. He just turned and ran, fleeing through the doors, gone forever.
Gordon turned to the rest of the team, his voice ringing loud and clear, every word a warning, every word a promise.
“LISTEN TO ME! AND LISTEN GOOD! FROM THIS SECOND ON, EVERY SINGLE PLATE THAT LEAVES THIS KITCHEN IS CHECKED BY ME! EVERY PIECE OF MEAT, EVERY VEGETABLE, EVERY SAUCE — I SEE IT, I TOUCH IT, I TASTE IT, BEFORE IT GOES ANYWHERE NEAR A CUSTOMER! IF IT IS NOT PERFECT, IT GOES IN THE BIN! IF YOU ARE NOT SURE, YOU ASK ME! IF YOU CAN’T DO THE JOB RIGHT, YOU LEAVE! I DON’T CARE WHO YOU ARE, I DON’T CARE HOW LONG YOU’VE BEEN HERE! SAFETY COMES FIRST! QUALITY COMES FIRST! AND MY FAMILY COMES BEFORE EVERYTHING ELSE! DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?!”
“YES, CHEF!” everyone shouted back in unison, terrified, determined, never wanting to see him like this again.
Gordon didn’t wait another second. He turned back to you, wrapped his arm firmly around your waist, supporting you, guiding you gently up out of your chair, holding your hand tight in his, never letting go, never looking away.
“Come on, love. Let’s get you out of here. Let’s get you safe. Let’s get you home.”
He led you slowly, carefully, all the way out of the dining room, past all the staring guests, past the cameras, past the chaos, his body positioned always between you and everyone else, shielding you, protecting you, his hand never leaving yours, his eyes never leaving your face.
Outside, the fresh night air hit you, cool and clean, and you breathed it in deeply, leaning back against his chest, feeling safe again, feeling calm again. Gordon wrapped his arms all the way around you, holding you close, resting his chin on top of your head, his hands resting protectively over your bump, swaying you gently back and forth in the quiet dark.
“I meant every word,” he whispered, soft and serious, his voice vibrating through his chest into yours. “Every single word. You are my life. That baby is my life. I would burn down every kitchen in the world, shout until I lost my voice, fight anyone, do anything, if it means keeping you safe. You are mine to protect. Always.”
You turned in his arms, wrapped yours around his neck, looked up into those bright blue eyes that held every bit of love and fury and passion in the world, and smiled softly, finally truly relaxed, finally truly okay.
“I know,” you whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “I know. And I love you. Even when you’re screaming at the whole restaurant.”
Gordon laughed, a rough, breathless, relieved laugh, leaning down to kiss you deeply, properly, pouring every bit of love and fear and devotion into it, his hands holding you tight, like he never wanted to let go.
“I’d scream louder,” he murmured against your lips, grinning that famous, wicked, loving grin. “I’d scream until the whole world heard me. If anyone ever even thinks about hurting you or our child… I’ll make sure they regret it. You and this baby are the best things that ever happened to me. And nothing, absolutely nothing, will ever change that.”
He pulled back just enough to press his hand gently over your bump, his expression softening completely, full of wonder and love.
“Now come on. Hospital first. Make sure everything is perfect. Then I’m cooking you dinner myself. Nothing but the best. Nothing but perfectly cooked, delicious, safe food. And I’ll stand right there the whole time, watching every single second, just to be sure.”
You laughed, leaning into him as he guided you toward the car, opening the door, helping you in, buckling your seatbelt carefully, checking everything three times over before closing the door and rushing around to the driver’s side.
As he started the engine, he reached over immediately, took your hand in his, brought it up to his lips, and kissed your knuckles gently, his eyes soft and full of love.
“Never again,” he promised quietly. “I swear. Never again.”
And inside Hell’s Kitchen, the team worked harder, faster, and more carefully than they had ever worked in their lives. Every plate was checked twice, three times, four times. Every temperature was checked. Every piece of meat was cut open to see inside. No one made a mistake. No one dared. Because everyone knew one thing, clear as day, written into the walls, written into the rules, written into Gordon Ramsay’s very soul:
You mess up the food, you mess up the standards, or you even think about hurting his wife or his child… and you will face the wrath of Gordon Ramsay. And nobody survives that.
