He raises a hand to shut me up. “I don’t pay you to question my creative decisions. I pay you to execute them.”
“Bastian, you’re ignoring the fact that?—”
“The truffle oil supplier has guaranteed me exclusive distribution for the next five years. The sea beans can be cultivated in controlled environments if wild harvesting becomes unsustainable. Every element of this dish has been tested, retested, and perfected over months of development. The salt is fucking salt.” He steps closer and lowers his voice to a snarled register that only I can hear. “Don’t ever question me like that again.”
The kitchen staff exchanges uncomfortable glances amongst themselves. No one will look at me except for Chef Rubio. With her hand still bandaged from last night, she gives me something that might be a sympathetic grimace.
For a split second, I consider doing the obvious thinking: the shrinking. The apologizing. The wilting-into-nothingness thateveryone who works for Bastian Hale eventually masters like it’s part of the onboarding process.Yes, Chef. Sorry, Chef. Won’t happen again, Chef.
But then, unbidden, a memory surfaces.
I’m eight years old, standing in our cramped kitchen while my mother argues with yet another landlord. This one’s name is Carl, and he has an angry, bristling mustache that looks like it’s trying to escape his face. I don’t blame it—his face is hideous and purple with rage. I’d want to get away, too.
He’s telling her we need to be out by Friday. “And no more of yer fuckin’ sob stories, okay?”
“Please!” my mother begs. “Just one more week. I get paid on Monday?—”
“Not my problem,” Carl interrupts. “Shoulda thought about that before you fell behind.”
I watch my mother shrink, apologize, wilt into nothingness. I witness her shoulders curling inward like she’d disappear into herself if she could.
And something in my eight-year-old chest hardens into a tiny pebble of rage.
“You’re mean,” I inform Carl as I step between him and my mother. “And your mustache looks stupid.”
Carl’s face turns even purpler. “Listen here, you little?—”
“No,youlisten!” I plant my hands on my hips the way I’ve seen the tough girls at school do. “My mom works two jobs. She makes your gross apartment smell like vanilla candles insteadof old socks. And you’re gonna give us one more week because it’s the right thing to do.”
“Or what?” Carl sneers.
“Or I’ll tell your wife that I saw you kissing Mrs. Washington.”
A dumbstruck silence ensues. Carl’s mustache twitches. My mother’s hand finds my shoulder—not to pull me back, but to squeeze gently. A silentThat’s my girl.
Carl gives us the week.
Standing here now, twenty years later, with Bastian Hale looming over me like Carl 2.0 with better facial hair grooming and a far more bloated sense of self-importance, I feel that same tiny pebble of rage harden up in my chest again.
“You’re right,” I say. “I shouldn’t have questioned you.”
His shoulders start to relax.So smug. So certain.
“… I should have pulled you aside privately to explain why your ‘perfect dish’ is a logistical nightmare that will hemorrhage money faster than you can say ‘molecular gastronomy.’”
Bastian’s face darkens. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” I straighten my spine, all five-foot-four of me trying to match his six-foot-whatever of tattoos and temper tantrums.
“Ms. Hunter?—”
“I’m not done,” I snap. “You hired me because I see the things you don’t. The boring, unsexy, utterly crucial things that determine whether your culinary genius actually translates into a functioning business that does wild, unheard-of things like‘pay its employees’ and ‘turn a profit.’ So yes, I will question your creative decisions when those decisions threaten the very foundation of what you’re trying to build. You can hate me all you want, but don’t insult us both by pretending my opinions aren’t exactly what you pay for.”
Bastian stares at me like I’ve just grown a second head. Or maybe like he’s seeing me for the first time. His jaw works soundlessly for a moment.
“Walk-in,” he finally snarls.
“What?”
