The tension in the air thickened. Everything fell silent.

The Sous chef, Riley, slid the plate onto the serving table.

The subtle fruity aroma awakened my senses. The steam feathered my face.

My digital wristwatch buzzed. Five seconds to go.

Leaning over the plate, I checked the food. A dusting of pink on the cooked veal chops. Not overly done yet not too rare.

The bright red of the cabernet sauce coated every inch of the meat as I poured it. The plate - a white dish - was the canvass for my food. My finger, tucked inside the kitchen towel slid over the plate's rim.

My alarm buzzed.

"We're ready chef," the waitress said.

I moved back.

"Thanks." With a tight nod, she addressed me as she picked up the plate.

"Off she goes," I said to myself.

"Fingers cross." Riley patted my shoulder. "And don't worry. You'll get it."

As I watched the double doors slide shut, my heartbeats sank. Perhaps, my lungs fell into my gut and I was about to die.

This was the moment for me. The moment I'd been waiting for. Any minute now, I'd be called to the guest table. Hopefully, Mr. Martiff Carson would want to give his compliments in person.

Or worst, he'd walk back to the kitchen and toss the plate on my head.

And then I'd actually die.

My anxiety pureed my mind into thinking straight. Since the time I'd joined the restaurant - Ambrosial - I'd dreamt of only one thing. To be a Head chef at a Michelin star restaurant. That dream was inches away from my grab.

"Okay everyone," Riley clapped, alerting the staff. "We've special guests in today. I need everyone on their toes. If the food comes back, we'd work extra hard before sending it out again. Get it?"

"Yes, Chef." Everyone answered in unison.

Riley was excited for me. Ever since she heard Mr. Carson's offer, the last time he came around. "If Helena impressed me with her creativity the next time I come to dine, I'd offer her the chef's position at my Paris restaurant."

His words were music to my ears. They'd replayed in my head a thousand times.

"Well, hello my darling chefs."

And there came the screeching halt to my symphony.

Westley Thomson - our infamous bartender - stood inside my kitchen.

"We're busy, Wes," I said. I was supposed to be on my A game today. "I don't have time to talk."

"Oh, but you do." Resting his hands inside his pant pockets, he moved towards me. "I need the name of the wine you used for your famous cow." He pointed at the door, hinting about the veil. "The baby cow that you killed for Mr. Carson."

"It's called a calf. And I didn't kill it. It came to me...killed."

"That's how you sleep at night?" He placed a hand over his chest. "By telling yourself that you use cows that die in accidents."

"You think that's funny, Wes?"

Someone chucked behind me.

I turned around to the backs of traitors - my staff.

"Your staff thinks I'm funny," Wes said as he leaned over the serving table. "Helena, I'm doing this for you. I need the wine name or else I'll serve whatever I think would best cleanse Carson's palette."

The overhead lights highlighted his features - a sharp jawline and buzz-cut hairstyle. His white shirt bulged around his arms as he leaned over the service table.

"I've already informed Jane about the wine pairing."

My patience was running low, especially now that I knew Jane didn't tell him. Jane was the owner of our restaurant. She met Wes at some convention and soon recruited him. After her divorce, she sought companionship at the bar and with the bartender.

If history was any example, a single bartender and divorcee manager was a lethal combination. A combination, hell-bent on ruining my career.

"It's fine. I'll handle the drinks," Wes said, dipping his finger in the Cabernet sauce resting in a pot. "I know how hard it is for you to multitask."

"Hey..." I smacked his hand. "That's for serving the customers. Not for your licking pleasure."

Everything fell silent.

Wes slid the finger into his mouth. His eyelids fluttered close and reopened within seconds, smirking at my staff. "Your boss is quite the kinky one."

"Leave, Wes," I grated. "And stop distracting my staff."

I turned my attention back to my crew, pointing at the orders hanging on the sides of the station. Riley saw it and began her marching orders for them.

Easier said than done.

Half of my cooking staff comprised of girls. Girls, for whom, Wes was God. They worshipped him, the way he guessed their drinks or concocted something out of thin air.

Wes knew his effect on people. He loved giving them a show.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" I asked. "Else, you know the way outside."

He didn't answer. Swirling a spoon in the pot, he sipped the sauce again.

"This could use a dash of..." He smacked his lips, looking around. "Pepper."

"And you could use an exorcism. With a dash of holy water."

"And here I was thinking why the church doors won't open for me?"

"Now you know, Lucifer." My arms crossed over my chest. "Now leave."

He didn't. Every minute of his presence was costing me. I needed to be alert in case Mr. Carson threw a challenge I wasn't prepared for.

"Wes, listen to me." I leaned over the table. "Maybe you've got nothing going on at the bar tonight, but I've work to do."

"I can see that."

He winked at someone.

A plate crashed on the floor behind me. Wes's smirk reappeared as he tiptoed to watch the disaster.

I moved outside my counter, grabbing Wes by his elbow. He was stronger than I presumed. Unable to move him, I looked up. He smiled down at me.

"Walk with me," I said. "Now."

"Jeez. How desperate are you?"

"Shut up."

The wine cellar at the end of the restaurant seemed like a good place to end our feud. A feud I began.

"Careful," Wes said. "This is a white shirt. Get your dirty fingers off me."

"All your shirts are white."

"Ahh...You noticed." He clicked his finger. "I know you love staring at me."

"Wes not today, I swear. You know this is a big deal for me."

"I know..." Whispering, he leaned closer. His greyish eyes darkened. "I also know about the challenge Mr Carson put for you."

"Then why on earth are you hell-bent on ruining it?"

Wes pulled out the spoon from his back pocket, licking it one more time. "I'm telling you, Helena. Pepper...That's missing."

"I swear..." My teeth gritted. "I will put some pepper in your eyes if you don't stop telling me something is wrong with my sauce."

"You're right. I shouldn't tell you how to cook. Just like you shouldn't tell me how to make a drink."

"I know you're getting back at me for what I did," I began with a new strategy. "I'm sorry about it. It won't happen again."

"What are you sorry about, Helena?" He tilted his head. Strands of raven hair fell over his forehead. "I've no idea."

It was time to wave my white flag. I should have done it sooner.

"Wes, I'm sorry for saying I'd rather drink detergent than your creations on YouTube."

"And..." He crossed his arms over his chest. A crooked smile simmered at the corner of his lips. "What else?"

"And for suggesting that you're..."

"Go on..."

"For suggesting that you're leaving Boston. And the restaurant."

"Ding ding ding." His smile faded when he reduced our distance, leaning so close, I could feel the warmth of his breath. "Helena, your little rebellion on social media is not going to harm me." He pulled a wine bottle from behind me. "It's what you imply to others about my art, you know, how I don't know a wine from a whiskey. That sort of thing. That's what bothers me."

"Duly noted. Won't happen again." I gulped the dryness in my mouth.

He moved back, scanning me as if I was a lamb and he was the animal readying to devour me. "Good girl."

"I...hope you'll give a good feedback about the food...if Carson asks."

"You know I would always..." He pushed open the glass doors and turned. "...help you cover up your lies."

"Damn you," I yelled as the doors closed behind him. "Fucker."

Wes turned, saluting me and sliding his finger inside his mouth, mouthing more pepper. I watched as he walked away.

The moment I reentered the kitchen, Jane grabbed my arm. Her pale face appeared paler. Her smile lines had disappeared. She looked perplexed.

"Carson wants to see you..." she said, pulling me outside. "Where were you?"

"At the cellar."

"You should be inside the kitchen, Helena. Imagine if he'd come here instead of me."

Then he would have probably seen me manhandling Wes.

The distance between the kitchen and the table reserved for him was barely a minute's walk away. It felt like I walked across the globe.

Navigating through the side of the restaurant, I saw people smiling. Taking photos of the food, of themselves. Over time, I'd leant not to judge them for the use of social media.

They promoted the restaurant. In turn, they promoted me.

The moment we reached Mr. Carson's table, my eyes blinked faster to absorb the sight.

Wes sat next to him, serving him wine. He looked up at me. A crooked smile and a subtle wink before leaning back to whatever he was saying to our patron.

"Ah, the chef..." Mr. Carson turned around in his chair. Light bounced off his bald head. His crooked teeth, his milky eyes greeted me. "Helena, please have a seat."

I held the wooden backrest of the chair but forgot what to do next.

"Here, Let me." Wes stood up. He gently dragged the chair for me and picked up the napkin, holding it over his arm.

"Thank you..." I mouthed.

A prick at the back of my throat deepened with every passing minute. Wes placed the napkin over my lap. I felt a gentle pat on my shoulder when be crossed my side.

"You've done amazing work, Helena." Mr. Carson dug his fork into the meat, observing it as he twirled the spoon in front of his eyes. "The look, the presentation..."

"She is brilliant, Sir." Jane cooed. She and Wes shared a look.

When Mr Carson turned to both of them, they nodded.

Was there a code they invented that I wasn't aware of?

"Helena," Jane leaned closer to my side, her blonde locks hiding the sides of her face. "Mr. Carson wants to speak with you alone."

They left without wasting any more time.

The cold from the air conditioning pricked my skin, trailing goosebumps. The noises from the restaurant echoed in my ears. My vision doubled.

Don't fall sick.

"Helena..." Mr. Carson wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin. The knife and fork rested horizontally across the place, the blades and tines pointing right. "I've been impressed by your cooking..."

The rest of his speech felt muted. All I could register was the cutlery and its placement - he was done eating.

He barely touched his food. The wine glass was empty. But the food.

A paralyzing sensation coursed through the veins. It radiated into the chest. I could taste it too - a bitter tang hitting the back of my throat.

"So you get what I mean, right?" His head remained tilted.

It took everything in me to hold back my tears. I had fucked up.

"Not really..." After the disaster that was my food, I didn't want him to think I was a bad listener too. "If you can explain it that would help."

I hoped for an explanation. I prayed for redemption.

"The gist is, you've talent. But you get flustered during high-pressure situations. I mean, look at it..." He pointed at my veal chops. "I could barely taste the pepper here..."

Again.

Something hammered at my senses.

"You think the sauce needs more pepper?" I asked, holding onto the side of the tablecloth. Because if I didn't, I sure would punch someone who loved pepper.

"Yes. As Wes said, everything was perfect except for that..."

"Wes said that..." I might have not killed anyone in my life. That steak ended today. "What else did he say?"

"Nothing else." After a brief pause, he looked at his unfinished plate. "He thinks you are brilliant. Of course, not as brilliant as him."

My insides felt the flame of his critique. My eyes felt warm. Maybe I would cry. Or maybe, I might murder the bartender and go on a killing spree.

Murderers had their set of fans too, right?

"All I'm saying is that we can try it in a couple of months. And by then, you need to get more people to see how creative you are." Mr. Carson slid the chair backwards. He leaned over and patted my back. "Take Wes, for example. Look how well he's doing with his Bartending on Tiktok. Or whatever it is, that he does."

I sat numbly in my seat, shaking his warm hands. He made his way through the path between tables and walked outside.

Courtesy dictated I needed to escort him to the doors. Humility said I should have thanked him for his words of wisdom.

I did no such thing.

All I could focus on was revenge.

Take it from a chef. Revenge was best served cold. Maybe, even frozen and most definitely when least expected.

~

Darlings,

This is the first time I'm writing something with a lot of banter, and a lot more of back and forth between the male and female protagonist.

I need your brutally honest comments...

Please, go all Rambo on me and let me know, if I should continue with this book?

Or should I focus on other things that I should finish?

Please comment and tell me...

Or

Sent a Heart ❤️ for continuing the book.

And a Sad Smiley ☹️ for leaving it

I won't feel bad. I promise. I just need your honest opinion.