The clang of a spatula against the griddle sliced through the thick, heavy silence that had settled like a weight after Priscilla's barbed comment. The kitchen was a pressure cooker, every sound amplified — a dropped spoon, the hiss of grease, the rhythmic chopping of Ammy's knife echoing like a heartbeat.
Ammy didn't even look up from her chopping. Her blade danced through ripe strawberries, sharp and relentless.
"If you're not helping, Priscilla, maybe go polish that sparkling personality of yours somewhere else," she said, voice low but cutting, as cold as the stainless steel counters.
Priscilla, always polished to a fault with her lips painted a defiant deep red, arched a perfect brow and smirked like she was the queen of the whole damn diner. "Just saying what everyone's thinking."
Andre, the grizzled veteran of the kitchen with sandy blond hair that never stayed put, groaned and sidestepped toward the fridge. "Yeah, because you're so in tune with the kitchen's collective thoughts," he muttered, cracking an egg with the precision of a surgeon but the sarcasm of a street fighter.
Before Priscilla could retort, the sound of the front door swinging open sliced through the tension like a knife.
"Manager's here!" someone called from the dining room.
The atmosphere shifted in an instant. It wasn't fear — no one here was scared — but respect, a shared unspoken code to straighten backs and sharpen focus. The manager was the kind of man who commanded a room just by walking into it.
And here he came.
Clean-cut and sharp as a razor, his navy dress shirt hugged lean muscles beneath rolled sleeves that hinted at strength beneath control. A slim silver watch caught the light with each step. Clipboard in hand, pen poised like a weapon, earpiece tucked discreetly behind his ear. His dark brown hair was slicked back, flawless, like he never wasted a second on nonsense.
His eyes scanned the kitchen with surgical precision — fast, efficient, cutting.
"Where's the Caesar salad?" His voice was calm but carried the weight of an unbreakable law.
Avery froze. Her eyes darted to the empty prep station as if willing the salad into existence.
"Not started yet," she admitted, voice smaller than she wanted.
His gaze landed on her, sharp and unyielding. "Avery."
That single word was both a call and a challenge. It didn't ask, it commanded.
"Yes, sir?"
"There's a black SUV out front." He tapped his pen against the clipboard. "The driver says someone from Blackstone Global is here. They want a quiet meal. No VIP bullshit, just normal service. But —" his voice dropped a notch — "they specifically ordered the Caesar salad."
For a long beat, Avery just stared at him, the weight of that order settling like a stone in her gut.
Her Caesar salad wasn't just food. It was a signature — her art, her statement. People who tasted it came back, sometimes driving miles just for another bite. Regulars called ahead, swearing it was better here than anywhere else in the city. It was her claim to a slice of something bigger than the chipped walls and rattling pipes of this diner.
And now? Someone from Blackstone Global — the kind of elite who probably had chefs and kitchens the size of this whole place — wanted her salad.
Across the kitchen, Priscilla let out a sharp, mocking laugh that gritted under Avery's skin like sandpaper.
"Of course. She strolls in late and still gets the glory."
Ammy slammed her knife down, hard enough to make the cutting board jump. "Maybe because she's actually good at what she does," she said, eyes fixed on her task.
Priscilla rolled her eyes, slicing strawberries with exaggerated care, like she was above it all.
Avery ignored the jab, pulling out romaine lettuce from the fridge. The leaves were cold, almost crisp, damp with fresh earthiness. She tore them carefully, never chopped — that was her thing — keeping the edges rough, ragged, perfect.
"Croutons?" Andre called from the bread station, already reaching for the loaves.
"Garlic butter, medium crisp," Avery replied without hesitation, moving into her rhythm like a machine.
Butter hit the skillet with a soft hiss, filling the air with a rich, intoxicating scent that mingled with the smoky sharpness of bacon sizzling nearby. The kitchen filled with sound — knives chopping, pans sizzling, voices humming under the surface — but Avery was in a bubble, focused and furious.
She shaved Parmesan into thin curls, the cheese falling like snowflakes into the mixing bowl. Crushing garlic just enough to release its punch, tossing bread cubes until they glistened gold.
Ammy slid the dressing bowl across the counter without a word. "Fresh batch," she murmured, her gaze flickering over Avery's trembling hands.
"You're shaking," Ammy added softly.
"I'm fine," Avery snapped, whisking the dressing with controlled fury, creamy and thick enough to cling to the back of the spoon. "Five minutes isn't long when your boss is breathing down your neck."
Andre snorted, the sound half laugh, half warning. "Or when half the kitchen's eyes are on you like hawks."
Avery didn't reply. She tossed the lettuce in the dressing, turning the leaves so every one was slicked with creamy tang. Croutons folded in warm and soft, Parmesan dusting the top like freshly fallen snow.
"Looks perfect," Ammy said, sliding a plate toward Avery.
Priscilla barely spared a glance, muttering with venom, "We'll see if they think so after they eat."
Avery bit the inside of her cheek to hold back a retort. The fire she carried wasn't for her coworkers — not yet. It was for the unknown eyes about to judge her.
She plated the salad with care, arranging the leaves and croutons like a painter setting his final brushstrokes. The colors popped against the white plate — pale green, gold, creamy white flecked with black pepper. Not a single smear, a single imperfection.
Fingertips lingered on the cool metal of the pass counter, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the kitchen's chatter — the scrape of a pan, the ding of the toaster, the murmur of diners chatting nearby.
This wasn't just another order.
This was a test.
Not personal. Not yet.
But in this battered diner with its chipped counters and tired stools, Avery's Caesar salad was more than food. It was her name. Her brand. The one thing that gave her power in a world that often tried to take it away.
And now? It was about to be judged by someone who lived in a world miles above hers — a world of power, money, and cold, ruthless ambition.
Avery took a slow breath and squared her shoulders. Whatever happened next, she wasn't going to let this salad be her undoing.