I kept staring at the flier in front of me: *"Job Vacancy for Waitstaff."*
I smiled. It was the perfect job. I love cooking, and I wouldn't mind attending to customers—something I never really had the chance to do.
But there was one problem: the frozen-hearted monster, Mr. Grey.
I sighed.
I turned to leave, but a part of me refused to budge. I finally found something I loved—something I would enjoy. Something that would let people see me for who I truly am, not as a prime suspect in my father's murder.
But I couldn't.
Not with Mr. Grey standing in the way.
He might knock all my teeth out before I even finish speaking. I really don't want to get on his bad side. Again.
I walked back to Eva, trying to push the urge away.
She turned around as soon as she noticed my return. "Is something wrong, ma'am?" she asked, catching my sour expression.
"Eva," I said softly, "what would you do if you wanted something badly, but all odds were against you?"
"As long as it's good and beneficial, I'd go for it without thinking twice," she replied.
A tiny spark flickered inside me. I really wanted this job. It wouldn't hurt to go against him just once… right?
"Ma'am," she called, pulling me back from my thoughts. "Please don't tell me the 'odds' you mean is… the boss." She blinked nervously.
I nodded—proudly.
She panicked. "No, no, ma'am! Please don't even think about it. You're putting your life at risk. Please." Her eyes were full of worry. I understood her fear, but I couldn't back down now. This was my chance. My one shot. I wouldn't miss it.
Maybe if I get the job, he'll let me keep it.
Maybe.
"Ma'am, please…" Eva begged. She was so caring. God, why couldn't my mom be like her?
A memory hit me—hard.
I was five. Dad was on a business trip. I was fucking starving, but Mom refused to cook for me. Instead, she made me watch her feast, then threw the large amount of leftovers in the trash— enough to feed two bellies. I begged. I cried. She didn't care. Unable to take the hunger anymore, I tried to cook for myself despite knowing nothing. But ended up burning my hand and cried even more.
I thought maybe—just maybe—my pain would melt her heart.
It didn't.
She dealt the hell with me instead .
Bruises everywhere.
And to show how much she hated me, she punished me by giving me food from the dumpster. I had no choice. I ate—just to avoid another beating… and to silence the hunger clawing inside me.
We were rich.
But I was poor—deeply, painfully poor.
"Ma'am, are you listening?" Eva's voice dragged me back to the present. I blinked repeatedly, pushing back the tears.
"Eva, I'm fine. Just give me five minutes," I said, walking away before she could protest. She called after me, but I didn't turn.
I had made up my mind. I was going for it.
The guards stopped me, and the sight of them tugged up another memory—Mom ordering them to lock me up until Dad returned. Their presence always carried pain and anger for me.
I glared up at them, my usually calm amber eyes burning with something darker.
"What?" I snapped.
"Ma'am, the boss ordered that you're not allowed to go anywhere," one said stiffly.
I refused to let intimidation choke me again. Regaining my confidence, I stared him down.
"Like I said earlier—he is not the boss of me."
Before they could reply, I shoved between them and walked out.
Wow.
I was actually proud of myself. I couldn't believe I pulled that off.
I stepped into the restaurant. A few customers were eating, drinking, chatting. Nice atmosphere.
I approached a waiter and asked for the boss. He directed me to an office.
Inside sat a woman—maybe in her early forties. She lowered her glasses and studied me silently. I knew exactly what she was thinking: Why would a girl well dressed in such expensive clothes be applying for a job here?
"How may I help you?" she asked, though she clearly already knew.
"I saw the vacancy outside. I'm here to apply," I said.
She just stared at me, shocked.
Clearing her throat, she asked, "How many years of experience do you have?"
I frowned.
"Do I need experience for this kind of job?" I asked.
She blinked at me, clearly taken aback.
Scarlett, calm down. Don't lose the opportunity before it starts. I scolded myself.
"Sorry, ma'am," I corrected myself quickly. "I meant—I don't have professional experience, but I do have four years of personal experience."
"You'll be serving customers and helping with some food preparation," she said. "But your experience is not enough. I'm sorry, but I can't give you the job."
My spark of hope dimmed instantly. I felt crushed.
But no. I wasn't walking away like this. I already had three different problems with Mr. Grey—I wasn't letting all that be for nothing.
"What if I can prove I'm better than the professionals?" I challenged.
She looked at me, confused by my boldness. If only she knew the hell I'd survived—and the hell I was *still* presently leaving it, threatening to burn me alive.
"Alright," she said finally. "Show me what you've got."
She stood and gestured for me to follow. I smiled.
I learned this from Mr. Grey—if they don't agree, dare them. It works surprisingly well.
She led me into the kitchen and laid out a few ingredients and food items, then told me to make something good out of them.
Tricky…
but honestly, I lied earlier.
I have almost a lifetime of experience.
washed my hands first, then put on an apron and a hairnet—hygiene comes first.
I began to cook, working with the uneven ingredients I was given. It wasn't much, but I used what mattered most: the one ingredient that always transforms a dish—love.
Slowly, the aroma filled the kitchen, warm and inviting, wrapping the room in a promise of comfort. It smelled… hopeful. Like something that could speak for me when my words couldn't.
When I was done, I plated the food carefully and set it before her. My heart thudded as she lifted a spoon. I watched her closely, praying silently that it tasted as good as I hoped—good enough to meet her expectations… or maybe even exceed them.