The scent of roasted garlic and simmering butter filled the air, but Amara Cole's mood was anything but sweet. Her hands moved automatically, stirring, tasting, adjusting the flame beneath the pan, but her heart was pounding in her chest.
"Chef, table three sent their compliments," one of the waiters whispered as he passed, smiling nervously.
Amara forced a smile back. "Tell them thank you."
Normally, that would have made her day. But tonight, there was tension in the kitchen thick enough to slice with a knife. Her boss, Chef Roland, had been pacing since she'd spoken up — and everyone knew it.
"You shouldn't have interfered," he hissed, finally turning to her, eyes sharp. "When a senior chef talks down to a junior, you keep your mouth shut."
Amara dropped her spoon and met his glare. "He didn't just talk down to her, he humiliated her in front of the whole kitchen. You think that's leadership?"
The room went silent. The sound of a dropped ladle echoed in the background. Roland's face turned red, his pride wounded.
"You're out of line."
"Maybe," Amara said quietly, "but at least I'm not heartless."
That was it. Her fate was sealed.
An hour later, she walked out of the restaurant with her knives wrapped in cloth and her apron balled in one hand. The cool night air hit her face, but instead of crying, she laughed softly to herself.
It wasn't the first time life had burned her, and it probably wouldn't be the last.
Still, beneath the sting of anger was something else — a strange sense of freedom. She'd stood up for what was right, and no matter how broke or jobless she felt, that counted for something.
By the time she got home to her tiny apartment, she was exhausted. She made a cup of tea, sat on her worn couch, and scrolled through job listings on her phone. Nothing promising.
Until one ad caught her eye.
Private Chef Wanted. Confidential Client. Excellent Pay. Immediate Start.
Her brows rose. No company name, no details. Just a phone number and an email.
Amara hesitated. It looked too good to be true — which usually meant it was. But something about it tugged at her curiosity. Maybe it was the timing. Maybe it was fate.
She typed a short message, hit send, and placed her phone on the table.
A few minutes later, her phone buzzed with a reply.
"Your profile has been reviewed. You've been selected for an interview. A car will pick you up tomorrow morning. Location will be disclosed upon pickup."
Amara stared at the message. No name. No address. Just directions.
Her heart skipped. Every instinct told her this was crazy — but another part of her whispered, What if this is the start of something new?
She smiled faintly, set her tea down, and whispered to herself,
"Alright then. Let's see where this goes."
Outside, the night was still. Somewhere in the city, a man with dark eyes and darker secrets read her file, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly.
"Amara Cole," he murmured. "Let's see if you can handle my world."