The next morning, I arrived at DC Restaurant, my heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to claw its way out. I barely slept the night before — tossing and turning, my mind racing with a thousand possibilities. What if I wasn't good enough? What if it was a mistake? But beneath the fear sat a quiet defiance, a stubborn flicker of belief that this was my chance. The one I'd been waiting for.
I wore my crisp, white chef's coat like armor, the stiff collar brushing against my neck as I moved. My hair was pulled into a tight bun, not a strand out of place. I clutched my notepad to my chest like a lifeline, the edges already worn from how tightly I'd gripped it since dawn.
Grace, the receptionist from yesterday, gave me a nod when I stepped into the lobby. Her gaze flickered over me — the tailored coat, the polished shoes, the trembling hands I tried to steady. There was a spark of something in her eyes I couldn't place. Pity? Curiosity? It vanished too quickly to be sure.
"This way," she said curtly, leading me through gleaming corridors alive with activity.
I tried to focus on the details — the elegant lighting fixtures overhead, the soft hum of conversation, the quiet click of shoes against polished floors. But my mind was a whirlpool of nerves and excitement. I could already smell the kitchen ahead — the rich scent of butter and seared meat, a sharp hit of fresh herbs, something baking with cinnamon. It was intoxicating.
Grace stopped in front of a pair of large double doors. She rested her hand against the polished surface, her expression unreadable.
"Your team is waiting," she said.
I blinked. Team?
I hadn't even considered that. I thought I was starting as an assistant, an extra pair of hands. But the way she said it — your team — made my stomach drop.
Before I could ask, she pushed open the doors and gestured me inside.
A wave of heat and noise hit me first. Pots clanged, orders were shouted, knives chopped in a steady rhythm. The kitchen was alive, and for a moment, it felt like I'd stepped into the heart of something powerful, untamed.
But then — silence.
Every head turned toward me. Chefs, sous-chefs, line cooks, and kitchen assistants, their faces a mix of curiosity, suspicion, and barely concealed skepticism. The room stilled, and I felt every pair of eyes pressing against my skin.
I swallowed hard. Under my breath, I muttered, "Stupid… what did you think? Of course you're not cooking alone."
I gripped my notepad tighter, willing my feet to stay planted. My voice threatened to catch in my throat. I opened my mouth to introduce myself, but before a single word could leave my lips — the atmosphere shifted.
A presence entered the room like a pulse of static electricity.
The double doors swung open again, and Kelvin strode in.
Kelvin's POV
From my office, I'd been watching the live feed of the kitchen on the monitor mounted in the corner of my desk — something I rarely did personally. But this was different.
Chioma stood there, eyes wide, a bundle of nerves and determination barely held together. I could tell she hadn't expected this. The weight of unfamiliar faces, the sudden expectation — it was written all over her face.
The kitchen could be merciless. And while I knew she was capable, it wasn't just about skill here. It was about command. Presence.
I ran a hand over my beard, exhaled slowly, and rose to my feet.
She needed an anchor. And though I shouldn't have cared this much — not with our complicated history, not with Justin — I did.
I stepped into the kitchen, my presence turning heads instantly. Conversations halted mid-sentence. The staff straightened, the air thick with unspoken tension. I felt it swirl around me, a palpable thing.
I didn't waste time.
"Good morning," I said, my voice carrying through the room, firm and even. "I want to introduce Chioma — our new head chef."
A ripple of surprise flickered through the room. A few exchanged glances. Some stiffened.
"She's here to lead this kitchen to greater heights," I continued. "I expect each of you to accord her the utmost respect. Any form of insubordination or disrespect will not be tolerated."
I paused, letting the weight of my words settle.
"Let me be clear," I added, my tone sharpening. "Anyone who fails to uphold this standard will find themselves seeking employment elsewhere."
I didn't need to elaborate. Everyone understood exactly what that meant.
I glanced toward Chioma, but only for a heartbeat. Long enough to see the mixture of shock, confusion, and something else in her eyes. Recognition.
Without another word, I turned on my heel and left.
Chioma's POV
I stood frozen, Kelvin's words still ringing in my ears.
Head chef.
The man who just introduced me like that, with authority so absolute it brooked no argument — it was him. Kelvin.
My chest tightened as memories crashed into me.
That night. The dimly lit restaurant, Justin's laughter as he introduced his "brother from another mother," Kelvin's intense gaze that lingered on me longer than it should have. The quiet conversation we never had. The stolen glance that felt like a spark in a crowded room.
I remembered Justin mentioning his friend Kelvin. The best friend. The one he always spoke of but rarely brought around. And somehow, in the haze of nerves and excitement, I hadn't recognized him during the interview. How had I missed it?
I ran a hand over my face, heat flooding my cheeks.
He knew who I was all along.
His pointed questions during the interview, his unreadable expression — it all made sense now. The way he asked if I was single. The way his tone shifted when I answered. I thought it odd, unprofessional even, but brushed it off, too desperate for the opportunity to dwell on it.
Now, standing here in the thick of the kitchen, the weight of it settled over me.
Was this a test? A coincidence? Or something else entirely?
The staff began to move again, conversations resuming in low murmurs. I could feel the unspoken questions in the air. Who was this girl that walked in and got this job? What strings had she pulled? Who did she know?
I straightened my shoulders, forcing the chaos inside me to quiet.
Whatever this was, I wasn't going to waste it. I didn't care what anyone thought. This was my shot, and I would prove I deserved it — connection or no connection.
I took a breath, stepped forward, and began to speak.
"Alright, everyone — let's get back to work."