Chapter 2
The kitchen of my family’s Michelin-starred flagship in Vancouver is chaos.
Steam rises in thick waves, utensils flash, pans clang—but none of it touches me.
I’m standing at the center of it all, a statue of control: apron crisp, sleeves rolled up to my elbows, eyes sharper than any knife you’ve ever seen.
I move along the pass like the calm center of a storm, scanning the dishes with surgical precision. Every plate is a judgment. Every garnish, a potential failure. I bend forward, eyeing the set of dishes before me, not missing the subpar presentation.
It’s close.
But close isn’t good enough at Prism.
“Potato puree,” I snap, voice low but cutting. “Ridges are uneven. Again.” A sous chef to my left freezes mid-garnish, brow furrowed, hands trembling.
“Chef,” he stammers, fumbling the garnish again.
I close my eyes and take a deep, steadying breath. The air is a robust mix of seared meat and reduction sauces—butter browning to a nutty edge, garlic just shy of burning. Every aroma layers into the next, culminating in a perfect, ideal balance.
Even the smoke smells intentional.
Letting everything that’s going well temper my irritation, I exhale slowly and keep my voice low, controlled. “I refuse to let this service fail because of sloppy, amateur work. Do. It. Again.”
He mutters something under his breath.
A single, careless word reaches me: Bastard.
My jaw tightens at those two syllables.
Unbelievable.
I don’t have to raise my voice to command the room. “Out,” I say without raising my eyes from the botched presentation in front of me. “Pack your knives. Leave. Now.”
The entire line freezes on the spot. Fear? Yes. But respect, too. They know this is the standard, or it’s the door. There will never be an exception.
My ex-sous chef gives a curt nod of understanding. He had to have known this could be the outcome, and he risked his position here anyway. He doesn’t put up a fight, just rapidly gathers his knives and retreats to the back of the kitchen, out of my line of sight.
I grab my father’s set of knives from under the pass and move to the now vacant station. All thoughts hone in on my new mission while I wipe down the station with speed and precision as a reset. Clean. Correct. Perfect.
Julian, my cousin, meets my gaze. “Expo,” I bark. “Now.”
He steps in, breath steady, and takes inventory of the ticket line-up. Good. At least someone else here understands that this is serious.
Taking over the first plate, I inspect and adjust for perfection. Every sauce flick, every microgreen: flawless. If it’s not immaculate, I fix it myself.
I feel no satisfaction in firing the sous chef.
I feel… nothing.
Passion was trained out of me a long time ago, replaced by precision, by legacy, and by expectation. Everything here is to be executed without error. Anything to the contrary is unacceptable.
Falling into the rhythm of a station is second nature. Muscle memory overtakes any thought I might have, and I’m lost in the ebb and flow of service.
Eyes always scanning; hands always moving.
“Hot line!” Julian’s order cracks the commotion. “Four short rib, three chicken, two octo, three lobster, and four pork!”
“HEARD!” Every voice, including mine, resounds in unison. Synchronized movement erupts across the kitchen as each line cook springs into their designated actions.
My heart rattles hard in my chest, but my face is the picture of careful stoicism. The pace is quick, but I’m quicker.
“Hot line, six out!” Terri yells from the back of the kitchen. She is the best damn grill cook I’ve ever seen, and it takes every ounce of willpower I have to not watch her precise, methodical movements.
“HEARD!” Another battle cry rings out.
Julian swipes his forehead with the back of his arm and passes off an order to one of the waiting servers, who disappears out of view in a hurry. The pass sits ready for action.
Knowing I only have minutes, I move down the line to Gordon on sauces.
I taste the glaze for the chicken. Too sweet.
I fix it with a touch of vinegar without hesitation.
“Watch your heat on the sauté,” I warn, sliding in beside him and tilting the pan myself.
“We’re not burning a single clove of garlic tonight. ”
“Yes, Chef!” His response is immediate. Quick, but not bitter.
I clasp him on the shoulder, squeezing firmly.
The most praise anyone on my team gets from me.
Gordon’s exhaled breath fills the space between us with the faint scent of spearmint.
He’s new to his position, but his willingness to take correction without backlash is going to take him far in this industry.
“Hot line! Start plating!”
“HEARD!”
Every free hand rushes the pass for the final push to get beautiful, delicious creations in front of our guests. I feel the soft brush of a shoulder against my side as Terri slides in and passes off her work. It’s always impeccable, but I check out of habit anyway.
She’s gone as fast as she came.
The service continues, plates moving past me in choreographed chaos. Every flaw noted, every misstep corrected, every dish leaving the kitchen as close to perfection as humanly possible.
Julian calls the last ticket. “Final fire—two rib, one veg.”
Then the kitchen noise dips, tension twisting tighter rather than fading. Final plates matter most; every critic in town loves a late seating.
My team doesn’t miss a beat. These are some of the most exquisite executions I’ve ever seen from them, which makes my job easy. When the mains clear the pass, I check my watch.
“Savory’s done. Pastry, bring it home!”
With our part of the service finished, the scent of caramel and sugar replaces garlic and char throughout the kitchen.
For the next hour, I watch our pastry team put out intricate tarts adorned with meticulously placed edible flowers, perfectly torched crème brulés, and stacks of multi-colored macarons.
The lump that rises in my throat is sudden, but I turn away and start helping the rest of the cooks with clean-up. No time to dwell on what could have been.
Only once the chrome gleams spotless and everything is reset for tomorrow’s service do I venture to the front of the house, where Julian and one of our servers are lounging on the tall stools near the bar.
My eyes, stinging from the smoke and seasonings in the air, have a hard time focusing in the dim light.
“There he is,” Julian says, slowly clapping. “The man, the myth, the legend! Not a single dish was returned all night. That’s a new record!”
“It really shouldn’t be,” I grumble, sliding my hands into the pockets of my slacks. Praise for doing the bare minimum? Pathetic. My job tonight was to produce perfection. And that’s exactly what I did.
Not fucking it up shouldn’t be impressive.
“I don’t know, Alex.” Charlene props her chin on her hand, turning my way. She bats her eyelashes as she takes a sip of wine that I assume Julian gifted her on the house. “The way you move back there is something else.”
Her tone is flirtatious and laced with suggestion. I recognize her intentions immediately for what they are.
I’ve never had a problem garnering female attention. I’m tall with a full head of thick brown hair and blue eyes that are often described as captivating. I spent the better part of six years with an expander and braces. I also come from a good family with a strong reputation.
I’m not na?ve. I know the effect I have on women.
Too bad I don’t care in the slightest.
I lean my forearms against the bar, the cool, polished wood chilling my skin on contact. It feels so damn good. I’ve been on fire all night.
For a brief moment, I take her in. She’s pretty enough, I guess. Long dark hair, big doe eyes. Pouty lips. But she’s like every other pretty girl I’ve already met in this city. Nothing special.
Julian grins my way, inclining his head subtly in her direction like he’s encouraging me to lean into her attraction. I don’t take the bait.
“The bar is in Hell.” My tone is clipped as I take a seat, leaving an empty stool between us. Her eyes cast down at it, then back to my expression. Understanding has her face falling, but she’s dejected for only a moment before turning her attention to Julian.
Even though we’re cousins, we look like we could be brothers. The only difference between us is his dark eyes in contrast to my blues. If she’s attracted to me, she’s definitely also attracted to him. Which is perfect, because she’s exactly his type.
He notices her attention on him and immediately runs his hand through his hair, preening. Unbothered by being the second choice. Without missing a beat, he downs his glass of whiskey and says, “We were just finishing up here. Want to walk out together?”
“No, you guys go ahead. I’m going to hang out for a while, maybe rest my eyes a bit.”
“Okay, man, we’ll see you tomorrow.” He stands, draping an arm around Charlene’s shoulder as she beams a bright smile up at him. Weird how women can turn it on and off on a whim. Dating in this city has shown me enough to know that you can’t trust any of them. They’re all the same.
“Good night,” Charlene says sweetly, tracing fingers along my still-exposed forearm as she passes. Julian looks back over his shoulder as they’re walking out and mouths, “Thank you”, in my direction.
I wave a hand in dismissal.
My head feels like a ton of bricks. I cross my arms on the bar top and drop my head against them, yawning. I don’t know how long I stay that way, but I must doze off at some point, because the sound of the kitchen door snapping shut startles me awake.
My head whips up, neck cracking in the process, and I wince at the sharp popping sensation. My heart races, breaths shallow, as I squint my eyes and try to make sense of the figure moving toward me. Between the dim lighting and my still-unfocused gaze, it’s hard to make out who it is.