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Chapter 1

Heizel POV

“Heizel, table five is ready for the main course.”

“Hmmm,” I muttered without turning to Gabrielle. “Main course with chicken, four minutes.”

“Yes, chef,” my kitchen staff responded almost like a chorus, the routine comforting in its predictability.

“Table 10, ready,” I called out loudly, pressing the button for the waitress.

“Table 10,” Gabrielle echoed back with a big smile. She stood there, her eyes fixed on me like she was waiting for me to say something.

“What?” I asked, still focused on the food, feeling her stare but trying to ignore it.

“It’s him again…”

“Him?” I shrugged, not letting myself get distracted. “Maybe he just really likes my food.”

“Heizel, that guy has been coming here every single day for the past three weeks,” Gabrielle said, dropping her tone slightly, leaning in as if to share a secret.

“He orders food, expensive whiskey, and then just sits there… waiting for you to finish your kitchen routine. After that, he stares at you from the bar. No blinking, no smiling—just staring.”

“And?” I wasn’t sure where she was going with this. “What does it matter? He’s just a customer, Gab. Maybe he’s looking for inspiration or something.”

Gabrielle raised an eyebrow. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Come on, don’t act like you don’t notice. Are you... not curious?”

I rolled my eyes, feeling more and more distracted by her line of questioning. “Hurry up before the food gets cold.”

Gabrielle held my gaze for a beat longer than necessary, and I swear I could almost hear her internal smirk. “Sure, sure. Just don’t come crying to me when you’re swooning over Mr. Mysterious.” She turned and strutted off, her playful attitude making me shake my head.

With at least three minutes to spare, I started cleaning my station, trying to push the whole mysterious man thing from my mind. The metallic tang of the kitchen blended with the deep, earthy aroma of rosemary and garlic from the stove—comforting and familiar. But my thoughts wandered back to him—a man, well-dressed, always in a sharp suit, looking like he had stepped off the cover of a magazine. He was perfect. He was mysterious.

Sometimes, I wondered if I stared into those deep brown eyes for too long, I’d drown. It wasn’t that I was attracted to him… exactly. It was just that… something about him made me feel like I should know him. And that something, itched at me.

“Shit… ouch…”

“I'm so sorry, chef!” my student rushed to apologize, looking like she’d seen a ghost. Without warning, she brushed past me with a hot oven plate. The heat seared through my sleeve, making me wince as the burn settled into my skin.

“No worries,” I said, trying to stay calm even though I was already mentally adding this burn to the ever-growing collection of scars on my hands. They were like badges at this point—proof of my years spent in the kitchen, a testament to the fire I’d fought through to build this place.

Time ticked on, but my thoughts still drifted back to him. He wasn’t just any customer. He was different, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that his presence in my restaurant meant more than just a love for good food.

The clock read 19:45. I blinked, and suddenly it was 22:25. Damn, that was how time worked in the kitchen, I thought. When you’re in control, it flies by; when you’re just waiting for the next distraction, it drags. It’s why I had a love-hate relationship with service hours.

As I handed over the last plate to the waiter, the aroma of duck confit filled the air, rich and intoxicating, mingling with the sweetness of caramelized shallots. Gabrielle returned with a glass of chilled Chablis, its crispness a welcome contrast to the warmth of the kitchen.

“You did it again,” Gabrielle said with a knowing grin, her eyes flicking toward the bar.

“Did what?” I said, arching an eyebrow.

She shrugged but didn’t need to say more. Her smile was more than enough of an answer.

I took the glass and headed downstairs to the staff room, where we had showers, a lounge, and a changing area. The faint sound of jazz played in the background, the soft notes wrapping around me like a familiar blanket. The calendar on the wall caught my attention. Today—my third anniversary.

I stood there for a moment, staring at the date. It felt significant, but only in a strange, impersonal way. I’d gotten so caught up in the daily grind, I’d barely noticed it. Three years. It felt like both a lifetime and just yesterday.

I was proud. I was happy. I’d built something real, something mine. No one had helped me get here. No family money. No investors. Just me.

But then a thought crossed my mind. What if I wasn’t enough? Was this all I had to show for it? A restaurant? Was it too late for something else?

I shook the thought off. I didn’t need more right now. I needed a quiet night, a glass of wine, and a moment to breathe.

“Okay, Heizel, enough,” I told myself, heading to the changing room. “Go change, enjoy the wine, and no work tonight. You deserve it.”

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