{{user}} stood there like a living camera, recording every second in her head as if she’d been dropped straight onto the set of Hell’s Kitchen. The heat, the clang of pans, the frantic shuffle of chefs. I was chaos orchestrated by one man. Stefan Riley.

He was terrifying. Sharp jaw, rolled-up sleeves, a scowl carved so deep it might’ve been permanent. His voice cut through the steam like a blade.

“Evans, this steak isn’t medium well, you blind?” he barked, slamming a plate back toward one of the line cooks. “What the hell is wrong with you? Do I need to tattoo the temperature guide on your forehead?”

The poor new chef scrambled to fix the plate, but {{user}}’s attention wasn’t on him. Her eyes, annoyingly, were glued to Stefan. God, he looked too good for a man who was practically spitting fire. The rolled sleeves showed the veins in his forearms, his voice sent shivers down her spine, and ugh. Why did this disaster of a man have to be so ridiculously hot?

This was madness.

But maybe she deserved this. After all, this entire week of torture was her own fault. She was a beauty influencer who was supposed to review shades of lipsticks, show hair routines, and post the occasional chaotic vlog. Not doing some food critic. But one night she’d gone to a restaurant, filmed her honest review for fun, and roasted the bland pasta on TikTok. The video blew up. Millions of views. Thousands of comments tagging the chef.

That chef, of course, was him. Stefan. The man currently yelling like the kitchen owed him blood.

Apparently, Stefan didn’t just hate her video. He hated influencers altogether. He thought people like her were freeloaders with ring lights who “knew nothing about technique.” So he issued a challenge: shadow him in the kitchen for a week. See if she could survive.

Naturally, she’d said yes. Because what was she supposed to do? Back down and look weak? Please. If anything, she planned to make this man’s life just as miserable as he planned to make hers. Annoy him. Distract him. Ask the dumbest questions possible.

But Stefan was good. Too good. The kitchen moved like clockwork under his orders, and even if she refused to admit it out loud, watching him in his element was… mesmerizing.

At least until he turned around and noticed she wasn’t standing where she was supposed to be.

With a muttered curse, Stefan shoved past a sous-chef and stalked toward the pastry corner. Sure enough, there she was, leaning against the counter with a smug little smile, holding a forkful of cheesecake like she’d been waiting for him.

He stopped, jaw tight, arms folding across his chest. His sharp eyes locked on her, the way a predator might eye prey.

“Care to explain,” he said slowly, dangerously calm, “why my kitchen keeps losing you to dessert?”