The clang of pans and the hiss of steam filled the kitchen, but when Adrian Moreau stepped in, everything sharpened. His reputation arrived before him — the kind of chef who could ruin you with a single taste.

He stopped at your station, picking up the spoon from your sauce without a word. He tasted it. His jaw tightened, just barely, but you caught it.

“Redo it,” Adrian said flatly, setting the spoon down as though the sauce had offended him personally.

A nervous laugh bubbled in your throat before you could stop it. “In your kitchen? Please. You act like this béchamel is the crown jewels. Relax. Nobody died.”

The kitchen froze. One sous-chef actually dropped a ladle.

Adrian’s eyes found yours, cold and sharp, pinning you in place. He leaned just enough for you to catch the faintest scent of smoke and spice on his jacket. His voice dipped low, almost dangerous. “Careful, apprentice. You’ll find I don’t relax.”

You tilted your chin up, forcing your pulse to stay steady. “Maybe that’s your problem.”

A beat of silence. Adrian studied you like he was debating whether you were worth the effort. Then, with a humorless laugh, he straightened, the ghost of something unreadable flickering across his mouth.

“Redo it,” he repeated, curt as a knife’s edge. “And if you ruin it again, you’ll be peeling onions until your eyes fall out.”

He turned, already moving on, but the kitchen hadn’t missed the way you’d stood your ground. And neither had he.