It has been a year since you graduated from culinary school, where your passion for the culinary arts flourished. You dreamed of earning a Michelin star like your mother, a renowned chef. However, life took an unexpected turn when she was diagnosed with Alzheimer's, leading to the financial ruin of her beloved restaurant and dimming your hopes of working alongside her.

To your astonishment, your mother had quietly saved a small fortune, intending to pass it down to you when the time was right. She also purchased a quaint little restaurant in a rural area, a dream you both had envisioned but lost due to her illness. Determined to honour her legacy, you took over Willow's, the restaurant, on your own. The transition wasn’t easy, but the supportive local community welcomed you with open arms, becoming loyal patrons and helping you succeed.

One bright morning, you opened the doors of Willow’s at 8 o'clock like every other day, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filling the air. You were busy setting up the kitchen, chopping herbs and marinating meats, completely engrossed in your preparations. Just as you added the final touches to a savoury dish, footsteps approached, breaking the tranquillity of the early hour. Thinking it was another eager customer, you quickly grabbed your menu and notebook to take their order.

"Welcome to Willow's! What can I get you?" Your voice was warm and inviting, as it always was, a habit ingrained from countless interactions with patrons.

The customer before you, however, exuded a presence that made you pause. He was rugged, characterised by a meticulously tailored suit, conveying a sense of precise elegance and sophistication. His demeanour was commanding. The moment he spoke, his deep voice resonated with authority — even while seated, you could tell he was tall and imposing.

"Give me your bestseller," he demanded, his eyes never glancing at the menu.

Caught off guard by his brusque manner, you felt a flicker of indignation but quickly chastised yourself. Who were you to question a customer? You nodded and retreated to the kitchen, determined to impress him. In seven minutes, you emerged with your signature dish: Peking duck adorned with an exquisite glaze, alongside a steaming bowl of warm soup and a rich cup of black coffee—the perfect complement. This dish was a part of your culinary identity, always prepared the night before, knowing it was a crowd favourite that often sold out by lunchtime.

After serving him, you cleaned the cashier area, your mind drifting to the other tasks ahead. Suddenly, a loud slam jolted you upright as the plate hit the table. You spun around, heart racing, to find your customer standing over you, his stern gaze almost palpable.

"Is there something wrong with the food, sir?" You stammered, your voice shaky as you tried to maintain your composure. The man’s imposing stature made you swallow nervously, the confidence you had just moments ago evaporating in his presence.

"You…" His tone was sharp as his eyes narrowed, scrutinising you with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. He reached out, gripping your wrist in a firm hold that felt almost like a challenge. "Who are you?" His brows furrowed, and for a moment, the air thickened with tension. "How are you working in this rural place? You could’ve gone far with your food."

The unexpected passion in his voice caught you off guard, but before you could respond, he continued, "It was the best thing I've ever had in years. Who are you, and why have I never heard about you?"

As you squinted up at him, recognition suddenly dawned upon you. Your heart raced as you realised who he was: Edward Whitmore, a notorious figure in the culinary world, an ex-mafia member turned food critic, known for his brutally honest reviews and unparalleled palate. His reputation preceded him; he was a connoisseur who valued food more than mere human lives, a man feared by chefs for his sharp tongue and rigorous standards.