Sketches.
The first version had used too much charred fennel.
Second needed more acid.
Third had been close.
This one had been right.
Warren sneered.
“You’re writing recipes now?”
“Give it back.”
“You planning a restaurant?”
“Give me my notebook.”
He dropped it.
Not onto the counter.
Onto the floor.
Nia stared.
Warren used the side of his shoe to shove it away from the line.
The notebook slid beneath a stainless worktable.
Something changed in Nia’s face.
Warren saw it.
For the first time, his confidence dipped slightly.
“You ever touch my things again,” Nia said, “and dishes are going to be the smallest problem in this kitchen.”
A sous-chef whispered:
“Nia.”
Warning.
Warren stepped forward.
“What did you say?”
Nia bent slowly.
Reached beneath the table.
Retrieved the notebook.
A smear of kitchen grease crossed the cover.
She wiped it against her apron.
Then straightened.
“I said you don’t touch my things.”
Warren’s face turned crimson.
“Take off the apron.”
The words cut through the kitchen.
Nia stared.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Warren pointed toward the back door.
“Go home.”
One of the cooks stopped chopping.
The sous-chef moved closer.
“Chef, we’re already short one dishwasher.”
“I don’t care.”
Warren looked directly at Nia.
“She wants to cook.”
“Now she can do it somewhere else.”
Nia felt the entire kitchen watching.
Her throat tightened.
Not because she was afraid of being fired.
Because part of Warren was enjoying the audience.
He wanted her to plead.
People like him loved making someone ask for the thing they controlled.
She untied the apron.
Then a voice behind them said:
“Tell me you did not just throw that soup away.”
Nobody moved.
Warren’s face changed.
Nia turned.
Arthur Vale stood inside the kitchen doors.
The sixty-three-year-old owner of Vesper House wore a charcoal suit without a tie. His silver hair had been combed back. Beside him stood Elena Park, the general manager, holding a clipboard.
Arthur was not supposed to be in the kitchen.
Not during prep.
Not without warning.
Warren recovered quickly.
“Arthur.”
Arthur ignored him.
His eyes went toward the sink.
Then the empty pot.
Then Nia.
“Where is bowl seven?”
Warren frowned.
“What?”
“The tasting.”
Elena lifted the clipboard.
“Bowl seven.”
Warren looked at her.
Then at Arthur.
Then at Nia.
The confusion on his face was genuine.
Arthur’s was not.
“Where is it?”
Warren laughed awkwardly.
“You mean that?”
He pointed toward the sink.
Arthur stared.
Warren’s smile weakened.
“It was something the dishwasher put together.”
Arthur looked toward Nia.
Then back to Warren.
“The dishwasher.”
“Yes.”
Arthur’s eyes dropped toward the grease-stained notebook in Nia’s hand.
“What did she make?”
Warren’s jaw shifted.
“Soup from trim.”
Arthur spoke slowly.
“You just dumped bowl seven into the sink.”
Warren looked toward Elena.
“What the hell is bowl seven?”
Elena answered.
“The blind tasting.”
The kitchen became very quiet.
Vesper House had spent the last three weeks developing dishes for the winter menu.