Divorce to Destiny: Reclaiming My CEO Husband

429 Desperate Measures

(Cass)

"If he speaks English, I'll just go tell him myself. Thank you so much for translating."

The man smiles and nods.

I make my way towards the kitchen door. The waitress steps in front of me, shaking her head.

I smile and pat her arm. "It's okay, this will only take a minute." I step around her and push the door open, stepping around her and into the kitchen.

The place is chaos: steam rising from pans, knives chopping at lightning speed, and a tall, broad-shouldered chef barking orders that sound like gunshots in French.

I know his type, old-school chefs that think abuse and overworking people is how to get the best out of them. But he doesn't intimidate me. I know what I need to do. "Excuse me!" I call out, and the noise screeches to a halt. The chef spins around, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

"What the hell you in my kitchen for?" he barks, his accent thick, but his English clear and cutting.

I swallow but hold my ground. "I had your vegetable soup. It was amazing, but I thought a bit more acidity and fresh thyme could really elevate it."

His eyebrows shoot up, and he looks at me like I've grown a second head.

The staff around us freeze, eyes wide with fear. Boy, he must be some tyrant.Content © NôvelDrama.Org.

Whatever, bullies don't scare me.

"You think you can barge into my kitchen and tell me how to improve my soup?" he spits out, his voice booming. "This soup is already best. It needs no change."

"I think chefs should always be learning. No one can know everything, and techniques and palates change all the time. Maybe that's why you're stuck in this small-town pub instead of running some five-star place in Paris."

His face turns a deep shade of red, and for a second, I think he's going to throw me out. But then he lets out a bitter laugh. "You have some nerve," he says. "You think you're special because you've got American opinions? You think you do me a favor?"

"Not really," I say, folding my arms. "But I've worked in kitchens before, and I need some work. No one else in here seems to speak English."

"You want work?" he snaps, pointing to a mountain of dirty pots and pans stacked by the sink. It's a fortress of grime and grease. "Wash those."

"Fine," I say, rolling up my sleeves. "But what do I get?"

"You get paid. If you finish. You get breakfast."

"Will it be enough to get a train to Brussels?"

"Brussels? Maybe. But I no think you can keep up."

"Challenge accepted."

I plunge into the work, scrubbing, rinsing, and stacking the commercial dishwasher with speed and determination. The water scalds my hands, and food scraps splatter all over me, but I don't stop.

The kitchen empties out as the staff finishes their shifts, and soon, it's just me and the endless pile of dishes, huge pots, frypans, mixing bowls. Like everything you can ever imagine.

I'm soaked, sweaty, and aching, but I keep going until every last thing is gleaming and put back in its place.

Finally, well past midnight, I scrub down the sink and lean against the counter, exhausted but triumphant. The last thing I do is soak the many pieces of cutlery in hot water and spirits to dry individually to get them shining.

The kitchen door swings open, and the chef walks back in. His eyes widen slightly when he sees the spotless sink and me still standing here polishing cutlery.

"You're still here," he says, sounding surprised.

"Yeah," I reply, barely able to keep the exhaustion out of my voice. "I'm no quitter."

He crosses his arms, looking at me with something that might be grudging respect. "Why Brussels?" he asks, his voice softer but still gruff.

"I need to get to my sister," I say, keeping it vague. "Family stuff. It's important. But I want to do it alone, you know?" I shrug.

He doesn't press for details, just studies me for a moment. "I don't take on juniors," he says, his tone still grumpy but less harsh. "But you've got guts. I'll give you a job for the week. Room and meals included. And if you do well, I'll pay for your fare to Brussels on top of fair wage."

Relief floods through me, and I straighten up, trying not to show how much it means. "Thank you," I say, my voice steady. I take off the soaked and soiled apron.

"I tried the thyme and acidity. You were right."

"Oh cool. It was just a thought. I didn't mean to offend you."

"You work in food?"

"Yes, I think it's what I want to do. I'm good at it."

He nods. "I no go easy on you," he warns, but there's a hint of a smile.

"Maybe I won't go easy on you either," I reply.

He glares at me and then his face breaks into a smile and he's laughing. "Come. I take you to room. You sleep. 6am you clean bar."

6am? Good times.

But I have a job and a way to Brussels.

Then I can tell Winona everything and hope she understands.