Chapter 2: A Chef's Delight

*LEON*

I sat at the dining table and looked down at the failed works in front of me. The more I stared, the more I wondered what I was doing wrong as a chef and as a leader. I furrowed my eyebrows and frowned. "What are these?"

I could tell Frank was anxious. There was a slight tremor in his stance, and his pupil size increased as he twisted the ends of his perfectly curated mustache.

I could also hear his thoughts turning over instead of his head wondering what was going to happen next, and how he was going to afford to replace his son's worn out sports gear if he were docked as a result.

I pinched my nose and sighed.

"Frank, instead of spending all of your time fixing your mustache, why don't you spend some time studying the dishes? This is your job. Take control, or I'll do it for you. Understood?"

"Understood, chef. I'll take care of it."

Frank took out a handkerchief and wiped his sweat. I pushed the food away from myself as his thoughts flooded into my mind's eye. "You're the devil, you bastard."

"I'm much scarier than the devil," I continued, not looking up from the table as I adjusted my handkerchief on my lap. "At least they won't put you out of work. But I will."

Frank froze, completely taken aback. After working with me for so long, he was already used to this kind of thing, but it still didn't stop him from getting caught off guard each time I did it.

I'd been able to hear thoughts for as long as I can remember. I don't know when it started, or how, but it's always been a part of me. I had never directly told anyone about it—not even my late mother—and over the years, I had learned to control it, for the most part.

It's only when people experience high emotion, like Frank was now, that it goes off, and is sometimes harder to manage.

I had known Frank for over five years now; he was one of my best staff members. I wasn't hard on him because I found it fun—I was hard on him because I knew he could do better.

I finally cast my gaze his way, where he still stood, entirely immobile. "Well, don't just stand there," I somewhat bark. "Where's the dessert?"

I felt a shred of guilt creep in and Frank shook a little. It was only 11 o'clock and it had already been a bad day.

"Uh…the baker took leave today."

I instantly knew it was a lie the second it left his mouth. The baker didn't take leave—I told her not to show to test the new candidates. I knew it was a risk, but what better way to see someone's skill than when they're under the pressure?

This idea was only confirmed when I heard his thoughts declare that the apple tart the baker had made wouldn't pass.

I pressed him further, using it as leverage. "There's an apple tart prepared, no? Bring it over for me to try."

"Yes, chef..." he said while his eyes squinted in suspicion.

Frank tentatively made his way to the back kitchen, and his thoughts drifted toward me: "Calm down, Frank. You're being irrational. He can't read minds; you're just predictive."

If only he knew…

Moments later, he returned with a small tart placed decoratively on a white plate. He set the dish in front of me along with a set of utensils.

The fork slowly cut across the desert, dividing it into several pieces. I closed my eyes and took a small bite, pitting it in my mouth. Instantly, the fragrance of the apple and milk rushed to my head, with the distinct layering making my wrinkled brows slowly relax.

I took another mouthful and experienced the taste climax again and collided with the sweetness of the cinnamon, the warmth of the milk, and crunchiness of the apple. I swallowed and opened my eyes.

"Who made this?"

Frank's eyebrows connected together. "Sorry, chef?"

"Stop pretending," I stated. I pointed at the apple tart. "This is not something a newbie can make. Who tried to pass off this as their own?"

I stared at Frank, who returned my gaze with unrelenting confusion. He didn't speak; but he didn't have to—his mind did for him. "That interviewee…there's no way she'd make something he'd like. Even the most seasoned chef's don't get passed Leon"

"You're right, they don't," I noted as I put down my utensils. "You should still have her resume, correct?"

Frank's stance settled and instead of nerves, he was now straight-faced. "The resume is clearly fake, chef. She had thirty years or more worth of experience, and was only twenty! It's not possible. I've already thrown it in the shredder."

"Then take it out and think of a way to restore it to its original state before handing it to me, and go find her. I want to see her in my office before work ends today. If you can't do it, don't worry about coming in tomorrow."

I dabbed gently at my mouth with a napkin and stood from my chair. I was hard on him and the rest of my staff, but as head chef of one of the top hotel restaurants in the city, I needed to be. We weren't Michelin Star rated due to niceties.

Frank opened his mouth to rebuttal, but when my eyes flickered toward him, he instantly closed it. I didn't need to listen in on his mind to know what he was thinking. Instead, he lowered his body into a half bow and then stood straight before turning and heading back into the kitchen.

***

At dusk, the setting sun shone into my office, turning the entire space a fiery red. I looked with interest at a resume that had been taped together with transparent tape. Vicky Eaton. Interesting. Frank wasn't lying when he said she was only 20 years old. My eyes scanned the paper and quickly realized that Frank was also right about her extensive experience. I can see why he thought it was fake.

From a dishwasher to a CEO's assistant, an independent artist, a fashion designer, and so on, her work experience was so much that I almost laughed when I finished reading it. It was like reading a little girl's dream list. Coupled with Vicky's slightly childish photo, it actually had no sense of contradiction.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Speak of the devil.

"Come in!"

When the door opened. I realized my error. It wasn't Vicky, but rather Osip, my fiancée.

I set aside the paper in my hand and locked my eyes onto her. "Osip…what're you doing here?"

"Oh, Leon," she began with a smirk. "Aren't you happy to see me?"

Osip leaned against the doorframe as she spoke. The pencil skirt she wore artfully exposed the curves of her body and hourglass shape. Her long legs were tightly wrapped in sheer silk stockings, looking glossy in the slanting sun.

In the eyes of any man, Osip was a peerless beauty. She closed the door to my office and made her way to me. As she got closer, the smell of high-end perfume rushed straight to my nose. Her long curls flicked against my cheek as she leaned forward, taking my hair in her hand and turning her face to give me a passionate kiss. But before she could, I turned my face, having her lips collide instead with my cheek.

In the face of such a beauty's teasing, ordinary men would have long forgotten about the mundane world and had passionate office sex with her. Only, if they knew Osip for who she truly was, it'd be a different story.

Osip backed up and frowned at my rejection. From the first day I met her, I knew what she wanted. She said she loved me, but I knew that she wasn't telling the truth. At least, not completely. And truthfully, I was never interested in her at all. Sure, she was my fiancée, but our relationship was one built on convenience.

The Spencer family was a well-known noble family in Instonia. Osip's father owned large investment firms that spanned across several continents, and their house and luxury items just spewed wealthy.

Osip wanted to be with me only because she was interested in the power of the Knightly family in Maynea. She thought that in accepting my proposal, she could piggyback off my name, even if I had no connection to my family. She was clearly a puppet driven by benefits, and it disgusted me.

"I have something going on today and can't have dinner with you," I said as I averted my eyes back to the resume. "You can go back."

"But your assistant told me you were out of arrangements," Osip half whined. I hated that sound. I gritted my teeth and inhaled.

"I was, but I now have a last-minute interview. Don't get in the way of my work."

I leaned back in my chair and picked up the resume, hopefully signaling to her that the discussion was over. Over the top of the page, through my peripheral vision, I could see her sneering; almost seething at the fact that I wasn't giving in. Before I knew it, she snatched it out of my hand and started reading it carefully.

I sighed and watched as her eyes darted up to the photo of Vicky. I could hear her thoughts trickling in: "Fuck, she's actually pretty." Then her eyes moved down to the experience section. "What the hell was this resume? Wait, I'm not intimidated by a 20 year old…am I? No. No, I'm not."

Her gaze lifted to meet my stern one, and she then threw the piece of paper back onto my desk. "Leon, you're kidding, right? This resume looks like it was copied by some random kid on the internet. This interview is bullshit."

My body tensed. I knew she was right—hell any mediocre chef would know this resume was a crop of garbage. But there was something else inside of me telling me to explore this further. I narrowed my gaze towards her, looking up at her through my eyelashes. My voice turned cold.

"It's not up to you whether it's a waste of time or not. I'm the head chef of the Kingsland Hotel restaurant. This is my work and not another one of your petty projects. Do I make myself clear?"

I could see the wheels turning in her head. More than anything, Osip hated when people spoke like they had authority over her—and in here, she knew I had every right. This was my restaurant and there was no way anyone was going to decide shit for me.

Osip was thoroughly incensed by my attitude. I not only could hear it, but I could smell it. She reeked of jealousy. Her eyes lasered in on mine, as if she were challenging me. The fact that I was refusing her for what seemed like in her mind, another woman, was like pouring a bucket of gasoline over a dying wood fire. It instantly ignited her fighting spirit.

"So, you're telling me that instead of coming home to me, your fiancée…" She made sure to emphasize the last word. "You're staying here, working overtime, to interview some…some child!"

Her stare harshened and she pointed a finger at me. "Do you know how many men are lined up to send flowers to my office for even a chance at a dinner with me? The love letters I receive every day can fill up the entire Hudson River."

I shrugged. "Then by all means, go for it."

She opened her mouth to rebuttal and then closed it again. She had no words. Osip looked around the room and her eyes landed on the bookcase beside my desk. She moved toward it and leaned on it.

"No, I'll stay here today and watch the interview."

Fuck.

My engagement with Osip was decided by my deceased mother. To me, my mother was my only relative in the entire Knightly family. My parents met when they were in their twenties and fell in love. But because of my mother's common status, the Knightlys disapproved of their union.

This was only fuelled further when I was born as the result of an accident. Despite my parent's happiness, the Knightlys refused to consider me one of their own and disowned my father.

The only reason I used the Knightly name was because it was important to my father to keep the family name going, regardless of his own family's disloyalty. Along with being a Knightly came several benefits—however, I never enjoyed them.

People always looked to me to solve their problems, especially now that I had made my own name for myself. After my father's death, every trace of warmth I enjoyed came from my mother, Maria.

She thought that in marrying into the Spenser family, that we could start anew, forging a new alliance that would benefit us both. Maybe if the Knightly family saw that I was marrying into the Spensers, that maybe they'd take me back and I'd have someone again.

She knew I didn't love Osip, but she always believed we could grow to love one another. I tried, for the longest time. But I couldn't, no matter what I did. So, instead, I buried myself in my work and tried to make do with the life I had.

As much as I didn't want to return to a family who abandoned me…I had to admit, a life with someone, even if I hated them, was better than ever being alone.

I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose. "Sure, Osip. Whatever you want."

Osip smirked a winning smile and leaned her back against the bookshelf, situating herself to look superior in all aspects. I internally groaned and grabbed a pen to start making notes on the resume when there was a knock on the office door.

A moment later, Mason, my assistant, entered. "Sir, Vicky Eaton is here."

I kept my eyes focused on the resume. "Send her in."

I heard the shuffling of Mason's footsteps as he receded out of the doorframe, and a few minutes later, another knock came, capturing my attention.

In front of me stood a statuesque woman, who looked 20, but somehow, at the same time, also I just had a feeling that she was more mature than she appeared. She wore a knee length pencil skirt and her hair was tied perfectly into a tight bun. Her look was impeccable for someone so young, and that feeling of 'giving it a chance' returned.

"Vicky Eaton," I began. "Come in. I'm Leon Knightly, and I'd like to discuss the tart you prepared today."