Chapter 0269
Abby
I’m still standing, frozen, just inside the threshold of the kitchen. The air is silent as John and Anton
suddenly halt their cooking, their eyes meeting each other for a moment before they slide over to me.
“Abby?” John’s voice is somewhat incredulous, seeing as how I haven’t set foot in here for the past
three weeks. “Did you need something?”
I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves as I face John and Anton, their expressions a mix of
surprise and curiosity. “I’m just... checking in,” I manage to say, but even to my own ears, the words
sound like a lie.
Anton leans back against the prep station and wipes his hands on the towel that’s slung over his
shoulder. “Checking in?” He arches an eyebrow as a smirk ys on his lips. “Is that really it?”
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John nods in agreement with Anton and folds his arms over his chest. “Yeah, Abby, tell us the truth.”
There’s a pause, a moment where I wonder if I should make up an excuse and leave, but I know that
Ethan and Daisy are blocking the other side of the door. And besides, there’s no point in lying. My staff
knows me too well.
“Alright, fine. I want toe in and cook,” I confess, the words tumbling out of my mouth in a rush. “But
I’ve been scared. Scared that I can’t do it anymore.”
The kitchen seems to freeze in time. John and Anton exchange a knowing nce with one another
before looking at me, and it’s then that I realize that they’ve likely being talking about this for a while
now.
Anton’s smirk softens ever so slightly. “Scared, huh?” He chuckles, but there’s no malice in it. “There is
no such thing as fear in the kitchen.”
John’s approach is a little more gentle. “Look, Abby, we’ve all been there. But you can’t let one loss
hold you back from what you’re really good at.”
Before I can respond, they''re on either side of me, their hands reassuring on my shoulders. Anton is
suddenly grabbing a chef’s coat off of the hook.
“Here,” he says, holding it open for me. “Put this on. No chef cooks in their street clothes.”
I hesitantly slip my arms into the sleeves, the fabric hanging a bit loose, but instantly I feel a shift. It’s
like a newfound purpose is watching over me. John is grinning now, the lines around his eyes crinkling
along with it.
“And you’ll be needing this,” he says, thrusting a whisk into my hand. It’s an old one, the wires bent
from use, but it feels right.
“If you want to cook, then cook,” Anton says, pushing me toward the line.
…
I’m not sure exactly how long I’ve been standing at the prep station, working on the same pile of
vegetables. My hand is shaky as I julienne the peppers, the slices either too thick or too thin for my
liking. But I’m here, and that counts for something, right?
Suddenly, John’s voice slices through the fric air of the bustling kitchen.
“Abby, we really need another hand here. Can you jump on the line?”
I hesitate for just a split second—old fears gnawing at me—but when I turn around and see Anton and
John struggling to keep up with a rapidly worsening dinner rush, that’s when adrenaline kicks in.
“On it.”
The line turns into a blur. The sounds all morph into one cacophony of tters and sizzling, with my
own voice rising above the rest.
“Orders up! Let’s keep it moving, people!”
“Two risottos, onemb, on the fly!” John calls out as ticket after ticket streams out of the printer, adding
to the pile we’ve already got umted.
It seems, since what happened at the cook-off, that the restaurant’s poprity has risen ever so
slightly. I didn’t notice because I kept myself locked away in my office, but I can see it now. I feel guilty,
knowing that my staff was struggling to beat the rush while I was wallowing between piles of invoices.
“Risotto,ing right up,” I call back, keeping my rhythm as though no time has passed at all. “How
long on thatmb?”
“Six minutes,” Anton replies, his chef’s knife nothing but a blur of silver as he works through a pile of
herbs.
I move, scooping steaming hot mushroom risotto into miniature cast iron pans. The risotto waits under
the heatmp for a server to whisk it away, and I’m already onto the next order.
As the rush builds, so does the heat, the smells, the sounds of the kitchen. I feel like a ship’s captain in
the midst of a raging storm, but I haven’t felt this alive in a while.
“I need a beef bourguignon, stat!” I bark, sliding two hot pans onto the stove with practiced ease.
“Beef’s resting, two minutes,” John responds, his forehead beading with sweat as he checks the ovens.
My hands work on autopilot, searing, ting, garnishing. I call for dishes, and theye, the team
working with a seamless synergy that makes me forget about everything else.
“Abby, table five’s asking about their scallops,” Daisy shouts over the sizzle and roar.
“Tell them it’s on its way,” I reply, flipping the scallops with a flick of my wrist, perfectly browned.
“Need a hand?” John asks, his gaze meeting mine. There’s a knowing glint in his eyes, a sh of
something that tells me that he’s thrilled to have me back in the kitchen.
“Just get that beef out,” I say, and he grins, nodding.
Eventually, the rushes to its end. The orders wane, leaving, John, Anton, and I out of breath and
leaning on the line, finally able to wipe the sweat from our brows.
I let out a long breath I didn’t know I was holding. It’s over. I made it through the dinner rush, and… I
didn’t even think twice.
The crew begins to clean up the line and begin prep for tomorrow so we can get home early. For the
first time in three weeks, I’m exhausted; really, truly exhausted, but in a good way.
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“Yeah,” I say, and I mean it. The fear, the hesitation—it’s gone, burned away in the heat of the dinner
rush. “It feels… great.”
“Good to have you back, Chef,” Anton says, nodding with approval.
I am a chef. No matter what Daniel said, no matter what happened during that cook-off, I am a chef. I
earned this title, fair and square, with blood, sweat, and tears.
And I’ll be damned if I let another man try to take it from me.