Chapter 4 The First Test

The kitchen was already in full swing by the time I arrived for my first official shift at Moretti's Patisserie. The sharp scent of melted chocolate mixed with the buttery aroma of fresh pastries, filling the air with an intoxicating warmth. The sound of knives chopping, mixers whirring, and trays clattering together formed a steady rhythm, a symphony of precision and expertise.

I took a deep breath, tying my apron with a firm knot. Today wasn't just about settling in-it was about proving myself.

I had barely stepped up to my station when a voice cut through the noise.

"Alright, Mendes."

I turned to see Shawn Moretti watching me from across the kitchen, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

"Let's see if you can actually bake."

I suppressed an eye roll. I actually had been expecting this.

He strolled toward me, a smirk playing at his lips as if he had been waiting for this moment. "You've had your tour. Now it's time to show us if you belong here."

"What do you want me to make?" I asked, keeping my voice even.

His smirk deepened. "A mille-feuille. No shortcuts. You have one hour."

An hour? Normally, I would let the dough rest longer to ensure maximum flakiness, but I could make it work.

"Fine," I said, meeting his gaze without hesitation.

His eyes lingered on me for a second longer, as if assessing whether I truly understood the challenge. Then, with a slight nod, he stepped back.

The moment he did, I sprang into action.

First, the puff pastry. I didn't have time for the traditional lengthy resting process, so I used a quicker lamination method-rolling, folding, and chilling in short bursts to build the delicate layers. I could feel the weight of eyes on me, could sense the other chefs stealing glances as I worked.

Shawn stood nearby, watching me like a hawk.

I ignored him.

Once the pastry was in the oven, I moved to the pastry cream.

I worked with precision, my hands steady as I whisked egg yolks, sugar, and vanilla into a smooth, rich custard. I strained it for extra silkiness, setting it aside to cool just as the oven timer chimed.

The puff pastry emerged golden and perfectly crisp. I let it cool briefly before slicing it into even layers, taking care to ensure clean edges.

Then, I piped the cream between the layers, careful not to overfill. It had to be balanced-enough to provide richness, but not so much that it oozed out when cut.

For the final touch, I melted fondant to a smooth consistency, glazing the top layer before finishing with delicate chocolate lines. With one final drag of the knife, I created the signature feathered design.

I exhaled.

Done.

Setting the mille-feuille on the counter, I stepped back, flexing my fingers as I glanced up.

The room had gone quieter.

Shawn walked over, picking up a knife and slicing cleanly through the pastry. His movements were precise, methodical. He lifted a piece, inspected the even layers, then took a bite.

The kitchen seemed to hold its breath.

I forced myself to remain still, refusing to fidget.

Shawn chewed, swallowed, then set the fork down with an unreadable expression.

"It's... decent."

My eye twitched.

Decent?

I had just executed a near-perfect mille-feuille under pressure, and all he had to say was decent?

I folded my arms. "That's all you have to say?"

Shawn's lips quirked slightly, amusement flickering across his face. "Do you want a round of applause?"

"No, but I'd like actual feedback," I shot back. "What's wrong with it?"

He tapped a finger against the plate. "Your puff pastry is good, but it could be flakier. Try chilling the dough for a few extra minutes before the final fold. Your pastry cream is smooth, but it could use a stronger vanilla note." His gaze locked onto mine. "It's technically correct, but it lacks personality."

I bristled. "Personality?"

Shawn shrugged. "It's textbook. Clean, precise, but nothing that sets it apart."

I stared at him, trying to decide whether to be insulted or amused.

It was infuriating because I knew he was being deliberately hard on me. The pastry had been damn near flawless, and yet he still managed to make it sound... average.

"Try again tomorrow," he added casually. "We'll see if you improve."

I clenched my jaw.

Oh, I'd improve.

I didn't care how many times I had to redo this. I would make a mille-feuille so good that even he wouldn't be able to criticize it.

As Shawn turned to leave, Elena finally spoke.

"For what it's worth," she said, leaning against the counter, "I thought it was pretty damn impressive."

I let out a slow breath. "Thanks."

"Don't take Shawn's comments too personally," Elena added. "He does this to everyone. He doesn't trust new people."

I frowned. "Why?"

Elena hesitated. "It's... complicated. Moretti's is his family's legacy. He grew up here. It's not just a job for him-it's his whole life."

I processed that.

I understood pressure. I knew what it was like to chase perfection, to want to prove myself. But I also knew arrogance when I saw it.

Whatever Shawn's reasons were, it didn't change the fact that he was being impossible.

But if he thought I was going to back down, he was mistaken.