Chapter 7 Placing the world on a plate

The estate felt colder than it had the night before-like it had been refrigerated in my absence.

I stepped through the gleaming front doors wearing my cleanest outfit: a sky-blue blouse buttoned to the collar, tailored navy slacks, and soft sneakers that wouldn't squeak on polished floors. My curls were wrapped neatly in a navy headscarf. My backpack hung tight on my shoulders, full of knives wrapped in kitchen towels, a recipe notebook, and two energy bars I hoped I wouldn't need.

This wasn't just a job.

This was the first job.

Everything before this had been side hustles, meal preps, charity cookouts, and "can you make could you make french pastries for my boyfriend's party?" texts. This-this was a salary. A real kitchen. A real test.

And someone waiting to see if I would fail.

The kitchen was already buzzing by the time I arrived.

Kiki stood near the back counter, hair pulled into a sleek high ponytail, clipboard in one hand and iced coffee in the other. She looked up and gave me a low whistle.

"Somebody's ready to break hearts and beat eggs."

I tried to smile.

"You look nervous," she added.

"Because I am," I admitted.

"He's in the east dining room. Waiting."

Waiting. Right. For me.

As I crossed the kitchen, I could feel eyes drifting toward me-quick glances, polite but cautious. No one said anything. A sous-chef slicing onions paused for half a second. A server gathering silverware eyed my sneakers.

They were curious. Maybe even a little suspicious.

A new face. No résumé. No starched whites or school certificates. Just me.

I didn't blame them.

I would've stared too.

The corridor to the east wing was lined with glass on one side, offering a view of the manicured courtyard. I walked through it like I was entering an interview inside a painting.

The door to the dining room was already open.

He was there.

Ren Sion.

Seated at the head of a long, lacquered table, tablet in one hand, black mug in the other. He wore another fitted button-up-this one charcoal gray. Sleeves rolled up, collar open. His posture was effortless but precise.

His eyes met mine the moment I stepped inside.

"You're punctual," he said.

"I try," I replied, standing straighter.

He nodded once, then tapped the tablet off and set it aside.

"Name?"

"Naila."

"Surname?"

"Sade."

He tilted his head slightly. "Nationality?"

"American."

He waited.

"I'm a citizen. Born and raised in the U.S.," I added.

He nodded once, expression unreadable. "Age?"

"Twenty-two."

"Educational background?"

"Bachelor of Science in Food and Nutrition."

He leaned back slightly. "No culinary school?"

"No, sir."

A pause.

"You didn't train professionally?"

"No."

"Then how do you cook like that?" He asked with suspicion in his eyes.

I swallowed. "My mom taught me the basics. Life taught me the rest."

Something in his jaw shifted. Maybe surprise. Maybe just thought.

He didn't question it.

Then, calmly:

"What are your star dishes?"

I blinked. "You mean...?"

"If someone handed you five minutes to prove yourself with nothing but memory and instinct-what would you make?"

I didn't hesitate.

"Slow-roasted duck legs in tamarind glaze," I said first. "With garlic-stonefruit chutney."

He said nothing.

"Spicy lamb suya sliders with pickled onions and grilled pineapple."

A small flicker crossed his brow. Interest? Maybe.

"Smoked chili ramen with soft-poached eggs and miso corn butter. Or crab mac and cheese with cassava crust. Or my lemon-ginger olive oil cake-served warm."

Still, he said nothing, like it was just casualty.

But something in his eyes changed.

Not softer. Just... sharper.

Instead, he shifted gears.

"I want breakfast."

I nodded. "Of course. Would you like Western or Korean? I can make French toast with orange zest and vanilla, or soft scrambled eggs with crème fraîche. Or we could go more traditional-cuisine, perhaps? I know how to do a version with-"

Be quiet!

"I want something that tastes like three continents," he said calmly.

I blinked. "Three?"

He folded his arms. "Africa. Asia. America. One plate. Balanced. Original."

I froze.

That wasn't a suggestion.

That wasn't even a request.

It was a challenge. A dare. A test. But to the world this was proving myself worthy.

I adjusted my shoulders. "Give me one hour."

I don't have time for an hour,30 minutes should be enough,He said

All I could do was give a nod and then he said,

"The clock starts now"