Norah did not sleep for a single second that night.

Enzo had escorted her to a private bedroom in the staff quarters, a room far nicer than her own cramped apartment.

She spent the entire night staring at the ceiling, wondering how her life had derailed so spectacularly in a matter of hours.

By six in the morning, the heavy anxiety in her chest forced her out of the soft, luxurious bed.

She dressed in the plain black uniform Enzo had left folded on the chair for her.

When she pushed through the swinging doors of the main kitchen, the morning staff was already buzzing with chaotic energy.

The new head chef, a tall, arrogant man named Marcel, stopped chopping vegetables the moment he saw her.

He glared at her with absolute disgust, wiping his expensive culinary knife on a pristine white towel.

"The cleaning supplies are in the utility closet down the hall," Marcel snapped, dismissing her with a wave of his hand.

Norah took a deep breath, trying to steady the nervous trembling in her hands as she walked further into the kitchen.

"I am not here to clean the floors today," Norah said, her voice surprisingly steady despite her internal panic.

"Mr. Rossy ordered me to prepare his breakfast."

The entire kitchen fell completely silent, the only sound being the low hum of the massive industrial refrigerators.

Marcel let out a harsh, mocking laugh that echoed off the stainless steel countertops and white tiled walls.

"You are going to cook for the boss?" Marcel sneered, stepping closer to intimidate her.

"The man rejects wagyu beef and imported truffles, and you think you can feed him?"

Before Norah could respond, the kitchen doors swung open again, and Enzo walked into the room.

His massive presence immediately sucked all the arrogance right out of the room.

"She cooks his food," Enzo stated flatly, his dark eyes daring anyone in the room to challenge the order.

"Give her whatever ingredients she asks for, and stay out of her way."

Marcel swallowed hard, his face turning pale as he quickly backed away and returned to his cutting board.

Norah walked over to the massive six-burner gas stove, feeling the heavy weight of a dozen judgmental eyes burning into her back.

She knew she could not compete with these highly trained culinary artists, so she decided not to even try.

She thought about what a damaged, healing stomach would actually be able to tolerate in the early morning.

She found a bag of plain rolled oats in the pantry, ignoring the imported steel-cut grains beside them.

She placed a small Nextcepan on the stove, bringing a mixture of water and a splash of whole milk to a gentle simmer.

She stirred the oats slowly, watching them soften and expand as the heat worked its magic.

She added a tiny pinch of salt to balance the flavor, followed by a small spoonful of dark brown sugar.

The kitchen smelled faintly of warm molasses and toasted grains, completely cutting through the heavy aromas of truffle and duck fat.

It was the most basic, unpretentious meal imaginable, and Marcel watched her with absolute, undisguised contempt.

When the oatmeal was thick and creamy, she poured it into a simple white porcelain bowl.

She placed the bowl on a silver serving tray alongside a glass of room-temperature water.

Enzo stepped forward, picking up the heavy silver tray with one massive hand.

"Wait here," Enzo instructed her, turning and pushing through the swinging doors to head up to the master suite.

Norah stood awkwardly by the stove, leaning her hip against the cool metal counter to keep her legs from shaking.

The next twenty minutes felt like standing on the edge of a towering cliff, waiting to be pushed into the abyss below.

If Vincent rejected the meal, if his paranoia returned and his stomach clenched, she would be thrown out onto the street.

Worse, the loan sharks would come looking for the money Vincent had promised to pay, and they would break her legs.

Suddenly, the kitchen doors swung open, and Enzo walked back into the room holding the silver tray.

Marcel stopped working, eager to see the rejected food and mock the foolish cleaning girl who thought she was a chef.

Enzo set the tray down on the counter directly in front of Norah.

The white porcelain bowl was completely, entirely empty, scraped clean down to the very bottom.

Enzo looked at Norah, a rare, microscopic smile touching the corner of his scarred mouth.

"He wants to know what you are making him for lunch," Enzo said.