Chapter Text
You arrive early. Too early, if you’re being honest with yourself. The kind of early that makes you linger across the street pretending not to stare. The kind of early that makes your stomach churn with too much caffeine and not enough sleep and your hands shake slightly as you pretend to scroll your phone.
You shift your weight from foot to foot, breath fogging faintly in the morning chill. It smells like wet stone and bakery sugar from somewhere down the street. A bell chimes from a nearby tram line. You can’t stop staring.
The Crimson Table looms ahead like something pulled out of a dream you weren’t good enough to have. The front is discreet, almost unassuming — tall mahogany doors with a single brass plate, unadorned except for those three engraved words. There are no gaudy signs, no flashes of neon. It doesn’t advertise. It doesn’t have to.
Your fingers tighten around the strap of your knife roll. Your palms grow damp with perspiration. You can’t help the way your eyes drift to your reflection in a shop window. Pale face. Chapped lips. Sloppy bun knotted too high, a few strands of blonde hair already slipping free. Your new jacket doesn’t quite sit right — too stiff at the collar — and your shoes feel like they belong to someone else.
You rehearse a litany you half-believe. You worked for this. You’re not a mistake, but that cruel inner-voice is louder:
You don’t belong here.
Not with your cheap phone charger fraying in your bag. Not with the little spiral-bound notebook crammed in the side pocket, full of crossed-out ideas and stupid doodles. Not with your dumb heart hammering because you're not just about to step into any kitchen — you’re stepping into her kitchen.
Chef Dimitrescu.
The name alone makes something go cold and electric in your spine. You’ve read the reviews, the interviews, the brutal blog posts from ex-staffers who cracked under the pressure. She’s a myth. A monster. A genius.
And she hired you.
Somehow.
You still don’t understand why. Your instructors praised your technique, your creativity, your weird precision with plating —They provided glowing references, but this ? This is The Crimson Table. Michelin-starred. Revered. A waiting list just to dine here. You’d applied on a dare and forgot about it. And then, three weeks later: an offer.
You nearly said no.
But now you’re here. And the mahogany doors are just across the street.
Your feet go before your brain can vote. Cross the street. Grip the brass handle. Inhale. Don’t stammer when you speak. Try not to sweat through your coat.
The door exhales around you, slow and smooth, and the warmth reaches first — clean citrus polish, something floral and faintly spiced. Marble floors glow under the soft light, pale and perfect, like they’ve never known a single scuff. A vase stands at attention by the host stand, white orchids arranged with surgical restraint. You don’t hear the music until you stop moving — it’s that intentional.
The woman at the desk doesn’t smile. Her black blazer fits like it was tailored around a knife. She doesn’t look up until she’s ready — then she does, and her lipstick is the kind of red that looks effortless until you try it and realize you’ve bought five wrong shades and still missed whatever undertone makes it work.
“You’re early,” she says, not unkind and not kind. Statement, not judgment.
“I—” You clear your throat and try again. “Yes.” Too soft. She does not ask for more.
“Kitchen staff entrance,” she says, a sleight of hand on the tablet. “Left hallway. Last door.”
You murmur a thank-you that sounds more like a whimper and start walking. The hallway is lined with golden sconces, every light soft and indirect. Even the sound of your steps feel too loud.
The last door is brushed steel. No sign. Just a discreet push bar.
You take a breath. This is it.
You push through and the door swings shut behind you with a hydraulic hiss.
You barely make it two steps in before the heat hits — dense and humid. Not just heat from the ovens. Heat from bodies. From breath. From movement so fast and synchronized it makes you dazed.
Steel and marble gleam under the fluorescent lights. Counters are already cluttered with prep — whole fish flayed open like silver fans, bones stacked for stock, towers of vegetables shaved into exacting geometry. Copper pans gleam overhead.
Nobody looks up.
The staff here are a blur of muscle and accuracy. They move like they’ve been rehearsing this for years. Black and white uniforms dart past. Their sleeves rolled and knives flashing. You glimpse a woman icing a tray of pâte à choux with the delicacy of a surgeon. Another is breaking down full chicken carcasses at shocking speed, bare hands slick with something pink and glossy.
You hover. Bag clutched to your chest like a life vest. You shift to the wall, out of traffic. Your jacket suddenly feels too warm. You clear your throat once — a weak sound, brittle and low.
No introductions. Just motion.
And then —
The kitchen shifts.
There’s a tightening in the air. It’s not silence exactly. But stillness . Like everyone just took the same breath and forgot to let it go. The rhythm of knives pauses mid-chop. Someone turns down the heat on a pan without being told. A metal tray is lifted more gently than necessary.
Click. Click. Click.
The sound of heels, unhurried and deliberate.
You turn.
She’s taller than you imagined. Taller than anyone you’ve ever seen in chef’s whites. The fabric clings sharp to her frame, definitely custom-tailored. Pristine white and creaseless.
Her hair gleams under the lights, black and severe, pulled back so tightly it looks like it might hurt. Nothing escapes it.
A clipboard hangs in her grasp, pages turned with the kind of lazy certainty that comes from knowing nothing in this room escapes her notice.
Alcina Dimitrescu.
The reviews hadn’t prepared you. The interviews hadn’t captured this.
The sheer gravity of her. You find yourself in orbit.
You know you should look away — resume tying your apron or unpack your knives or do something — but your eyes stay locked. It's not just that she’s beautiful. It’s not just the impossible height, the way her coat sways like it was made for someone imperial. It’s the command. The stillness in the eye of the storm.
She looks up.
Her eyes find you immediately. As if she already knew where you stood.
The glance lands soft. Deceptive. Like a silk ribbon tied too tight around your throat.
And then she walks.
Toward you.
Every step is paced like a predator that knows it cannot be outrun. Her heels click against the tile softly. She passes the other cooks without a glance. They part like mist.
When she stops in front of you, she doesn’t speak immediately.
And you —
You’re just staring.
Mouth open. Shoulders slouched. Bag still clutched like a teddy bear. You straighten in a heartbeat, spine locking upright. Your pulse is thundering so hard you’re afraid it’s visible through your jacket.
Her eyes sweep over you. Not cruelly. Just… efficiently. Like she’s inspecting a cut of meat someone overcooked.
You open your mouth. What comes out is not your name.
“I’m sorry.”
Your voice is too soft. You clear your throat.
“I mean—good morning. Chef. I’m—uh. Rosemary Winters. I—”
She lifts a brow. The clipboard lowers slightly. That’s all it takes.
You keep going, because you’re stupid. “I just got in last night. I know I’m early. I didn’t mean to, get in the way. I just wanted to—uh. Thank you. For the opportunity.”
You want to die. You can hear yourself. The floundering. The too-many syllables.
“Did I ask for a monologue?” she asks, voice low and velvety. The kind of voice you lean into without meaning to.
You blink.
Your lips try to form a response.
They don’t succeed.
Alcina glances back at her clipboard, then lowers it slightly.
“You’re the American.”
A statement. Not a question.
“Yes, Chef" you croak.
Her gaze sweeps from your shoes to your bun.
Then, finally, a single word.
“Prep.”
“Huh?”
“You are a prep cook.” Her tone sharpens, just slightly. “Not commis. Not garde-manger. You are here to peel, chop, and keep quiet.”
You nod so fast your hair slips from its tie, “Yes, Chef.”
Her eyes move to the mess of blonde now falling into your lashes.
“Fix that,” she says, not unkindly. “Before someone assumes you cut vegetables the way you style your hair.”
It takes you a second. And then—
Oh.
You go red. Heat crawls up your neck like fire under skin.
“Y-yes, Chef.”
Your hands scramble for the elastic in your hair. You twist your hair back too tight. Your fingers fumble, breath shallow. The knot you make feels wrong, but you don’t dare adjust it.
When you glance back up, she’s still watching.
Not amused. Not angry. Just… taking you in. Like you’re a dish she hasn’t decided whether to taste.
And then—
A flicker.
The edge of her mouth curves — not into a smile. Nothing that kind. Something smaller.
“I expect precision,” she says, finally lifting the clipboard again. “Clean cuts. No bruised herbs. No attitude.”
You nod. Too fast again. “Of course. Absolutely.”
“And if you must cry," she adds, "do it into the stock."
A beat.
"It could use the salt."
She steps past you.
Laughter doesn't follow. Just the return of motion.
She's gone.
You stand there, flushed and breathless.
A few cooks glance sidelong at you, the way one might glance at a bird that’s flown into a window. No one laughs. But one of them smirks.
You swallow, cheeks still burning. You’re not sure whether to feel humiliated or exhilarated.
Maybe both.