“Full creative control,” he continues. “No committee oversight, no corporate menu restrictions. You design the dishes, you hire your own staff, you source from the best suppliers in the city. My suppliers, which means you’ll have access to ingredients most chefs only dream about.” Another smile, wider this time. “And of course, I’d forgive your debt. All two hundred thousand credits. Wiped clean the day you sign the contract.”
The offer hangs in the air between them. It’s good. Better than good. It’s exactly the kind of opportunity that could rebuild a career, that could take someone from viral sensation to legitimate culinary force. Full creative control, unlimited resources, debt forgiveness.
It’s also a trap.
“That’s generous,” Mei says, her voice carefully neutral. “Very generous.”
“I recognize talent when I see it,” Grishnak says. “And I’m willing to invest in the right people.” He takes another sip of his whiskey. “Of course, I’d need an answer soon. These positions won’t stay open forever, and I have other candidates interested.”
I should stay quiet. Let Mei handle this. But the words are out before I can stop them. “Her debt is already being handled. Crimson Financing gets paid every month from the bar’s profits. On time, in full.”
Grishnak’s eyes flick to me, mild amusement crossing his face. “I’m aware. But surely Chef Tan would prefer to be free of the obligation entirely? To not have her success tied to someone else’s business?” He turns back to Mei. “This is a chance to build something that’s entirely yours. No partnerships, no shared profits, no dependence on anyone else’s success or failure.”
The words are calculated. Designed to appeal to exactly what Mei wants. Independence, control, freedom from debt. And the worst part is, I can see her considering it. Not seriously, maybe, but the offer is tempting enough that she’s actually thinking about it.
“I appreciate the offer,” Mei says finally. “But I’ll need time to think about it.”
“Of course.” Grishnak nods, apparently satisfied. “Though I should mention that I’m making final decisions by the end of the week. For maximum impact, we’d want to move quickly.” He stands, adjusting his jacket. Those gold chains clink again. “Think it over, Chef Tan. This is the kind of opportunity that doesn’t come twice.”
He turns to leave, then pauses. “Oh, and one more thing. I’d be happy to discuss the terms of your current arrangement with Mr. Greenfist here. Make sure you’re getting fair compensationfor your talents.” His smile widens. “I’d hate to think you were being taken advantage of.”
That’s it. That’s the line.
I move before I’ve fully decided to, stepping around the bar with the focus that comes with pure adrenaline. “I think you should leave,” I say, keeping my voice level despite the rage building in my chest. “Now.”
Grishnak looks up, mild surprise crossing his face. “I’m in the middle of a conversation with Chef Tan,” he says, all polite confusion. “Perhaps you could?—”
“No.” I cut him off, stepping closer. “You’re done talking to her. You’re done making offers. You’re done implying I’m taking advantage of her.” Each word comes out harder than the last, my control slipping. “You have five seconds to walk out that door before I remove you.”
His expression shifts. Not fear, exactly, but reassessment. He’s seeing something he didn’t expect, a calculation adjusting in real time. “This is unnecessary,” he says, his voice still smooth despite the tension in his shoulders. “I’m simply offering Chef Tan an opportunity.”
“You’re offering her a choice that’s not a choice,” I say. “And we’re done with that conversation.” I step closer, using my height to its full advantage. “Four seconds.”
He holds my gaze for a long moment, apparently weighing options. Then he nods, once, and stands, adjusting his jacket with precise movements. Those gold chains catch the light as he moves. “This isn’t over,” he says, his voice still perfectly controlled. “I’ll be in touch, Chef Tan. When you’ve had time to think clearly.” He glances at me, something cold in his eyes. “Without interference.”
With that, he turns and walks out, moving with the unhurried confidence of someone who’s simply decided to end the conversation rather than someone who’s been threatened.The door closes behind him with a soft click that somehow feels more final than a slam. The cologne lingers, cloying and overwhelming.
The bar is suddenly, painfully quiet. The usual Friday noise suspended as everyone pretends not to have witnessed what just happened. I turn to Mei, relief and concern warring in my chest, only to find her watching me with an expression I can’t immediately name.
Not gratitude. Not relief. Something harder, more complicated.
“What the fuck was that?” she asks, her voice low enough that only I can hear it.
“I—” I start, then stop, thrown by the anger radiating from her. “He was threatening you. Using the debt to pressure you into?—”
“I know exactly what he was doing,” she cuts in, each word precise. “I’ve been dealing with men like Grishnak since culinary school. Men who see something they want and decide they’re entitled to it. Men who think my past, my failures, my debt make me something they can control.” She takes a step closer, her eyes flashing. “What I don’t understand is why you decided to speak for me. To make decisions about what conversations I’m allowed to have. To position yourself as my ‘protector’ like I’m some kind of damsel who needs saving.”
The words hit like physical things, each one landing with weight. “That’s not—I wasn’t trying to?—”
“You just did,” she says, and there’s hurt underneath the anger. “You saw a threat and you removed it without asking if that’s what I wanted. Without considering that I might have my own way of handling it, my own plan for dealing with men like Grishnak.” She shakes her head, a strand of hair falling loose from her bun. “I’ve spent my entire career being talked over, having decisions made for me, being treated like I’m not capableof handling my own business. And now you—” She stops, apparently unable to find the words.
“I’m sorry,” I say, meaning it completely. “You’re right. I should have asked, should have given you the chance to handle it your way.” I run a hand through my hair, frustrated with myself. “But Mei, he was threatening you. Using the debt, your past?—”
“I know what he was doing,” she says again, her voice slightly softer. “I’ve been here before. Men see something they want. My recipes, my platform, my body. And they decide they’re entitled to it. They position themselves as protectors, as mentors, as the only thing standing between me and disaster.” She meets my eyes directly, raw emotion in her expression. “And then, when I don’t play along, when I try to make my own choices, they become the disaster.”
The words settle between us, heavy with implication. This isn’t just about Grishnak, or even about what happened tonight. It’s about a pattern, a history of men who saw something they wanted and decided they were entitled to it. To her, to her work, to her choices.
“I’m not them,” I say, the words coming out more forcefully than I intended. “I would never?—”
