Page 148 of Neap & Spring

I turn my gaze to him. This man who held me through a panic attack behind his restaurant and asked nothing in return. Who remembered, five years later, the exact way I take my coffee. Who has been standing in his own kitchen every single day trying to hold onto something he built because he loves it and because it belongs here.

“Callum,” I breathe.

“Yeah, Vivi?” His voice is soft and patient.

His eyes find mine. And they are steady and completely present and safe.

“I think I’m ready,” I say. “To tell you the truth.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Vivienne

5 YEARS AGO

The kitchen at Voss is the size of my entire apartment, and for a full thirty seconds, I just stand in the doorway and stare at it.

The long, unbroken run of stainless steel. The French ranges lined up ceremonially, their burners pristine. The ventilation system humming overhead that costs more than most restaurants’ entire buildout. This is the kind of kitchen that gets its own paragraph in a review and launches careers. It gets you your next job, and the job after that, because saying “I worked at Stellan Voss’s flagship” opens every door in the industry.

I’ve worked in good kitchens. London was a good, fun kitchen. Boston was very serious and very precise, and I learned things there I still use. But this is different. This kitchen has an energy that separates competence from greatness before a single plate goes out.

I’m twenty-four years old. I have a distinction from Le Cordon Bleu and a Chef’s Award and one year of post-Paris kitchens behind me, and I am exactly where I worked to be.

I straighten my whites, freshly pressed because it’s my first day, and I walk in.

The sous chef’s name is Derek. He’s in his mid-thirties with the handshake of a man who has done a lot of onboarding and has stopped finding it interesting. He walks me through the stations without slowing down, rattling off names and responsibilities in the flat, efficient tone of someone reading from a list they’ve memorized. I keep up. I ask the right questions. By the time he’s done, I could navigate this kitchen in the dark.

“Chef Voss comes in at two,” he says. “Service at six.”

He disappears back into the kitchen, and I’m left standing there with my knife roll, looking around at the other cooks who are slowly filtering back in from their break.

I count eighteen cooks total, including me.

Only three women.

Including me.

The other two are on pastry, tucked away in the far corner of the kitchen where I can barely see them. Everyone else is male. A few of them glance my way. Not hostile exactly, but almost wary. Like they’re waiting to see if I can keep up or if I’m going to be a problem.

I don’t make eye contact, turning my attention back to my station quickly. My knives are already laid out, my setup half-prepped. Everything is exactly where it needs to be.

But the energy in this kitchen feels different from any other kitchen I’ve been in. Now that everyone’s eyes are on me, and the service is looming, there’s a tension in the air that makes my shoulders tight and makes me hyperaware of every single one of my movements.

Stellan Voss comes through the kitchen door at 2:03, and the energy in the room shifts instantly.

Every person on the line straightens by some small involuntary degree. The noise drops till the room becomes almost silent. I watch it happen and think, This is what it looks like when a kitchen belongs completely to one person.

He’s younger than I expected. Early forties maybe, with an angular jaw and dark hair going silver at the temples. He moves through the space with the ease of someone who knows his worth. He passes the fish station without looking at it, one hand trailing along the edge of the table, lifting a lid and smelling what’s underneath without breaking stride. He tastes from a spoon held out by a cook who doesn’t speak. He doesn’t speak either. He just sets the spoon down and keeps moving.

Then he’s in front of me.

“Vivienne Lane,” he says, looking at me silently for maybe four seconds before continuing. “I’ve heard great things.” His tone is pleasant enough that anyone listening would think it was a compliment. But his eyes are cold and assessing, already finding me lacking. Then he moves on to the next station without waiting for a response.

I won’t realize until much later that he says that to every new hire. The exact same words, in the exact same tone. It means nothing. It’s just something his mouth does while his eyes calculate whether you’ll be useful or disposable.

But standing there in that kitchen on that first afternoon, I believe it completely.

I go home and call my mother and tell her I think I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.