The corridors of DC Restaurant pulsed with the usual rhythm of the afternoon rush. The steady hum of conversation, the clatter of silver against china, the shrill call of kitchen bells — it all blended into a familiar, living symphony. Every note, every sound had its place in the intricate machinery of my world. And normally, I let it run itself.
I wasn't in the habit of wandering the restaurant floor once service was underway. That's what the managers were for. My place was in the office, behind the frosted glass where numbers made sense and decisions stayed clean. But today, something gnawed at the edge of my composure. A tightness in my chest. A restless itch beneath my skin. An unease I couldn't explain.
Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was fate.
Whatever it was, it pulled me from my desk, out of my office, and into the heart of my own empire. I moved through the place like a ghost, unseen, unbothered, my steps soundless against the polished floors. The staff knew better than to approach me when my face held this expression. The smart ones did, anyway.
I cut through the side hallway, a narrow corridor that ran alongside the main kitchen — a shortcut I rarely used these days. It wasn't intentional at first. I told myself I was only clearing my head. But just as I reached the corner where the hall met the kitchen entrance, a voice cut through the air, sharp and sour, halting me mid-stride.
"…Oh look, Princess Chioma has graced us with her presence."
I stopped.
The words came laced with venom, carrying across the kitchen like a taunt meant to wound.
My gaze narrowed, and I moved closer, my steps feather-light, until I reached the edge of the service window. From there, I had a perfect view inside without being seen. What I saw made the restless tension in my chest coil tighter.
Amaka.
The front desk supervisor. Mouth always quicker than her sense, driven by petty jealousy dressed up as workplace banter. I should have replaced her months ago — but even I made mistakes.
She stood leaning halfway into the kitchen, her voice deliberately loud enough for the entire brigade to hear. A calculated performance. One she'd regret.
"Should we clear the way for her?" Amaka continued, her tone mocking. "Maybe roll out a carpet, put petals on the floor?"
A few chefs glanced up, their expressions wary. Some looked confused. Others kept their eyes on their work, as though afraid proximity alone might make them guilty. The woman at the center of it all stood by the sauce station, a ladle paused mid-stir, her face an unreadable mask. But I saw the tremor in her jaw. The pulse at her throat. She heard it. Felt it.
And yet, she didn't flinch.
That's what made Chioma different.
She didn't crumble when cornered. She didn't play victim. She stood tall, even as she bled inside.
I watched.
"You heard me," Amaka pressed on, emboldened by the passive audience. "We're all wondering what makes you so special. Showing up late, getting personal walk-throughs with the boss. Some of us earned our spots here."
A flicker of disbelief crossed Chioma's face — so brief most would've missed it. I hadn't. She hadn't arrived late. I knew, because I'd seen her clock in myself on the office monitor. But this wasn't about punctuality. It never was, not with people like Amaka.
Jealousy was a disease.
And envy… envy made people reckless.
Chioma straightened, her voice steady though I heard the strain beneath it. "You don't get to talk to me like that."
"Oh, please," Amaka scoffed, arms crossed, basking in her self-made stage. "Some of us had to sweat blood for this job. You? You show up with your pretty face and fancy accent, and suddenly you're the boss's new pet?"
The words landed hard. Even from my spot in the shadows, I felt the sting of them. I saw the quick rise of color in Chioma's cheeks. I saw the way her grip on the ladle tightened.
She opened her mouth to respond.
And that's when I moved.
I stepped through the entrance like a shadow materializing in daylight, the air warping around my presence. The instant I crossed the threshold, the kitchen's atmosphere shifted. Conversations died mid-sentence. Knives paused mid-chop. Even the sous chef instinctively stepped aside.
Amaka was the last to notice.
It wasn't until she caught the look on the others' faces — the way their expressions drained of color, their gazes fixed on the space behind her — that she turned.
Her smirk faltered.
I didn't speak at first.
I didn't need to.
Silence did the speaking for me.
Amaka's confidence crumbled. "S-sir, I—"
"Do you think this is how we run a kitchen?" My voice was soft. Cold. A glacier beneath calm waters. Authority isn't about volume. It's about weight.
The question hung in the air like a loaded gun.
"I… I was just—"
"Humiliating your head chef. Publicly. In front of staff. Disrupting kitchen order during peak prep. Disrespecting chain of command. You've not only violated the core of this establishment, but you insulted my judgment the moment you implied she didn't earn her place here."
The room was so quiet I could hear the simmering pots and the distant hum of the refrigeration units.
"She's getting special treatment," Amaka spat, desperate now, sweat beading on her brow. "It's not fair to—"
"Fairness is irrelevant in this business," I cut her off. "Competence is. Discipline is. And loyalty… is everything. You lack all three."
I turned to the nearest manager without breaking my gaze from hers. "Collect her ID. Terminate her contract. I don't want her on my premises in the next five minutes."
A collective gasp rippled through the room.
Amaka's face contorted in disbelief, her pride too large to allow quiet retreat. "You're firing me over her?"
"No," I said, lowering my voice until it cut sharper than any shout. "You fired yourself the moment you forgot whose name is above that door."
I stepped closer, until there was barely space between us. My voice dropped to a lethal murmur only she could hear. "And if you ever speak my name outside these walls in a way that displeases me… you won't have the luxury of a formal dismissal."
Her face blanched. Whatever she saw in my eyes then, it broke her.
Without another word, she turned and fled the kitchen, leaving silence, fear, and her shredded dignity behind.
I finally looked at Chioma.
"You alright?"
She gave a small nod, but I saw the storm behind her gaze. The fury, the wounded pride, the gratitude she didn't want to show. She was no damsel. She hadn't wanted saving. But some battles weren't hers to fight. Not when I was here.
"You don't have to thank me," I said, the edge in my voice softening for her alone. "Not for upholding what's right."
And with that, I turned and left — my footsteps steady, leaving a wake of silence, fear, and a very clear message in my path.
In my world, disrespect wasn't a mistake.
It was a death sentence.