I sank into the chair, clutching the edge like it could steady my shaking hands. "G-good morning, sir," I stammered.
"Good morning, Miss..." His eyes narrowed as he leaned closer, reading the tag on my chest. "Miss Riya Wintle."
"Miss Wintle will do just fine," I whispered.
"Good," he said with a small smile. "I'm your culinary tutor. You can just call me 'Chef.' Keep it formal."
"Yes, sir."
"Today…" He turned, squeaking chalk against the board. "We'll talk about plating and table etiquette." He underlined the words, then looked straight at me. "Any idea what that means, Miss Wintle?"
I swallowed. "No, sir."
"Well, that's why I'm here," he said with a smile. "You'll learn today."
He paused, his eyes drifting upward as if searching for a memory. Then he tapped the chalk against the board. "You know, my father used to say, 'When a meal looks good, it tastes good.'"
I forced a nod.
"We must pay attention to every detail: the sauce, the garnish, where the fork rests, even how a napkin falls." He chuckled, shaking his head. "But guess what?"
"What… sir?"
"My father still died of food poisoning." He laughed excitedly, as if it were the best punchline in the world.
That didn't sound funny; it only reminded me of how my father died. Something cracked inside me, and a tear slid hot down my cheek before I could stop it.
He froze. "Oh, are you… are you alright, Miss Wintle?"
"Y-yes, sir," I whispered, swiping at my face with the back of my palm. My chest ached. "I'm fine, I just…"
"You…" He leaned forward, softening his eyes in concern.
I bent my head. "My father also died of poisoning, Chef."
His mouth opened. "I… I'm so, so sorry, Miss Wintle." He stepped closer, reaching out. His hand brushed my palm, warm against my trembling skin.
"It's… it's fine, sir." But my voice cracked on the lie.
"Hey," he said gently, lowering his tone. "Sometimes we lose the ones we love the most. Sometimes it's sudden. And sometimes…" His voice caught. "…sometimes we've dreamed of beautiful beginnings with them, only for it all to be stolen. But time, Riya, it… heals."
"Chef…" My breath hitched. "I don't think time can erase this. How long? How long is it supposed to take? Because everywhere I go, I see him. Everything I touch, his voice is there, his laugh, his scent." I paused, swallowing hard. "I can't breathe without remembering."
He sighed. "Hmm… what about your mother?"
I laughed bitterly. "My mother? She remarried."
"That's not a bad thing…"
"To my father's enemy," I snapped. "It's… it's a long story. I'm sorry. I shouldn't be spilling this in class."
"Oh no." His voice was certain. "It's fine, Miss Wintle. One cannot learn with a mind still trapped in grief. You have to breathe before you can cook."
"Please…" I whispered. "Please continue the lecture, Chef. Mr. Steele must not know about this. Please."
He looked at me for a long moment, then nodded. "Don't worry about it, Miss Wintle. I promise he won't."
"Thank you," I breathed.
"I heard you're on punishment?" he asked gently.
"Yes… yes, sir."
"Then why not rest until 3 p.m.? Clear your head. You'll learn more when your heart is lighter."
My lips trembled into the first almost-smile I'd managed all day. "Thank you, sir. I really… I really appreciate it."
He gave me a small nod, his kind eyes softening. "Take care, Miss Wintle." Then he turned and walked away, leaving me sitting there.
Maybe I just need to take a shower, I whispered to myself as I stepped into the hallway.
"Now, what part of this place am I in?" I thought. The left and right passages mirrored each other perfectly, disorienting me like a twisted maze.
"Left? Or right? God, Riya, pick one before you freak out," I muttered under my breath, clutching my notebook like it was my only anchor.
I veered left, the room numbers climbing: 45, 46, 47... Nothing like my room 7. "This can't be right. Did they flip the whole damn building? Or is Dorian messing with my head already?"
I spun around, trying the right side instead: 55, 56, 57... Still wrong. "What the hell is going on? No one to ask, Riya. Just keep it together. No one can know you're skipping class." My palms grew slick with sweat, and the notebook slipped in my grip.
Then came a low, guttural moan from a man, loud and unashamed. "Uhmm... uhhmmm... uhmm." My hands trembled violently.
"What... what could that be? Don't go back to class; the chef's not there yet. But if I chase this sound... someone might spot me. Shit, Riya, turn around. No, you have to know."
"I think the bitch must have killed him," Dorian snapped, his voice loud and angry. "I don't trust her." My cheeks flushed hot as curiosity pulled me forward. I took the middle stairs, neither left nor right, walking silently with my pulse roaring in my ears.
As I advanced, the conversations paced faster, unclear and rhythmic, leading me to a door labeled "Special Room." "Special Room? This is crazy. Walk away, Riya. But... just a peek. No one will know."
"She's his daughter, Dorian," someone else said, in a calmer voice. "You have to go easy on her. The girl's going through a lot."
"She has to learn," Dorian growled. "She needs to overcome her past and move forward."
"You promised her father."
"And that's exactly what I'm doing," he shot back. "I'm not going to harm her. But I don't run a damn charity here. She has to work."
"Do you enjoy seeing her like that?"
"That doesn't matter," Dorian said coldly. "The girl must shift her bloody mind from her past and stride forward."
My heart thudded. Are they talking about me?
"She's fragile," the other voice said. "You might be pushing too hard; give her some time."
"She's stronger than she looks," Dorian replied. "She just doesn't know it yet."
I glimpsed Dorian moving toward someone seated, speaking in hushed tones.
I strained my eyes involuntarily. "Goodness, Riya, what are you doing? Are you really watching your boss? Walk away before you get caught," I told myself.
I leaned in closer, mesmerized, but still couldn't hear a thing until my forehead bumped the window frame. "Ouch!" I yelped, the sound escaping before I could stop it.
"Who's there?" Dorian's voice boomed, sharp and alert.
I ducked down, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Oh no, Riya. Now you're done. Your life's over. What do I do?"
At that point, my legs froze, the tension coiling tighter than ever.