Alessandra wasn't a morning person.
She never had been—not when she was a line cook pulling doubles, not when she climbed her way up to executive chef, and certainly not now. Mornings were for other people. The earliest she tolerated was a late brunch on her day off.
Which made the shrill ring of her phone at 7:16 a.m. all the more offensive.
She groaned, blindly patting the nightstand for her phone. The screen glared up at her: Mira.
A surge of unease tugged at her sleep-fogged brain. Mira never called this early.
"Hello?" Alessandra croaked, throat dry.
There was a beat of silence, then Mira's voice—soft, careful in a way that immediately set Alessandra's pulse ticking faster.
"Hey, love," Mira said quietly.
And that's when Alessandra caught it. Tears.
Mira never cried.
She sat up, heart thudding. "Mira, what's going on?"
Another pause. A sigh.
"I didn't want you to hear this from anyone else. I have to close Casa d'Oro."
A sniffle.
"My parents... there's no one else to care for them. I have to go back to Florence. For good."
Alessandra pressed a hand to her forehead, as if that could slow the dizzying spin of the room. What about me? she thought. I could run Casa.
But she didn't ask—she would never ask that of Mira. Not now.
"I'm here to support you, Mira. Whatever you need. I'll be here."
"Thank you, Les," Mira whispered. Another soft sniffle. "You're going to shine, no matter what you do."
After a few more tearful goodbyes, Alessandra hung up, reeling.
Two weeks ago, she'd stood beneath the chandeliers, basking in applause. Two weeks ago, she was the name on everyone's lips.
And now... nothing.
Later That Morning
She'd been pacing since she hung up with Mira, trying to make sense of everything. Nothing ever made sense when she paced and grumbled about it—but pacing, she did.
Suddenly, all she wanted was the one person who could always talk her down. Her compass.
She grabbed her phone and pressed Call.
The line clicked, then that familiar voice—soft but steady—came through.
"Alessandra, Cara, I was hoping you'd call. I was just thinking of you."
"Morning, Mama," she murmured. "Mira called. Casa d'Oro's closing. For good."
There was a pause before her mother responded. Calm. Thoughtful.
"Ah, mi Figlia... Life isn't always about the kitchen or fame," she said gently. "Sometimes it's about knowing when to step back. To start fresh."
"Start fresh?" Alessandra grumbled. "After all I've climbed? After everything?"
"Sometimes the mountain is too steep to climb all at once," Sophia replied. "You don't have to start at the bottom. Just on a new path. And besides..." she added, always cheeky, "you have strong legs."
"Mama..."
"Remember, Cara, a good chef doesn't just cook food. She knows when to change the recipe."
"I don't know if I'm ready to change the recipe, Mama."
Sophia chuckled softly. "You will be. I promise you. Just don't lose sight of why you cook in the first place."
After the call—because Sophia Moretti had never steered her wrong, no matter how frustratingly right she always was—Alessandra changed into something simple.
Soft jeans with worn knees. A plain white tee. Hair loosely pinned, keys in hand. She walked out the door with no destination in mind.
About half a block from her apartment, a small, unfamiliar café caught her eye. She stepped inside, ordered a coffee, and took a seat at the counter.
A newspaper lay folded nearby. On impulse, she opened it to the want ads.
Change the recipe, she thought, dryly. Alright, Mama. Let's see what's cooking.
She sipped her coffee. Read the listings. And each one felt like a slap in the face.
"Line cook, dishwasher, kitchen assistant," she muttered, unaware she wasn't alone. "Start from the beginning, I get. But does it have to be from the bottom?"
"Sometimes the beginning can show us humility."
The voice came from her right.
She turned.
He had calm eyes—very blue, she noted—and the kind of quiet confidence that didn't need a stage. Nothing flashy. Just... there.
"I... beg your pardon?"
He lifted his gaze from the cup in his hands. No smirk. No cocky tone. Just calm.
"I wasn't trying to eavesdrop. You just sounded... frustrated." He gestured lightly toward the want ads. "Rough morning?"
Alessandra sighed. "You could say that." She hesitated, then gave in to the strange urge to tell him the truth. "The restaurant where I was head chef is shutting down. For good." She took another sip.
"I called my mother—my very traditional Italian mother, I might add—and her advice was, of course, to start fresh. So... here I am."
He nodded—really nodded. Like he got it.
"Starting from the beginning doesn't mean you forget everything that came before." He leaned in just a little. "You're not a line cook pretending to be a chef. You're a chef, between chapters."
He paused, letting that sit. "And for what it's worth," he added with a half-smile, "I'm Italian too. Our mothers are never wrong. Just... inconveniently right."
Her lips twitched. "I hate that you make sense. I'm Alessandra, by the way. Sorry—I usually have better manners."
He offered his hand. Warm. Steady.
"August. And no need to apologize. You've had a hell of a morning. You're allowed one etiquette mulligan."
He gestured to the paper. "Mind if I ask what kind of beginning you're looking for?"
She stared at the page. "I don't even know," she admitted in a whisper.
"Maybe..." She trailed off. Then, it came to her. Clear. Honest. "Maybe something a little less... prominent."
He watched her with something close to understanding. "Less pressure. Less spotlight. More breathing room."
"Yeah, exactly."
"That's not the same as giving up, you know," he said, sipping his coffee. "It's just choosing peace over performance."
She exhaled a small laugh. "Again - Respectfully... I hate that you make sense."
He smiled—wider now, like he enjoyed surprising her.
"I run a catering business. Family-owned. We're not glamorous. But we feed people. We do it right."
A pause. Then, lightly— "You ever consider something like that?"
She hesitated.
Family-owned.
Didn't she just think the same thing this morning about Mira? About family? About what really mattered?
Could she really go from five-star dishes to... whatever this was?
Don't think that way, Les. He cared about this business. That much was obvious.
She nodded slowly. "I'll tell you what, August. You give me your number, and I'll think it over. Sound good?"
His smile widened just a little more—like he'd expected her to say no, but hoped she'd surprise him.
"Fair deal." He reached for a pen—one that looked like it had stories—and scribbled neatly on a napkin. He handed it over. "That's my direct number. No pressure. No sales pitch. Just... think it over."
He lifted his coffee cup like a quiet toast. "And Alessandra?"
He placed a few bills on the counter and stood. "I've got a feeling you're not done surprising people."
And just like that, he was gone.
Leaving her with the coffee, the napkin...
and maybe the beginning she didn't even know she was looking for.