$2000 Bonus? Watch Your Century-Old Restaurant Die

I had restored the Legendary Beef Wellington, the long-lost signature dish of our family's century-old restaurant, The York House, and pulled the entire business back from the edge of bankruptcy. On the day we handed out the bonuses, my sister Olivia received 100,000, and my brother Ethan received 200,000. But I only received 2,000. The stack of bills was so thin that it barely filled the envelope. "Olivia stands at the front of the restaurant every day, welcoming guests with that sweet smile of hers. She deserves the 100,000 reward." "Ethan has been entertaining clients and building connections for the family business. He's the one bringing in the big deals, so 200,000 is what he deserves." Before I could say a word, my mom Margaret pushed the bills into my hands. The crisp rustle of the paper echoed in the quiet room. "Talking about money between family members ruins the atmosphere, doesn't it? You're still learning, Claire. We provide your meals and a place to live. A 2,000 apprentice salary is already more than fair." I tightened my grip around the wrinkled envelope, my mind going blank for a moment. To restore that lost recipe, I had spent countless days in the back kitchen, surrounded by smoke and heat, until my hands were covered in painful burn scars. While Olivia only needed to stand in the dining room looking polished and charming in front of guests, Ethan spent money freely at expensive business dinners to win over clients. And me? I was the person no one ever noticed. I chopped ingredients, managed the kitchen, and stayed up night after night perfecting The Legendary Beef Wellington until I finally brought the forgotten recipe back to life. Yet my salary had remained frozen at 2,000 a month. I had worked relentlessly to sharpen my culinary skills, hoping that one day I could finally earn my parents' approval and prove that I belonged in this family. But at that moment, I was done trying. I looked down at my phone, tapped the screen, and accepted the head chef position offered by the rival five-star hotel, Grandcrest Hotel. ***** "Hey, Claire, why are you still standing there? Can't you see I'm on a call?" My brother, Ethan York was sprawled in the grand armchair in the front hall of The York House, his legs crossed casually as his phone played a loud conversation with someone from a luxury watch boutique on speaker. He waved his hand at me like he was brushing away a fly. I gripped the thin envelope tighter, frozen in place. My phone screen was still glowing with Julian's message. Julian: We can't wait to have you join us, Chef York. I pressed the power button and turned the screen dark. A moment later, my sister, Olivia York came clattering down the stairs in her designer heels, holding her phone up as she filmed herself. "Guys, I got my bonus today, so we're heading straight to pick up the black-and-gold Chanel Classic Flap bag I've been wanting forever!" As she walked past me, her eyes landed on the blisters covering the back of my hand. Her expression twisted with disgust. She immediately sped up, as if she couldn't get away from me fast enough. I looked down at my own hand. I had gotten that burn while preparing the stock for The Legendary Beef Wellington. The blisters had already broken open. Yellow fluid leaked down my wrist, and the raw, swollen skin around the wound had started peeling. Even the slightest touch sent a sharp, numb pain shooting up my arm. Yet that same hand still had to prepare every dish before the day ended. Tomorrow, we had three VIP reservations scheduled. 2,000. That wasn't even enough to cover a doctor's visit. After hesitating for a moment, I walked over to Margaret, who was reviewing the restaurant accounts. "Mom, the burn on my hand has gotten infected. It's leaking, and after paying my phone bill this month, I'll barely have anything left. Could I get an advance on my salary? I need to see a doctor." Margaret looked up. Her eyes fell on my injured hand, and her nose wrinkled in disgust. She immediately pulled the account book away from me. "Your hand looks awful. Stay away from me. If that gets into the food and makes customers sick, The York House's reputation will be ruined." She placed her pen down, her face full of irritation. "Go back to the kitchen and wrap it properly with gauze. Stop standing around in the dining area. If customers see you looking like this, they'll think we don't care about hygiene." Richard York sat off to the side, taking his time with his tea. The lid clinked against the rim of his cup. "Show me somebody who works a kitchen and never gets burned. You're blowing this way out of proportion. Ethan drank himself sick wining and dining Mr. Anderson last night—coughed up blood, even. That's what putting in the work looks like." He didn't so much as look up at me. "It's a little burn. Slap some cream on it and get back to work. I've never in my life met such a precious cook—putting in for an advance just to buy yourself some drugstore ointment." I started to say something. I wanted to tell them it wasn't just a burn. I wanted to tell them that an untreated infection could spread. I wanted to tell them that if it got worse, I could lose the use of my hand. But before I could speak, Ethan hung up his phone and walked over. He spun his car keys around his finger. "Claire, don't take this the wrong way, but you spend all day hiding in the kitchen. You don't actually bring money into the restaurant." A cigarette rested between his fingers as he looked me up and down. "What century are we living in? Even the best food needs someone to sell it. If I hadn't spent hours drinking with Mr. Anderson and building those connections, and if Olivia hadn't promoted the restaurant online, who would even know about your cooking? Who would come here?" He pointed toward me. "Stop acting like you're the only one working hard. These days, people who can cook are everywhere. The ones who know how to market and bring customers in are the ones who matter. 2,000 is already fair." Olivia finished recording her video and joined the conversation. "Exactly, Claire. I made over 30,000 today from livestream tips and brand commissions. How much do you make chopping vegetables in the kitchen all day? Barely anything." She crossed her arms and looked me over. "Just look at yourself. Your hands are covered in scars, your hair is greasy, and you smell like cooking oil. Even if you stood at the front desk greeting guests, they'd probably think you were here to clear tables." I didn't respond. I turned around and walked straight toward the utility room. That was my bedroom. Inside, there was only a worn-out cot, a dented metal locker, and no window. The only light came from a flickering fluorescent bulb above me. Through the thin wall, I could hear Ethan talking on the phone. He was confirming the color of the luxury watch strap he planned to buy. Upstairs, Olivia was trying on her new designer clothes. The sound of her heels echoed through the wooden floor. I sat down on the cot and used part of my 2,000 bonus to order burn ointment online. Free shipping. It would arrive the day after tomorrow. The infection from my burn had soaked through my sleeve. The damp fabric stuck to the open wound, and every movement sent pain shooting through my arm. I took out my phone and opened the encrypted photo album that no one else in my family knew existed. Three months earlier, I had started photographing every draft of my recipe development notes and backing them up to cloud storage. I opened Julian's message again. Julian: We can't wait to have you join us, Chef York. Julian: Grandcrest Hotel has prepared a private R&D kitchen for you, equipped with state-of-the-art equipment. Your compensation package will reflect your talent and experience. Soon, all of this would finally be over.