$2000 Bonus? Watch Your Century-Old Restaurant Die

Chapter 3

On the day of the preliminary round of the competition, Ethan showed up wearing a custom chef's uniform worth 18,000, grinning as he flashed a peace sign at the camera.

Olivia held up a ring light for him, her face glowing with pride.

Their livestream quickly surpassed 20,000 viewers.

"Guys, look at my little brother!" Olivia gushed to the camera. "He's handsome, he can cook, and he's the official heir to our century-old family restaurant! He's basically the perfect successor!"

Meanwhile, I was in the kitchen, finishing the final preparations.

Every ingredient was neatly arranged on the prep station.

The stock had simmered for 12 full hours.

Even the gold leaf for the final presentation had been measured out and placed aside.

Only one step remained.

Cooking the dish.

The kitchen door suddenly slammed open.

Ethan stormed in, tugging at his collar with an annoyed expression.

"Claire, is that stock still not finished? We're about to go on!"

"It's ready," I said. "Just add the ingredients in the order I explained. I'll stay here and help you control the heat..."

"Yeah, yeah, I got it. Stop lecturing me."

He cut me off while typing on his phone.

Without even looking at me, he pushed me away from the cooking station.

"The judges are watching outside. You look terrible right now. Don't go out there and embarrass me. I can handle this myself."

Click.

The door closed between us.

I stood in the hallway and watched through the glass window.

Ethan struggled with the apron strings. He was so inexperienced that he even held the knife backward before finally realizing his mistake.

Twenty minutes later, the finished dish was carried into the judging area.

I hadn't seen every step of his cooking process.

But I immediately noticed something wrong.

The aroma drifting from the dish wasn't the rich, layered fragrance of the 12-hour stock I had prepared.

It was sharp.

Artificial.

It smelled exactly like cheap boxed soup base.

That night, the news exploded across social media.

Three judges and two VIP guests from the competition suffered severe food poisoning.

They experienced nonstop vomiting and diarrhea and were rushed to the hospital.

The Health Department launched an investigation overnight.

The York House immediately became the third-highest trending topic online.

*****

It was 2 a.m.

The entire family was gathered in the restaurant office on the second floor.

Ethan's face was completely pale.

His fingers dug into the leather sofa so hard they left deep marks.

"I just thought the stock was taking too long, so I added some soup base to make the flavor stronger..." he admitted, his voice trembling. "And the seafood... I thought you had already prepared it..."

Margaret dropped to her knees in front of me.

Her knees struck the tile floor with a sharp c***k.

"Claire! Ethan can't have a criminal record! He's only 23! He's supposed to inherit the restaurant one day!" She grabbed onto my legs, tears and panic covering her face. "Mom is begging you. Please. Save your brother. Save this family."

Richard didn't kneel.

He simply held out a piece of paper.

His grip was so tight his knuckles had turned white.

It was a confession statement.

The entire thing had already been prepared.

"I, Claire York, am a temporary kitchen worker at The York House. Dissatisfied with my salary, I intentionally used low-quality ingredients in the competition dish to take revenge on the restaurant..."

I pushed the paper back toward him.

"Why would I do that? I wasn't even inside the competition area that day. Why should I go to prison for his mistake?"

Ethan shot up from the couch and stormed toward me.

He shoved a finger against my shoulder.

"Because you're just an unwanted kitchen worker! Cooking in the back and cleaning up after everyone is all you'll ever be good for! I'm the only son of the York family. If I fall, this restaurant falls with me!"

His spit landed on my face as he shouted.

"What's the big deal about taking the blame for me? It's not like you're taking the blame for murder! At worst, you'll spend a few months in jail and get out. We'll even increase your salary after you come back. We'll give you 3,000 a month."

I looked at Margaret.

She was still kneeling on the floor.

She didn't say a word.

But her eyes told me everything.

Sign it.

I turned to Richard.

He held the pen out to me, his expression colder than a debt collector demanding payment.

"The reporters will be here first thing tomorrow morning. You need to sign this tonight. No exceptions."

I didn't take the pen.

Richard walked to the office door and locked it.

The sound echoed through the room.

He slipped the key into his pocket.

"If you don't sign, you're not leaving this room."

The harsh ceiling light burned my eyes.

The wound on the back of my hand throbbed beneath the bandage, hot and painful.

They hadn't given me a single drop of water since 6 p.m.