Billionaire’s Twin Deception

JANICE'S POV Morning doesn’t ease into the kitchen, it crashes in. Heat presses into me from every side while steam rises from boiling pots and knives slam hard against cutting boards. Oil snaps from the pans, metal crashes somewhere behind me, voices overlap loud enough to feel inside my skull, and the whole kitchen burns with the kind of chaos that punishes weakness fast. One mistake and everything goes to hell. I move before anything can fall apart, fixing garnishes, adjusting plates, correcting sauces before anyone notices. Sweat sticks to the back of my neck beneath my chef coat while the kitchen keeps pushing harder around me. “Table twelve is dragging,” I say, sliding a plate back before it reaches the pass. My eyes cut toward the line cook struggling beside the stove. “Fix the sauce. It’s too damn thin.” “I just……” His voice shakes slightly. “Chef, I was trying to—” “You were trying and still messed it up.” I grab the spoon from his hand, taste it once, then shove it back toward him. “Too much stock. Less talking, more fixing.” “Y-Yes, Chef.” I move on before he can say anything else because explanations don’t save a kitchen during rush. Orders keep slamming in sharp and nonstop, and I match them step for step. A garnish slips, I fix it. A steak overcooks, I send it back. A sauce starts breaking, and I catch it before the whole pan goes to s**t. The line moves again like nothing happened. That’s the thing about kitchens. Nobody cares if you’re exhausted or barely holding yourself together. If you break, service breaks with you. “Chef,” Celine says beside me, calm as always. “We’re running low on the reduction.” I glance at the pan once. Almost empty. “Stretch it for three more plates,” I say quickly, reaching for another saucepan. “Then start a fresh batch before we get screwed.” “Got it.” She moves instantly. That’s why Celine stays close. No panic. No excuses. A plate lands crooked on the pass. My hand moves before I think, turning it slightly and wiping the edge clean. “Focus,” I snap. “Yes, Chef.” For a few seconds, everything settles back into rhythm. Then another voice cuts through the noise. “Orders stacking in the back!” “I can f*****g see that,” I say, already plating faster. “New ownership,” Celine says while chopping herbs beside me, her knife hitting the board in sharp steady sounds. “CEO’s stepping in directly.” My hand stills for half a second. Then I force it to move again. “Doesn’t change anything here,” I say evenly, sliding another plate forward. “Maybe not,” she mutters, “but people are freaking out.” Of course they are. People panic the second power walks into a room. They get nervous, sloppy, stupid. “That’s their problem,” I say. “If they can’t handle pressure, they shouldn’t be here.” Celine glances at me like she wants to say something else, but she lets it go. Good. I don’t have room for conversations tonight. “Chef!” someone yells from prep. “Front desk just sent word—” “I heard already,” Chan cuts in loudly. “New CEO’s in the building.” The shift in the kitchen is immediate. Tiny, but there. Hands slow slightly. Voices lower. I feel the c***k in focus before I even see it. “Then that changes nothing,” I say louder, my voice cutting through the kitchen clean and hard. “Orders don’t stop because some billionaire walked through the damn lobby. Move.” The line snaps back into motion. Chan steps beside me, standing just a little too close. “You really think this won’t change anything?” he asks quietly. I keep plating. “Yes.” A short breath leaves him. “That’s cute.” I finally look at him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” “It means owners always replace people.” His jaw tightens slightly. “I’ve been here six years, Janice. I know how this works.” There it is. Not attitude. Fear. “I’d think six years would’ve taught you not to spiral during service,” I reply calmly. “Mistakes cost more than they fix, so stop looking for problems and do your job.” Something flashes across his face, anger, embarrassment, maybe both, then he turns back to his station, movements rougher now. By the time my shift finally ends, my whole body feels heavy. Heat clings to my skin while the smell of butter, smoke, garlic, and grease follows me out into the street. New York is still wide awake outside, cars rushing past beneath bright lights while sirens echo somewhere far off and people yell across the street like the city never slows down. Sometimes I think this place would swallow weak people whole without even noticing. I don’t stay out long. I go home. ***** The apartment is quiet when I walk in, and that familiar fear crawls into my chest before I can stop it. I close the door softly and head straight for Jack’s room without turning on the lights. The hallway glow is enough. He’s asleep under the blankets, small and fragile. I sit carefully beside him, exhaustion finally settling into my bones now that I’m still. My fingers brush through his hair while I count his breaths without meaning to. I always count. “Mama?” His sleepy voice almost breaks me every damn time. “I’m here,” I whisper, softer than I’ve sounded all day. “Did you win today?” A laugh almost escapes me before turning painful instead. He always asks that. Like kitchen battles are games. Like losing isn’t dangerous. “Yeah,” I whisper. “We won today.” His tiny smile appears immediately. “Good.” His hand finds mine beneath the blanket, little fingers wrapping around me like I can keep bad things away just by sitting here. I close my hand around his and stay there listening to him breathe while exhaustion settles deep into my bones. This is what I’m protecting. This is why I don’t let anything slip. ****** Morning comes too fast. The kitchen fills again before most people are fully awake, heat rising fast as metal clatters across the counters. Someone swears after getting burned while another cook laughs too loudly somewhere behind me. I step into the chaos automatically. “Chef,” Celine says beside me. “What?” “There’s talk.” Her knife keeps moving smoothly. “Management’s losing their s**t upstairs. Front of house is placing bets on who gets fired first.” “That’s not our problem,” I say, fixing another plate without looking up. “They said his name.” My fingers stop slightly. Cold slides hard into my stomach. “What name?” I ask carefully. Celine looks at me now. “Eden Duncan.” Everything inside me goes still.