Billionaire’s Twin Deception

Chapter 3

JANICE’S POV

The kitchen doesn’t slow down, it swallows you whole if you let it.

Heat rolls off the burners hard enough to sting my skin while steam curls thick through the air. Knives hammer against cutting boards, oil spits from the stove, voices overlap loudly enough to turn the whole room sharp around the edges.

Service hasn’t even peaked yet, and already everybody feels off. I see it immediately in the small things. A cook checking the doors too often. Someone nearly missing a garnish. Hands hesitating before moving again.

Fear spreads fast in kitchens. I step onto the line and grab the first plate that reaches the pass before it lands wrong. “Table eight is late,” somebody calls.

“Then move faster,” I snap, sliding the plate back. “But don’t send me sloppy s**t trying to save time.”

“Yes, Chef.” The line tightens again. That’s how kitchens survive. Not through calm. Through pressure. Through people forcing themselves to keep moving even when they’re exhausted enough to drop.

A pan hisses too loudly behind me. Somebody curses after getting burned. Another cook nearly sends out undercooked salmon before I catch it at the last second.

“Are you trying to poison somebody tonight?” I ask sharply, shoving the plate back toward him. His face drains instantly. “No, Chef.”

“Then cook it properly.”

“Y-Yes, Chef.” Nobody speaks after that. The kitchen moves faster when people stop getting inside their own heads.

“Chef,” Celine says beside me while plating desserts. “Front of house is tense as hell.”

“They’re always tense.”

“Not like this.” Her eyes flick toward the doors. “Everybody upstairs is freaking out.”

Of course they are. New ownership always does this. People stop thinking straight the second power walks into a building. They start worrying about who stays, who gets fired, who’s suddenly replaceable.

Fear makes people stupid. A plate lands crooked on the pass. I grab it immediately, wiping the edge clean harder than necessary. “Focus,” I say sharply. “I’m not fixing the same mistakes all night.”

“Sorry, Chef.” Movement smooths out again for a second. Then Chan steps beside me. “You feel it?” he asks quietly. I don’t look at him. “I don’t have time for this.”

“You should.” His jaw tightens. “He’s already walking through departments.” I keep plating because if I stop moving, I’ll start thinking, and tonight feels dangerous enough already.

“He’ll replace people,” Chan continues. “You know that, right?”

“Then don’t give him a reason.” He lets out a dry laugh. “You really think this is about mistakes?” That lands badly because deep down, I don’t think this is about mistakes either.

I glance at him finally, exhaustion dragging heavily through my body while something bitter twists low in my chest. “Everything becomes about mistakes eventually.”

For a second, something flashes across his face. Regret maybe. Or fear. Probably both. Before he can answer, another voice cuts across the kitchen.

“Table five is pushing!”

“Then push back,” I call immediately. “We don’t rush food because somebody upstairs gets impatient.”

“Yes, Chef.” The noise climbs again. Heat presses harder against my skin while the kitchen slips back into rhythm around me, but underneath it, tension keeps building quietly. People are still distracted. Still waiting for something.

So I tighten control harder. “Stay on your station.”

“Yes, Chef.”

“Check every plate before it leaves.”

“Yes, Chef.”

“And stop staring at the damn doors.”

That gets a few nervous laughs. Better. At least they’re breathing again. New York doesn’t care if you’re overwhelmed. The city keeps moving anyway, and if you can’t keep up, it leaves you behind without blinking.

I learned that lesson early. You hesitate here, you lose everything. “Chef, reduction’s almost gone,” Celine says.

“Start another batch.”

“We’re low on stock.”

“Then stretch it until prep brings more up.”

“Got it.” I grab another plate before it reaches the pass, adjusting the garnish automatically while sweat slides slowly down my spine underneath my chef coat. My shoulders ache. My feet hurt. I haven’t sat down in almost eleven hours.

Doesn’t matter. Service comes first always.

“Behind!” A server rushes past me carrying plates while another nearly collides into him trying to get through the line.

“Watch where the hell you’re going,” I snap without looking up.

“Sorry, Chef.” The kitchen keeps breathing around me after that. Loud. Hot. Restless. But something underneath it feels wrong tonight. Like the whole room is waiting for impact.

“Chef,” Celine says again, quieter this time. Something in my stomach tightens immediately. “What?” Her eyes flick toward the entrance. “They’re coming down.”

My hand pauses over the plate for a second. Then I force myself to move again. “Then we’re ready.” But my heartbeat’s already climbing harder against my ribs.

Celine studies me for a second too long before looking away again. Like she noticed that pause.

Shit. The kitchen feels it too. Voices lower slightly. Movement sharpens. Even the air changes somehow, tighter now, heavier against my lungs.

Footsteps echo faintly outside the doors. Someone drops a spoon. Nobody talks about it, but everybody knows what’s happening. Management inspections always make kitchens nervous.

This feels worse. I don’t look up. I can’t. Because somehow, before I even see him, I know.

Awareness crawls over my skin so fast it almost hurts. Like somebody just stepped directly into my space without touching me.

God. What the hell is wrong with me? My fingers still briefly over the garnish. Nobody notices but I do. And the feeling that hits me next is worse.

Familiar. That realization crashes into my chest hard enough to throw me off balance for half a second. I know this presence. I hate that I know it.

“Send it,” I say quietly.

“Yes, Chef.” Another plate slides toward me. I fix the garnish automatically, trying to ignore the way my pulse keeps climbing faster and faster.

The kitchen suddenly feels too hot. Too loud. Like the walls are closing inward inch by inch. I keep moving instead of turning because the second I look at him, everything changes.

The careful life I built. The distance. The control. All of it. So I focus on the line instead. The sauce. The plates. Anything except the man standing somewhere behind me.

But I can still feel him watching. And somehow that’s worse. Because my body remembers him before my brain lets itself.

That pisses me off instantly. Five f*****g years, and somehow my chest still reacts before my thoughts do.

“Chef, table nine needs refire—”

“Do it.”

“The steak?”

“Medium rare. Not medium. And wipe the plate before it leaves.”

“Yes, Chef.” I grab another dish automatically, adjusting the placement by half an inch before sliding it toward the pass.

My hands stay steady. At least externally. Inside is different, something dangerous is waking up slowly.

Something I buried years ago because I had no choice. I hear low voices near the entrance. Male voices. Calm.

“Inspection.” The word cuts through the kitchen quietly, but everybody hears it.

The room tightens instantly. Nobody stops moving. Nobody dares. A cook nearly drops a pan before catching it again.

Someone mutters “s**t” under their breath. I pull one slow breath into my lungs, forcing myself steady before finally turning. And he’s already there.