Chapter 1 — First Day, First Fractures

Ivy Laurent

The aroma of butter and garlic hit Ivy the moment she pushed open the heavy glass door to La Lumière. It was intoxicating, like stepping into a painting of everything she imagined a French bistro could be. Her hazel eyes swept over the dining area, noting the interplay of rustic textures and warm light: exposed brick walls adorned with framed sketches, flickering candlelight casting soft shadows across the tables, and the faint hum of conversation mingling with the clink of silverware. She adjusted the strap of her canvas bag and smoothed her thrifted blouse, her stomach stirring with a mix of awe and nerves.

For a moment, she entertained the thought of pulling out her sketchbook and capturing the scene—how the light softened the edges of the exposed brick, how the golden glow reminded her of an old oil painting. The bistro exuded charm, but there was something faintly fragile about it, as though it were trying to hold onto its identity amidst unseen pressures. Before the thought could settle, a deep, clipped voice sliced through her reverie.

“Ivy Laurent?”

Startled, she turned to see Ethan Calloway standing behind the counter at the open kitchen. He wasn’t dressed in the pristine white chef’s jacket she’d expected, but in sleek black attire, his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms faintly lined with scars. His sharp gray eyes locked on her, assessing her with the same intensity she imagined he used to dissect a dish. The way he stood, perfectly still amidst the kitchen’s bustle, gave him an almost magnetic presence.

“That’s me,” she replied, forcing a bright smile to counteract the twist of nerves in her stomach. Tucking a loose strand of auburn hair behind her ear, she adjusted her posture. “I’m ready to get started!”

Ethan’s gaze flicked down to her hands, still clutching the bag. “Leave your things in the breakroom. You’re already late.”

Her smile faltered. His tone was sharp, definitive, as if she’d shown up hours overdue instead of five minutes behind schedule—a subway delay she couldn’t control. “Got it,” she said quickly, ducking her head and hurrying toward the back of the restaurant.

The breakroom was a cramped, cluttered refuge tucked behind the bustling kitchen. A sagging coat rack groaned under the weight of aprons and jackets. Scattered mugs and the remains of a pastry box sat on a small, scuffed table in one corner, alongside a stack of mismatched plates. Ivy slung her bag onto a free hook and took a steadying breath. She’d worked in plenty of restaurants before, but something about La Lumière felt different—more important. She couldn’t afford to mess this up.

When she returned to the kitchen, it was alive. Pots clanged, knives struck cutting boards in rhythmic precision, and the air was thick with the hiss of onions caramelizing over open flames. At the center of the controlled chaos stood Ethan, his sharp voice cutting through the din with brisk commands. Beside him, a woman with short, salt-and-pepper hair tucked under a scarf moved with practiced efficiency, her steady presence a counterbalance to Ethan’s razor-edged focus.

“Ivy!” Ethan barked, not sparing her a glance as he plated a dish with surgical care. “Camille will show you the ropes. Stay out of the way, and don’t touch anything unless you’re told.”

The sting of the order tightened her chest, but she bit back a retort. “Got it,” she said, her voice steady despite the heat rising in her cheeks.

The woman—Camille, apparently—looked up and offered her a small, reassuring smile. “Come with me, ma chère. Let’s get you started.” Her voice carried a soothing warmth, even amidst the kitchen’s frenzy, her French accent lending an air of calm authority.

Camille walked her through the essentials with brisk efficiency. Dishes were stored here, glassware there. The narrow spaces between the dining room and kitchen had to be navigated with care. Timing, Camille explained, was everything. “The guests don’t just eat the food,” she said, her tone conspiratorial, as if sharing a secret. “They experience it. Every second counts.”

Ivy nodded quickly, but her attention drifted to the way the light reflected off the pan Camille was using, the glint of sauce swirling in rich, earthy tones. The kitchen felt like a living, breathing canvas. She couldn’t help but imagine sketching it, the lines and curves of the staff as they moved in synchronized chaos. There was art in the rhythm here, even if Ethan’s commands had all the sharpness of a scalpel.

Before long, the lunch rush hit. Ivy found herself running orders, weaving through the tight spaces with the agility honed in countless other restaurant gigs. The patrons varied—professionals stealing an hour out of their day, older couples savoring the moment. Each table had its own rhythm, and she worked hard to keep pace.

But no matter how busy she was, her gaze kept drifting back to Ethan.

He moved through the kitchen like a conductor, each motion precise, his voice ringing with authority that demanded instant obedience. He was mesmerizing, yes, but there was something else beneath the surface of his sharp focus—a tension, held tightly in check, like a string pulled too taut.

As the rush began to wane, Ivy found herself hovering near the counter where Ethan was inspecting dishes before they were sent out. Her pulse quickened as she debated whether to speak. He hadn’t exactly welcomed her with open arms, but something about the sauce for the salmon—its earthy richness—nagged at her, a quiet idea refusing to stay silent.

“Chef Calloway,” she began, her voice steady but hesitant. He didn’t look up, but she pressed on. “I noticed the sauce for the salmon—it’s great, but have you ever tried adding a touch of lavender? Just a hint, to bring out the richness?”

Ethan’s hand froze mid-motion, his grip tightening slightly around the plating knife. Slowly, he turned his head, his gray eyes narrowing as they locked onto hers. “Lavender?” he repeated, his tone flat but laced with incredulity.

“Yes,” Ivy said, rushing to explain. “It’s subtle, but it adds this floral depth that complements the fish. Like how a dash of sunlight softens an edge.”

Camille glanced up from the stove, her expression neutral but watchful. A flicker of something—curiosity, doubt—passed through Ethan’s eyes, but his jaw tightened almost immediately. “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

The words hit her like a cold splash of water. She blinked, her face flushing. “I just thought—”

“That’s the problem,” Ethan interrupted, his voice low but cutting. “You just thought. This kitchen doesn’t run on thoughts, Ms. Laurent. It runs on precision. Discipline. Experience. If you want to experiment, do it on your own time.”

Heat rose to her cheeks—embarrassment, anger, frustration all swirling together. She wanted to argue, to defend her suggestion, but before she could find the words, a voice called out from the dining room.

“I’ll take the bill, please?”

It was a regular, a middle-aged man seated at the corner table near the window. Ivy approached, pasting on a professional smile despite the turmoil in her chest. The man handed her his receipt with a warm smile. “Everything was perfect today, as always,” he said. “Though that sauce on the salmon? Exceptional. Did you change something?”

Ivy hesitated. Pride and caution warred within her. She could feel Ethan’s sharp gaze flick toward her from the kitchen. “Just a little something extra,” she said finally, her voice light.

The man nodded approvingly. “Well, it was wonderful. Tell the chef I said so.”

When she returned to the kitchen, Ethan was already back at work, his expression unreadable. But as she passed by, she thought she caught the faintest flicker of tension in his jaw.

The rest of the shift passed uneventfully, but the air between them remained charged. As Ivy hung up her apron and stepped outside into the crisp evening air, the bistro lights glowed softly behind her. She paused, taking in the flicker of candles through the window, the warmth of La Lumière spilling out into the night.

It was going to be a challenge, working here—that much was clear. But beneath the clashes and the chaos, she felt it: that spark of potential. For the bistro. For Ethan. For herself.

And if there was one thing Ivy knew about art, it was this: the best creations often came from the messiest beginnings.