Heidi Kim

I gripped the counter so tightly that my knuckles turned white. It was happening again. Another customer, no, an entire table, was asking for Vina. Not me. Not the head chef. Not the one who had built Flavium's reputation from the ground up.

“Is Chef Vina here today? We’d love to meet her!” a woman gushed from the dining hall, her voice carrying all the way to the kitchen.

My fingers twitched against the wooden surface. I tried to shake it off. It was nothing. Just a fluke. But the longer this went on, the harder it was to ignore.

“Chef, table twelve asked if they could have their dishes plated by Chef Vina herself,” Damien said hesitantly, as if sensing the storm brewing beneath my skin.

I forced a breath through my nose. “Tell them I’m the head chef. If they want their food to be served, they’ll get it from me.”

Damien nodded but hesitated. “It’s just that... some customers have specifically requested her presentation.”

My jaw clenched. Presentation. As if her little flourishes of edible flowers and artful drizzles were what made a dish worthwhile. As if years of training, discipline, and precision could be overshadowed by a damn pretty face and a few swipes of truffle oil.

I turned back to my station, knife in hand, and resumed chopping. The rhythmic thunk of the blade against the cutting board was the only thing keeping me from snapping.

Vina strolled into the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, completely unfazed. “Another fan club request?” Emily jokingly said, which made Vina laugh. I hate that laugh.

I didn’t look up. “If you’re done playing celebrity, we have real work to do.”

She leaned against the counter beside me, watching with that infuriating smirk. “You sound jealous, Chef.”

I slammed my knife down. “I’m not jealous. I’m pissed. There’s a difference. The kitchen is busy and you're busy entertaining your fans.”

She held up her hands, mocking surrender. “Hey, it’s not my fault people like me. I didn’t ask to be Flavium’s new attraction.”

I scoffed. “No, you just lap up the attention like a damn sponge.”

Her smirk faded slightly. “You know, maybe if you weren’t so uptight all the time, people wouldn’t be scared to approach you.”

My stomach twisted. I had worked so hard to gain respect in this industry. To be taken seriously. And here she was, waltzing in with her easy charm and magnetic presence, stealing the spotlight without even trying.

“This isn’t a popularity contest,” I snapped. “It’s keeping Flavium at the top, and we want our dish to be recognized as the best thing, not because an eye-catching chef is making this place famous. You don’t get to change anything here just because you flash a pretty smile.”

For a moment, something flickered in her expression. Hurt? No. She was too arrogant to let anything I said get to her.

“I’m not trying to take anything from you, Heidi,” she said, her voice softer than before. “I just cook. And people like it.”

“Then maybe you should open your own damn restaurant and stop leeching off here.”

The words came out harsher than I intended. The kitchen went dead silent. Even the sizzle of the pans seemed to quiet down.

Vina’s smirk disappeared completely. “Wow,” she said, stepping back. “So that’s how you really feel?”

I turned away, gripping the counter to ground myself. “Just do your job and stay out of my way.”

I could feel her staring at me, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she grabbed a pan and walked back to her station, her movements slower, more deliberate. The usual playful energy she carried was gone.

And for some reason, that made my stomach churn.

The dinner rush was brutal. Order after order came in, and I was moving at breakneck speed. But no matter how hard I worked, no matter how precise my plating was, I could hear it, the murmurs from the customers, the way they craned their necks looking for her.

It was like an itch I couldn’t scratch.

“Chef Heidi, I think we need a new signature dish,” Damien said hesitantly. “Customers are asking for something new. Something exciting.”

I snapped my head toward him. “Are you saying my dishes aren’t exciting enough?”

He raised his hands. “No, no! It’s just... Vina’s been experimenting with some new flavors, and people seem to love them. Maybe we could—”

“We?” I cut him off. “Or maybe you mean she could?”

Damien looked down, uncomfortable. “I just thought... maybe a new dish would help.”

Help? I was the first female chef to win Culinary Virtuoso. I had worked hard for years to get where I was. And now, because some pretty-faced newcomer had the audacity to be talented, I suddenly needed help?

I forced my hands to remain steady as I wiped my station clean. “Fine. If they want something new, I’ll give them something new. But it’ll be mine. Not hers.”

Damien nodded and quickly retreated.

Across the kitchen, Vina was plating a dish with careful precision, her fingers moving gracefully as she added the final touches. The other chefs watched her with interest, nodding in approval.

Something burned in my chest. Jealousy? Hatred? I don’t know what it is, but I know it’s because of Vina Rossi. I need to do something to be back at the top. I can’t let her steal what I’ve worked hard for, not like this.