Heidi Kim

The kitchen was alive with the familiar sounds of clinking pans, the rhythmic chop of knives against the cutting board, and the soft sizzle of ingredients hitting hot oil. But unlike the usual dinner rush, tonight, there was no frantic shouting, no orders flying in. It was just Vina and me, each focused on perfecting our own signature dish. We were the only ones left at Flavium; everyone had already gone home. 

The tension that had settled between us since the shrimp incident hadn’t disappeared, but at least we weren’t snapping at each other anymore. We worked in silence, our rivalry thick in the air, unspoken but acknowledged. The competition wasn’t just about the restaurant; it was about proving who deserved to lead the kitchen.

I stole a glance at Vina from across the counter. She was fully immersed in her dish, carefully plating each element with precision. Her brows furrowed, lips slightly pursed in concentration.

I hated to admit it, but she had skill. A natural grace that made it seem effortless, even when I knew how much effort it took.

I shook my head and focused on my own work. I carefully drizzled the final sauce over my dish, a pan-seared duck breast with a delicate orange reduction. The aroma alone was intoxicating. I had spent days, even weeks refining this recipe, making sure every bite was perfect. This dish was my statement, my way of proving that I deserved to be here.

After what felt like hours, we both stepped back from our stations, our respective plates sitting before us like trophies.

Vina exhaled deeply and wiped her hands on a towel before leaning against the counter. “So,” she started, tilting her head at my dish, “that’s your masterpiece?”

I crossed my arms. “That’s right. And yours?”

She gave a small, proud smirk, motioning to her dish, a beautifully plated seafood risotto with a saffron-infused broth. “This. Not my best work, but I’m proud of it.”

I studied it for a moment, my fingers twitching to critique, to find flaws. But if I were being honest, it looked… incredible. Not that I’d say it out loud. It reminded me of my signature dish, but simpler. I didn’t say anything else, and neither did she. 

We finished cleaning up the kitchen to finally close the restaurant when the sudden sound of heavy raindrops against the windows pulled our attention away. I turned to the glass, watching as the once-clear night sky had turned into a downpour. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

“Great,” I muttered under my breath.

Vina let out a small chuckle. “Guess we’re stuck here for a bit.”

I sighed, pulling my phone out to check the bus schedule. “I need to get home, but I doubt there’ll be any buses running in this weather.”

Vina glanced at me, hesitating for a second before speaking. “My place is a five-minute walk from here.”

I raised a brow. “And?”

She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. “And… you could crash there instead of waiting around here all night like some lost child.”

I opened my mouth to argue, to say that I’d be fine, but the truth was, I really didn’t want to be left alone in the restaurant all night.

I groaned. “Fine. But don’t think this means anything.”

She smirked. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The walk to Vina’s place was miserable. The rain was relentless, soaking through our clothes in seconds. By the time we reached her building, I was shivering, my hair sticking to my face, my shoes squelching with every step.

Then, I stepped inside her penthouse and immediately forgot all about the cold.

“What the hell,” I blurted out, my eyes scanning the massive open space. Floor-to-ceiling windows, sleek modern furniture, and a freaking chandelier hanging above the living area. The place screamed luxury.

Vina tossed her coat aside and smirked at my reaction. “Not what you expected?”

“No,” I admitted, still looking around. My entire apartment could fit in her living room alone.

“Here, dry yourself,” she said, handing over a towel.

“Thank you,” I replied.

She walked toward the kitchen area and grabbed two mugs. “Coffee or Matcha?” she asked.

“Uhm, Matcha will be fine.”

I saw her pull a canister of Imperial Matcha Green tea, my favorite. I saw her scoop the matcha powder and whisk it until it was foamy and the right consistency. She then grabbed two mugs, added warm milk that was steamed in the coffee machine, and topped it off with the matcha tea.

“Here. This should warm you up.” She handed the mug.

I hesitated for a moment before accepting it. “Thanks.”

An awkward silence settled between us as I took a sip. The warmth of the matcha, rich and velvety, carried a delicate balance of earthiness and sweetness. Its frothy surface lingered on my lips, while the soothing, slightly bitter undertones melted smoothly down my throat.

Vina leaned against the counter, swirling the liquid in her glass before breaking the silence. “So… do you always take things seriously?”

I shot her a look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugged. “You’re always so serious. Like, all the time. Do you ever relax?”

I scoffed. “I relax sometimes.”

Vina raised a brow. “Really? When?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came out. Because if I was being honest, I couldn’t remember the last time I truly let myself relax when cooking.

She smirked at my silence. “That’s what I thought.”

I rolled my eyes. “Just because I take my job seriously doesn’t mean I don’t know how to unwind.”

“Mm-hmm.” She took a sip of her drink, amusement dancing in her eyes. “You know, Heidi, for someone so good at leading a kitchen, you kind of suck at dealing with people.”

I frowned. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, you’re great at what you do,” she continued, setting her glass down. “But you’re so focused on being in control all the time that you push people away. Not everything is a competition.”

Her words stung more than I cared to admit.

I exhaled sharply, setting my drink down. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me,” she challenged, leaning closer.

I met her gaze, my chest tightening. “I’ve worked my ass off to be where I am. To prove I deserve this position. I can’t afford to slip up.”

Vina’s expression softened slightly. “And you think letting people in would make you weak?”

I looked away. “…I don’t. But I know it can be a distraction.”

She studied me for a moment before shaking her head with a small chuckle. “Can’t you lose the seriousness even for a second?” I shot her a glare, but she just grinned.

The conversation shifted after that, turning into something… almost normal. We talked, really talked, for the first time without snapping at each other.

I learned that her favorite creation was the Consommé Devilish dish, an intricate recipe so difficult that even I wouldn’t dare attempt it. I knew I wasn’t at that level yet. Then, she told me the dish she disliked most: Carbonara. That surprised me, not only because she’s Italian, but also because Carbonara is one of the simplest pasta dishes to make. And yet, she hated it.

We laughed together, something I never imagined would happen between us.

The storm outside had settled into a steady drizzle, the sound of raindrops tapping against the massive windows of Vina’s penthouse. The atmosphere inside had shifted, too. The tension that usually crackled between us had dulled into something softer. I wasn’t sure what to call it.

I sat cross-legged on the couch, the warmth of my drink still lingering in my hand. Vina sat across from me, her legs tucked beneath her, her expression unreadable. She had been staring into her mug for a while, swirling the liquid absentmindedly.

Then, out of nowhere, she spoke.

“You know… I never really wanted to be a chef.” I blinked, caught off guard. Of all the things I expected her to say, that wasn’t one of them.

“What?” I asked, leaning slightly forward.

She let out a soft, humorless chuckle. “Yeah. Surprising, huh?” She glanced at me, the usual smugness absent from her features. “You know about my father being a famous chef, right? Viktor Rossi?”

“Of course I know him, the Michelin star chef, Viktor Rossi. The one who basically reinvented Italian cuisine.”

Vina nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line. Of course I know her father, who hadn’t? He was one of the most respected chefs in the culinary industry. His restaurants were nearly impossible to get into, and his cookbooks were bestsellers. Before, when I was just a new chef, I wanted to be his apprentice so badly. That is until I found out that Vina was her daughter, and when I defeated her, I knew he wouldn’t want to hire someone who defeated his daughter.

I raised an eyebrow, suddenly curious, “If you didn’t want to be a chef, then… what made you become one?”

She sighed, leaning back against the couch. “I didn’t have a choice. My father decided it for me before I could even figure out what I liked. Being his only daughter, it was expected that I’d follow in his footsteps, as if my future had already been written before I even had the chance to dream for myself.

“My mother died giving birth to me, so I only had my father around. He wasn’t cruel, but he was strict. Cooking wasn’t just a job for him; it was his whole life. And because of that, it became mine too. There were no bedtime stories, no playful weekends, no lazy afternoons. Just the constant presence of the kitchen. The clang of pans, the scent of simmering broth, the heat of the stove, it was all I knew growing up. But I resented it. I never really had an interest in cooking in the beginning. It felt like a cage, like I was being shaped into someone I didn’t even recognize.

“I was five years old when we moved to South Korea. My father had accepted an offer to work as a head chef in a prestigious restaurant, and I had no say in the matter. It was frightening. I didn’t know the language, didn’t understand the customs, and no matter how hard I tried, I always felt like an outsider. I remember my first day at school, I barely spoke a word of Korean, and the other kids didn’t know what to do with me. I tried to make friends, but no one wanted to befriend the foreigner. I was different. My features, my accent, the way I fumbled with words, it set me apart.

“I spent most of my childhood trying to fit in, trying to prove that I belonged, but the kitchen was the only place where I could be close to my father. So, I forced myself to learn, to mimic his skills, to endure hours of practice just to see the smallest nod of approval from him. It wasn’t passion, not at first—it was obligation. And for the longest time, I thought that was all it would ever be.”

Something in her voice made my chest tighten. I knew a thing or two about pressure, but this was different. Her life was already planned out for her before she even had a say in it.

“But,” she continued, her voice softening, “there was this one moment that changed everything for me.”

I stayed quiet, waiting for her to go on.

“When I was in primary school, I had this classmate. I don’t even remember their name anymore, but they used to sit next to me during lunch. My father always made sure I had packed lunches from his restaurant, high-quality meals that looked like they belonged in a five-star hotel rather than a school lunch box.”

She smiled faintly, as if picturing it. “One day, that classmate of mine asked if they could have a bite. I thought it was weird at first, but I let them try it. And the moment they took a bite, they just… lit up. Like they had tasted something magical.”

She paused, her gaze distant. “That was the first time I realized food wasn’t just about technique or presentation. It was about making people happy. Seeing her smile made me want to cook, not because my father wanted me to, but because I wanted to make people feel the way she did in that moment.”

I stared at her, absorbing her words. I had always assumed Vina was just another privileged chef trying to prove herself, but this? This was something else.

“So,” I said slowly, “you worked hard to become a chef… but not just for your father.”

She nodded. “At first, it was to make him proud. But later, it became about proving that I could be great on my own terms. That I could be better than him.” There was a fire in her eyes now, one that I hadn’t noticed before.

I hesitated before asking my next question. “Is that why you joined the competition?”

She let out a soft laugh. “Partly. But mostly… I wanted to prove to myself that I was capable. That I belonged in the culinary world.”

I swallowed. “And then… I beat you.”

Vina glanced at me, a smirk playing on her lips. “Yeah. You did.”

I expected bitterness in her voice, maybe some resentment. But there was none.

I exhaled. “Did you… hate me for it?”

She was silent for a moment before shaking her head. “Not really. I was ashamed, yeah. It stung. I knew Father was disappointed, but more than anything, it made me realize I had a long way to go. Losing to you didn’t make me want to quit; it made me want to get better. To be like you.”

Something in my chest tightened. Here I was, thinking of Vina as just a rival, a challenge to overcome. But hearing her say this… it made me realize that maybe we weren’t so different after all.

She suddenly leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm as she studied me.

“What?” I asked, feeling self-conscious under her gaze.

She tilted her head. “You know, after the contest, I didn’t just want to get better as a chef.”

I frowned. “Then what else?” Her eyes softened, and the teasing glint in them disappeared.

“I got more interested in you.” My breath caught in my throat.

“Huh?”

She shrugged, looking almost amused at my reaction. “I don’t know. You were just… different. I’ve never met anyone so passionate, so focused. You’re stubborn as hell, but you’re real. It made me want to understand you more. Especially when it comes to your cooking, I never felt euphoria after eating a dish. When you made your scallop and risotto, it was my favorite thing you made.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that. Vina Rossi, my supposed rival, had been interested in me? Not just as a competitor, but as a person?

I felt heat rise to my cheeks, and I quickly looked away, pretending to take another sip of my drink. “You’re messing with me.”

She chuckled. “Am I?”

I glared at her. “Yes. You love messing with me.”

She grinned. “That’s true. But I’m not lying about this.”

I didn’t know what to say.

For the longest time, I thought we were just two chefs fighting for dominance in the kitchen. But now, sitting here with her, hearing her open up about her past, her struggles, her thoughts about me… It was confusing. I wasn’t sure what this feeling was. But one thing was certain. This rivalry? It was no longer black and white.