Bite Me - Part 1

**Lyra**

“Lyra! I need a chicken cordon bleu, two ribeye steaks medium rare, and a lemon salmon. Let’s hurry it up!”

The sharp, demanding voice of Chef Magnus cuts through the deafening clatter of the kitchen. He is a prick. A certified, undisputed genius in the culinary world, a two-time Michelin Star recipient, and an absolute prick. He has been my mentor for three years now. I love the man, and I hate him. If such a combination of emotions is even possible, he brings it out of me every single shift.

“Yes, Chef!” I call back, already pivoting on my heel. I grab my tongs and begin prepping the cuts of meat he just rattled off.

It is another typical, chaotic Friday night at Zenith. The restaurant is the crown jewel of the city’s dining scene, rated five stars for six consecutive years. It is the kind of place that serves its food on custom-fired porcelain plates, offering microscopic yet vibrant portions that the rich and famous drop thousands of dollars on just to sample a taste. We literally plate our decadent chocolate desserts with edible twenty-four-karat gold flakes. The patrons out in the dining room are snobs, dripping with diamonds, heavy Rolex watches, and designer shoes that cost more than my rent for an entire year. Must be nice.

I know I should be grateful I have this job. It pays the bills. I am a sous chef now, essentially his right hand on the line. One of five bodies navigating this hot, noisy, bustling space. The environment is a sensory overload. Heavy copper pots bang against the industrial grates. Silver cutlery scrapes against metal prep tables. The distant, rhythmic *ching-ching* of crystal glasses drifts through the swinging doors every time a waiter in a crisp tuxedo scurries out with a silver tray. In those brief seconds when the doors push open, the faint, elegant notes of live classical piano music bleed into the kitchen grease. Someone out there is gracing ivory keys with delicate fingers, bringing peace to the wealthy elites dining under the chandeliers. Back here, it is a war zone.

I have bled and sweat in this kitchen for five years. I started as a lowly server at sixteen. I only went to culinary school because Chef Mags told me I had a gift. He caught me lingering after hours one night, experimenting with the leftover ground beef. I had made these ridiculous cheese-stuffed patties and jokingly called them my ‘Peek-a-boo burgers.’ Instead of throwing me out by my collar, Chef stood there and watched. He took a bite. We split the burger in silence. It was the first time I ever saw the man smile. It was not a massive, gleaming grin, just a tiny softening of the tight creases around his mouth. He looked at me and said, *‘You have potential, kid. You are going to go to culinary school, and you will train under me. I will make a chef out of you.’*

The kitchen is a rush, but it is not what I want to do forever. Cooking is a skill, a survival tactic, but my actual passion lies in project design. Architecture. Building concepts. So, while I endured culinary school by day, I worked my fingers to the bone at night, secured a scholarship, and crushed my bachelor’s degree in project design in a record two years.

That is the exact reason I found myself standing outside the Vance Tower two weeks ago. It was my third attempt applying to their elite firm, and I had finally landed an interview for a project-based internship. I am twenty-five now. Vance handles the most incredible global contracts—modern museums, towering corporate office buildings, cutting-edge new construction. It is a designer’s ultimate fantasy.

Of course, the interview itself was a bust. I got stuck pitching my portfolio to some corporate Malibu Barbie who barely looked up from her tablet. The whole trip felt like a wash, made even worse when I practically bulldozed into a literal brick wall of a man on the sidewalk outside. I can still remember the solid impact of his chest, the faint scent of expensive cologne, and those intense, mesmerizing hazel eyes that stared down at me. He had called me sweetheart with this deep, rumbling voice that sent an unwanted shiver straight down my spine. I snapped back at him and fled. Just another weird moment in a weird day.

*Ring!*

The sharp, artificial chirp of a cell phone slices through the sizzle of searing meat.

“Who the hell has their phone on? You know the rules on my line!” Chef Magnus roars. His face flushes a deep, angry red. He waves a grease-stained spatula in the air.

*Ring! Ring!*

“Um. Chef,” one of the junior prep cooks whispers meekly, shrinking back against the stainless steel counter. “It’s your phone.”

Magnus freezes. He blinks, the anger draining from his posture as he realizes his quick temper just backfired. “Oh. Continue,” he mutters, reaching into the breast pocket of his white chef’s coat.

“This is Mags,” he barks, pinning the phone between his ear and his shoulder. He does not stop moving. His hands are a blur as he pulls a heavy skillet of blistered vegetables off the open flame, grabbing a pair of long tweezers to begin plating the garnish across six rectangular plates lined up on the pass.

Then, everything stops.

“What?” Magnus chokes out.

The change in him is instantaneous and horrifying. The blood completely vanishes from his face, leaving his skin an ashen, sickly gray. His eyes widen so far I can see the whites all the way around his irises. The heavy iron skillet slips from his grip. It hits the pass with a violent crash, shattering two of the expensive porcelain plates. Searing hot vegetables and dark sauce splatter across the immaculate metal counter and rain down onto the rubber floor mats.

“Okay,” Magnus breathes out. He looks around the kitchen with wild, frantic eyes. Pure, unadulterated terror radiates from his rigid frame.

I drop my tongs. I step away from my station without a second thought, grabbing a thick dry towel. I snatch the hot skillet off the broken porcelain, shove it onto a cold burner, and start sweeping the ruined food into the trash basin. I glance up at him. His eyes are glistening with unshed moisture. He is not looking at me. He is not looking at anything. He is staring blindly at the tiled wall, listening to whatever voice is on the other end of that line with a kind of desperate submission I have never witnessed in him.

“Yeah, I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he whispers. His booming, authoritative voice is gone. He sounds broken. Defeated.

“Go,” I tell him. I do not ask questions. I do not hesitate. Whatever is happening, the man is in shock. He cannot function on a hot line like this. “I’ve got the kitchen, Chef. Just go.”

Magnus blinks, dragging his focus down to my face. A weak, trembling smirk touches the corner of his mouth as he tries to pull his shattered composure back together. “You sure, little chef?”

“Yeah, Chef. We got this,” I say with a firm nod, projecting a confidence I am only half-feeling.

“Okay. If you need me, call,” he mutters. He takes a step toward the back office, then stops. He turns back to look at me, the rigid lines of his face softening into something resembling deep relief. “I owe you one, Lyra.”

He turns and practically sprints to the office. Seconds later, I see him grab his dark wool coat off the hook and vanish out the heavy metal back door into the alley.

Two hours pass. The adrenaline of taking over the lead spot keeps my blood pumping. The dinner rush was brutal, but we survived. The tickets hanging on the metal rail are finally thinning out. Only about fifteen tables remain occupied in the dining room. I have stepped smoothly into Chef’s role, handling the final plating and quality checks. We have roughly thirty minutes until the kitchen officially closes down for the night.

The heavy swinging doors burst open. Mr. Barton, the front-of-house manager, comes storming into the kitchen. He nearly collides with Finn, one of our younger servers, who is balancing a tray of dirty plates.

Barton is a nightmare to deal with. He is a short, stocky man, barely five-foot-six, with a noticeable beer gut straining against the buttons of his vest. He sports an unruly, wiry beard and greasy black hair slicked back over a receding hairline. Thin wire-rimmed glasses pinch the bridge of his nose, making his round face look like a squished marshmallow. He tugs frantically at his tuxedo bow tie.

“Mags!” Barton screeches. His voice has a grating, deep sandpaper scratch to it. He pushes past the prep cooks, frantically searching the warming stalls. “Where is Mags?”

He spins around in the center of the kitchen, his panicked eyes darting from face to face.

“Chef had a personal emergency,” I state calmly, wiping my damp hands on the blue utility cloth hooked to my right hip. “I am the lead for tonight. What can I do for you, sir?”

“Dang it!” Barton curses, stomping his polished shoe against the floor mat. “I need Chef Mags! We have incredibly special VIPs out there right now. They bypassed the reservation list, demanded the private room, and they requested the ‘Chef’s Secret Special’ like they always do.”

Barton lets out a heavy, ragged sigh of defeat. Beads of sweat are visibly pooling on his forehead. He refuses to meet my eyes, looking down at the floor as his stubby fingers fidget nervously with his cufflinks. He looks like a man standing on the edge of a cliff.

“Well, you can tell them the Chef is gone for the night and they are welcome to order from the standard menu,” I reply blandly, turning back to my cutting board. “The kitchen will be closing shortly anyway.”

“Excuse me?” Barton snaps. He marches up to the pass, slamming his hands down on the metal. “One does not simply tell them no. They want the special from the chef, so you will get it done! They expect absolute perfection. They expect something new. Make it happen... chef.”

He spits the title at me like it leaves a rotten taste on his tongue. He glares at me, straightens his crooked tie, throws his shoulders back, and pushes his way back out the swinging doors into the ballroom.

What an absolute jerk.

I stand there staring at the swinging doors. The ‘Secret Special.’ I have worked in this kitchen for five years and I have never heard of a Secret Special. I suppose that is the entire point of a secret. I know Magnus occasionally throws together off-menu dishes for high-rolling regulars, but there is no recipe card for this. There is no precedent. I cannot call him. The sheer panic in his eyes when he left told me his phone was off the moment he stepped out the door.

So, these terrifying VIPs want something not on the menu. They demand perfection from a chef who isn't here, delivered by a manager who treats the back-of-house staff like garbage.

A dark, rebellious spark ignites in my chest.

They want a secret? They want to be impressed? I have the perfect meal for clients who think their money can buy them the world. It is petty. It is wicked. It will absolutely, without a doubt, get me fired by tomorrow morning.

But it is going to be so worth it. This is going to be fun.

*Twenty minutes later.*

“Take these to the private room for the special VIPs,” I say, sliding a heavy silver tray across the metal pass. I paste a massive, million-dollar smile on my face.

Finn stands on the other side of the counter, staring down at the tray. All the color drains from his youthful face. He looks back up at me as if I have just sprouted a second head. Oh, Finny. You have no idea the absolute joy this is bringing me.

“You’re serious?” Finn whispers, his voice cracking. He looks at the plates, then back at me, pure dread pooling in his eyes.

“As serious as ice cream on apple pie, sweet cheeks. Now shoo,” I say, waving my hand at him.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies, offering a shaky, sarcastic salute. He grips the edges of the tray like it is an active bomb and pushes through the doors.

I turn my back to the pass, grabbing a damp rag to wipe down the stainless steel surfaces. I let out a low chuckle, a devilish smile curving my lips. I cannot wait to hear the fallout from this.

An hour passes. The kitchen is officially closed, the fires extinguished, the lines scrubbed clean. The heavy silence of the back-of-house is a stark contrast to the earlier chaos. I sent most of the prep cooks and dishwashers home. I am sitting alone in the cramped back office, tallying up the inventory numbers in the heavy leather ledger, enjoying the quiet.

Footsteps echo against the tile. Mr. Barton waltzes into the kitchen.

“You!”

His voice echoes across the empty stainless steel room. He is standing near the ballroom doors, keeping his distance. He points a trembling finger straight at me, then snaps his fingers twice, motioning a harsh ‘come here’ gesture.

I close the ledger and slowly stand up, brushing the wrinkles out of my dark chef pants. His behavior is strange. He looks rigid, almost vibrating with nervous energy.

“What is your name again?” he demands rudely as I approach. He sneers at me.

“Lyra,” I answer evenly, keeping my face blank. “What do you want, Mr. Barton?”

“You have been summoned,” he says.

The words are pushed through tightly clenched teeth. A bizarre, terrifyingly forced smile stretches across his face. It doesn't reach his eyes. He looks like a deranged ventriloquist dummy.

“Follow me. Now,” he orders, spinning around and marching out the doors before I can even ask a question.

I follow him. We step out of the harsh fluorescent lights of the kitchen and into the sprawling, empty ballroom. The remaining busboys are silently setting the tables for the next day's lunch service, moving like ghosts. The rich, dark regal blue paint on the walls sharply contrasts with the heavy gold accents. Massive crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, their dimmed bulbs twinkling like diamonds suspended in the dark. The ambiance screams royalty and old money.

Barton leads me past the main floor, heading straight for the back corridor. We stop in front of a heavy, solid oak door trimmed in gold leaf. The brass plaque reads *Private VIP*. The door is cracked open just an inch.

Barton reaches out with a trembling hand. He knocks softly against the wood. Three precise, rhythmic taps.

He pushes the door inward.

“Sirs, as requested. This is Lyra,” Barton says. His voice drops an octave, dripping with absolute reverence. He bows at the waist, a deep, subservient dip, before stepping to the side to clear my line of sight.

I step into the room.

The air in the private dining space is thick. It hits my lungs like a physical weight, stealing the breath right out of my throat. Sitting around the singular, massive mahogany table, flanked by a crystal vase overflowing with fresh-cut exotic flowers, are four men.

They look like actual gods pulled straight down from Olympus. They are clad in immaculate, tailor-made suits that scream dangerous wealth. But it is not the clothes that freeze the blood in my veins. It is the sheer, suffocating aura radiating from them. It is dark, predatory, and violent. The raw power in the room is so heavy my knees physically tremble. A primal instinct screams in my brain to drop my chin, to bow, to submit to whatever these men are.

“You!” a low, rough voice whispers.

My head snaps up at the sound. My eyes lock onto the man sitting at the head of the table.

The air leaves my lungs in a sharp gasp. The face. The sharp jawline. The broad shoulders testing the seams of his suit. And those eyes. Those intense, swirling hazel eyes from the sidewalk two weeks ago.

The man leans back in his velvet chair. A slow, terrifyingly smug smile spreads across his lips.

“We meet again, sweetheart.”