Divorce to Destiny: Reclaiming My CEO Husband by Anney GW

429 Desperate Measures

429 Desperate Measures

(Cass)

"If he speaks English, I'll just go tell him myself. Thank you so much for translating."

The man smiles and nods.

I make my way towards the kitchen door. The waitress steps in front of me, shaking her head.

I smile and pat her arm. "It's okay, this will only take a minute." I step around her and push the door open, stepping around her and into the kitchen.

The place is chaos: steam rising from pans, knives chopping at lightning speed, and a tall, broad-shouldered chef barking orders that sound like gunshots in French.

I know his type, old-school chefs that think abuse and overworking people is how to get the best out of them. But he doesn't intimidate me. I know what I need to do. "Excuse me!" I call out, and the noise screeches to a halt. The chef spins around, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

"What the hell you in my kitchen for?" he barks, his accent thick, but his English clear and cutting.

I swallow but hold my ground. "I had your vegetable soup. It was amazing, but I thought a bit more acidity and fresh thyme could really elevate it."

His eyebrows shoot up, and he looks at me like I've grown a second head.

The staff around us freeze, eyes wide with fear. Boy, he must be some tyrant.

don't

kitchen and tell me how to improve my soup?" he spits out, his

and palates change all the

think he's going to throw me out. But then he lets out a bitter laugh. "You have some nerve," he says. "You think

say, folding my arms. "But I've worked in kitchens before, and I need some work. No one else in here seems

he snaps, pointing to a mountain of dirty pots and pans stacked by the sink. It's a fortress of grime and grease. "Wash

say, rolling up my

get paid. If you finish. You

to

1/2

+25 BONUS

no think you

"Challenge accepted."

the commercial dishwasher with speed and determination. The water scalds my hands, and food scraps splatter all over

me and the endless pile of dishes, huge pots, frypans, mixing bowls. Like everything you

keep going until every last thing is gleaming

scrub down the sink and lean against the counter, exhausted but triumphant. The last thing I do is soak the many

in. His eyes widen

here," he says, sounding

keep the exhaustion out

that might be grudging respect. "Why Brussels?" he asks, his voice

I say, keeping it vague. "Family stuff. It's important. But I want to do it alone, you