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.

bullies don't scare

me how to improve my soup?" he spits out, his voice booming. "This soup is already best.

one can know everything, and techniques and palates change all the time. Maybe that's why you're stuck in this small-town pub instead

and for a second, I think he's going to throw me out. But then he lets out a bitter laugh. "You have some nerve," he says. "You think you're special because you've got

really," I say, folding my arms. "But I've worked in kitchens before, and I need

pointing to a mountain of dirty pots and pans stacked by the sink. It's a fortress

say, rolling up my sleeves. "But what do I

get paid. If you finish. You

be enough to get a

1/2

+25 BONUS

But I no think

"Challenge accepted."

determination. The water

as the staff finishes their shifts, and soon, it's just me and the endless pile of dishes, huge pots, frypans, mixing bowls.

I keep going until every last thing is gleaming and put

scrub down the sink and lean against the counter, exhausted but triumphant. The last thing I do is soak the many pieces of cutlery in hot water and spirits to dry individually to get

and the chef walks back in. His eyes widen slightly when

he

reply, barely able to keep the exhaustion out of my

be grudging respect. "Why Brussels?" he

stuff. It's important. But I