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

and tell me how to improve my soup?" he spits out, his voice booming. "This

and palates change all the time. Maybe that's

deep shade of red, 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 American opinions? You think

kitchens before, and I need

pans stacked by

I say, rolling up my sleeves.

get paid. If you finish. You

it be enough to get

1/2

+25 BONUS

I no think you

"Challenge accepted."

plunge into the work, scrubbing, rinsing, and stacking the commercial dishwasher with speed and determination. The water scalds my hands, and food scraps splatter all

me and the endless pile

sweaty, and aching, but I keep going until every last thing

the counter, exhausted but triumphant. The last thing I do is soak the many pieces of cutlery in hot water and spirits to

door swings open, and the chef walks back in. His eyes widen slightly when he sees

he says,

the exhaustion out of

something that might be grudging respect. "Why Brussels?" he asks, his voice softer but still

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