The dinner rush at L’Eclat felt like a war zone. Steam billowed from oversized stockpots, blurring the lines between the stainless steel stations and the frantic chefs moving through them. The rhythmic thumping of knives against wooden boards echoed like gunfire. In the center of the storm stood Cassian Moretti. He wore his white chef coat like armor, buttoned to the throat, his dark eyes scanning the line with the precision of a hawk.
Sora Lin gripped the handle of her sauté pan, her knuckles white. A bead of sweat traced a path down her temple, itching against her skin. She ignored it. To acknowledge the heat was to admit defeat. She carefully drizzled a lemon-butter reduction over a piece of sea bass, her hand trembling just a fraction.
A shadow fell over her station. The air seemed t
