#CHAPTER 2: The Necklace
1174 Words
MILA
Why would he look for me? Mocking at myself inside, I shook my head in the taxi.
On my way back to my motel room, I had formed a plan in my head. I needed to quickly take a shower and set off on a job search.
I knew there was no going home–I had no money, no job, nothing. My adoptive parents would offer no help. My sister, my adoptive parents’ “real daughter”, would only make fun of my pathetic experiences here.
I might not have had a lover, a house, or much hope, but since I was here already, I should try to survive in this country first.
Even in my drunken stupor last night, I had spotted a little restaurant down the street that was hiring a chef. It seemed like a good place to start.
I washed away all the grime and sweat from the last day, trying to get my emotions under control.
After the shower, I went through my bag, trying to piece together whatever money I had left. But when I opened it, something strange and heavy fell onto the hotel bed.
Felix’s necklace.
I did not recall how it could have ended up in my bag. As far as I could remember, he never took it off during any point in the night, even when he took off his–
My face flushed at the memory. I peered at the stone. That purple eye seemed to glow even brighter in the light of day. It almost seemed alive, as crazy as that seemed.
Felix also reacted so oddly when I asked him about it.
“What’s the eye a symbol of?” I asked.
I remembered how Felix’s gaze flickered at my question.
“You can see it? You really can see it…”
“What do you–”
I looked up at him, questioning, but he didn’t let me finish my question before bending down and kissing me.
I decided to deal with the necklace later. I knew where he lived, so I could always see if I could drop it off at his place for him.
I put on my most professional blouse and skirt from my suitcase and tried my best to tame my curly hair. I hoped to look at least somewhat presentable when I showed up to this restaurant.
The thing people complimented most about me was my cooking.
One of my favorite things was making special fusion foods, something I became known for in my hometown. I loved experimenting, approaching traditional foods through modern methods and incorporating unconventional ingredients.
More importantly, being in the kitchen made me feel in control of my own life.
That’s why I opened my restaurant back in my hometown.
Even if I didn’t speak Fresonian, I knew some local cuisine. I believed good food transcended any language barrier, so maybe I stood a chance.
As I approached the restaurant–Samara’s Place, it was called–I had spotted the night before, I noticed a slight commotion coming from inside. A woman in a white chef’s outfit was talking exuberantly with the other employees, waving her arms around to emphasize her points. Although I was afraid to interrupt, I took a deep breath and knocked on the glass.
The woman took one look at me and opened the door, ushering me inside.
“Hello,” I said in my best attempt at Fresonian, and the woman shook her head emphatically.
“English?” she asked. I nodded, deciding not to be offended at her assumption of my level of Fresonian.
“I saw you were hiring, and I wanted to apply–”
Her eyes lit up.
“Yes! Yes! We are hiring! You cook?”
“I owned my own restaurant back in America,” I told her. “What is your speciality?”
I rattled off a few dishes to her, noticing how her head started shaking in approval.
“Kitchen. Now.” She pointed at the swinging door behind her. I followed her obediently. I tried not to gasp when I saw the kitchen. It was huge, and beautiful–stainless steel appliances, sparkling counters, all the latest technology in baking and mixing. It was a chef’s dream. I tried to keep my jaw from falling.
The woman looked me up and down before sitting on a stool and pulling out a notebook. She scanned me, and I felt a little silly in my skirt and heels.
“Make your best dish,” she said. “And then I will see if we can hire you.”
A slow smile spread across my face. Prove myself through cooking? This was maybe the first time I’d felt confident in days.
I gathered the ingredients for my specialty–beef brisket braised in a clear broth–and got to work. I hummed to myself as I worked, simmering the meat in spices and herbs, allowing the delicious smell to fill the kitchen. The head chef looked over my shoulder a few times as I worked, but even her presence didn’t stress me out.
I handed her the plate. Her eyes widened as soon as she took the first bite.
“When are you available to start?” she asked, making a note on the stack of papers in her hands.
“Oh, immediately,” I reassured her.
She grinned. “You are hired.”
I froze. Just like that? There was no way my luck would be this good.
She kissed both my cheeks in greeting and smiled at me. I decided I liked her. She had kind eyes.
“My name is Samara, and I am Head Chef and owner of this restaurant,” she said. “I’m Mila. I just moved here,” I told her. No need to go into all the ugly details.
“We’re excited to bring you on board, Mila. You’ll start as a junior chef.” As Samara spoke, she scribbled my name down on a diagram of the kitchen hierarchies. “I am the executive chef and owner. If you work hard and make good product, I’ll consider moving you up to sous chef.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I responded.
“We often host the royal family and visiting dignitaries here, so it is very important that you become acquainted with their dietary restrictions and preferences.” Samara handed me a large binder.
I flipped through the packet, struck by Queen Rowena’s beautiful smile and King Ivan’s strong face. When I got to the third page, though, the packet almost fell out of my hands.
PRINCE FELIX, CROWN PRINCE AND HEIR APPARENT OF FRESONIA.
My heart stopped as I recognized that face. How could I not have put it together? Felix, with his multiple apartments and stack of cash. Felix, with his playboy ways and crowd of wealthy associates. Felix, with his kind eyes and gentle fingers and…
Felix, my one-night stand, was the Prince of Fresonia.
- Writer
