Chapter 1
Chapter 1: The Devil Wears Chef’s Whites
Some people dreamed of winning the lottery—Seraphina Valencia dreamed of hurling a baguette like a javelin straight between her hellish boss’s perfectly shaped eyebrows, delivering a speech so brutal Gordon Ramsay would slow clap, and strutting out as the bakery exploded behind her in a blaze of buttery glory.
She’d march off into the sunrise with her dignity, her freedom, and—because petty victories mattered—a stolen stapler under one arm.
Unfortunately, dreams didn’t pay rent. Or Danny’s tuition. Or the student loans that stalked her like a debt-collecting ex with boundary issues.
“VALENCIA!” The bellow ricocheted through the pristine chrome corridors of Milo’s Artisan Bakery like a particularly angry thunderclap, sending a couple pastry interns scrambling for the nearest exit. “WHERE THE HELL IS MY ESPRESSO?”
Breathe, Sera. Time to earn a paycheck, not commit a felony.
She grabbed the precisely temperature-controlled cortado from her desk—foam art featuring a delicate swan that would make Instagram influencers weep with envy—and forced her expression into the serene mask that had somehow kept her employed for three years, seven months, and thirteen days. Not that she was counting or anything.
“Coming, Chef Volkov,” she called in the gentle, accommodating tone that had outlasted twenty seven previous assistants. Twenty seven. She’d found their termination papers filed under “Casualties of War” in Milo’s personal filing system. The man had a twisted sense of humor.
Deep breaths. You need this job. Danny needs his pre-med classes, and Uncle Bernard can rot in hell before you'd ask him for another dime.
She glided into Milo's office—all floor-to-ceiling windows and brutal minimalism, the kind of space designed to make visitors feel small. Emilio "Milo" Volkov sat behind his mahogany desk like a particularly handsome dictator, steel-gray eyes scanning architectural drawings with the intensity most people reserved for disarming bombs. His dark hair was disheveled from whatever fit of perfectionist rage had consumed his morning, and there was a smudge of what looked like ganache on his sharp cheekbone.
At thirty-two, he'd built a bakery empire that stretched across three continents, earned two James Beard Awards, and had been featured on the cover of Food & Wine more times than she could count. He was also, without question, the most insufferable human being she'd ever encountered.
And why does the devil have to be so unfairly, impossibly attractive?? Life is so unfair.
Her eyes fell on the wall's sole personal item: a faded photo of eleven stoic children, lined up like soldiers at a Russian farmhouse. The youngest was Milo, his unmistakable gray eyes the only clue amidst the threadbare faces.
Eleven kids, she thought, doing the automatic count she couldn't help but make of everything. Eleven.
Her parents' favorite number—that's why they'd gone out that fateful night, November 11, 2011.
Probably the one and only thing we have in common. A weakness for numbers that actually mean something.
“Twenty-one seconds late,” he said without looking up, his Russian accent turning each word into a precisely aimed dart.
Oh, go stuff yourself with your own croissants.
“The elevator was—”
“I don’t want excuses, Valencia. I want punctuality.” He finally glanced up, those storm-gray eyes cataloguing every detail of her appearance with the thoroughness of a customs inspector. “Is that a wrinkle in your blouse?”
Sera’s hand instinctively moved to smooth the barely perceptible crease near her left shoulder. It’s not even visible unless you’re looking for it, you obsessive lunatic.
“I’ll iron it during lunch, Chef.”
“See that you do.” He lifted the cortado, inhaled deeply—a ritual she’d observed roughly a thousand times—and took a measured sip. His expression remained unreadable as he swallowed. “Temperature is acceptable.”
Three years of perfecting your coffee preferences and I get ‘acceptable.’ I should poison your next latte.
“Thank you, Chef,” she murmured, pulling out her tablet with hands that wanted to shake but had learned better. “The Pemberton wedding consultation is scheduled for eleven. They’re requesting a five-tier cake with hand-piped sugar roses, gold leaf detailing, and—”
“Let me stop you there,” Milo interrupted, setting down his cup with the kind of precision that suggested violence might follow imprecision. “How many guests?”
“Ninety-five.”
“Five tiers for ninety-five guests.” His jaw tightened—a warning sign she’d learned to recognize after watching him reduce grown men to tears. “Do they want to feed the entire borough of Brooklyn as well?”
Maybe if you explained cake-to-guest ratios like a normal person instead of acting like they’d personally insulted your mother, clients might understand better.
“I believe they want dramatic presentation for photos, Chef,” she said diplomatically.
“What they want is to waste food and money on Instagram vanity.” He stood abruptly, moving to the windows with the restless energy that preceded his legendary tantrums. “Call them back. Three tiers maximum, and if they don’t like it, they can hire one of those cake-decorating amateurs who think fondant makes everything better.”
Or you could just explain your reasoning without being a complete ass about it. Just once. For variety.
“Yes, Chef.”
The rest of the morning dissolved into its usual chaos of crisis management. Sera fielded calls from suppliers, smoothed over Milo’s brutal critiques with devastated staff members, and translated his perfectionist demands into actionable tasks that wouldn’t send anyone into therapy. All while her brain ran its constant background calculation of financial doom.
Monthly student loan payment: $1,247. Danny’s spring semester at Columbia: $8,950. Danny’s car and insurance payments $730 Rent on this shoebox apartment: $2,200. Groceries for the month: $300 if I live on ramen and prayer.
The numbers had been her constant companion since she turned twenty-one and finally scraped together enough savings to move Danny out of Uncle Bernard and Aunt Margaret’s house. Their parents’ car accident when she was eighteen had been tragic enough, but being forced to stay under the same roof as those distant relatives—who had so “graciously” agreed to take Danny in—had been its own private hell.
For three years she watched them fritter away his education fund with vague “expenses” and shameless “management fees.” She slept on a pullout couch while their daughters got redecorated bedrooms. She worked double shifts to cover basics like school clothes and supplies, only to be told she should be grateful for their charity. By the time she left with Danny at fifteen, the trust was all but gone—and she’d already vowed that whatever it took, she would make sure he had the future they’d stolen from him.
Never again, she’d promised herself the day she’d packed their meager belongings and walked out with Danny in tow. We’ll never depend on anyone else. Ever.
Even if it meant enduring Milo’s impossible standards and nuclear temper for a salary that barely kept their heads above water.
“Valencia.” His voice cut through her financial anxiety spiral as she gathered her things at exactly 6:00 PM. He stood in his office doorway, chef’s coat somehow still pristine despite a day of terrorizing his staff.
“Yes, Chef?”
“The Pemberton consultation notes were… thorough.”
Thorough. That’s practically a love sonnet coming from you.
“Thank you, Chef.”
Something flickered in his expression—too quick to identify—before he nodded curtly and disappeared back into his office, leaving Sera staring after him with the familiar mixture of exhaustion and something that felt dangerously like fondness.
Stockholm syndrome. Has to be.
Two hours and four cosmos later, Sera found herself wedged into a sticky booth at Murphy’s Tavern, watching her best friend Luna attempt to explain to their bewildered server why they absolutely needed the “Nacho Mountain of Doom” despite being two women of normal human proportions.
“I’m telling you, Sera,” Luna declared, sliding another drink across the table with the confidence of someone who’d never met a problem she couldn’t bulldoze through, “you need to quit that job before it kills what’s left of your soul.”
“The money—”
“Fuck the money,” Luna said cheerfully, her dark curls bouncing with emphasis. “You’re brilliant, gorgeous, and organized enough to run NASA. You could work anywhere.”
If only it were that simple.
“He’s not always terrible,” Sera protested weakly, then caught Luna’s incredulous stare. “Okay, he’s Satan incarnate. But Danny’s tuition—”
“Will get paid somehow. It always does.” Luna reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “When’s the last time you did something just for you? Something that didn’t involve calculating costs or managing someone else’s ego?”
Sera opened her mouth to answer and realized she couldn’t remember.
“Exactly.” Luna raised her glass. “Here’s to learning how to live a little.”
They clinked glasses, and Sera tried not to think about how foreign the concept felt.
By the time they stumbled out of Murphy’s three drinks later, Sera’s inhibitions had loosened enough for her to actually laugh at Luna’s increasingly ridiculous impressions of various celebrities. They were weaving toward the subway station when Luna suddenly grabbed her arm.
“Oh my God, look!” She pointed at the electronic sign above Kim’s Corner Store. “$2.04 BILLION JACKPOT. We have to get tickets!”
“Luna, the odds are—”
"Better than the odds of you growing a spine with Chef Psychopath, so come on." Luna dragged her toward the bodega, its neon sign flickering cheerfully against the night sky.
Mr. Kim, the elderly owner, greeted them with his usual warm smile. "Good evening, ladies! Celebrating tonight?"
"We're about to be billionaires!" Luna announced with the confidence of someone who'd had exactly the right amount of alcohol.
"Ah, you and everyone else today," Mr. Kim chuckled, printing her tickets. "That'll be two dollars."
"Quick Pick or your own numbers?" he asked, pen poised.
"Quick Pick," she said, the cosmos making the decision for her. "Let the universe decide."
Sera fumbled for her wallet, the cosmos making her fingers clumsy. She handed Mr. Kim a crumpled ten-dollar bill and leaned against the counter while he fed the slip into the machine. The numbers clattered to life, ink pressing onto paper.
She started to wait for her change, but Mr. Kim patted the cash drawer with a frown. "I'm so sorry, miss. I'm completely out of small bills. The jackpot has everyone buying tickets tonight. Would you mind if I just print you the rest in tickets? That'll give you a full ten's worth."
Her alcohol-fogged brain lagged a beat. One ticket had been the plan. Just one. But before she could protest, he was already sliding two slips across the counter—the first Quick Pick she'd asked for, and a second one loaded with four random sets to make up her change.
"Uh…sure, that works," she said, because disagreeing required more energy than she had.
He handed her both tickets with a warm smile, but in her alcohol-hazed state, she barely glanced at either slip before stuffing them into her purse.
“You’re too nice for your own good,” Luna laughed as they stumbled toward the subway. “Seriously, babe. One day you need to learn the magic word.”
“Which is?”
“No.”
Sera stuffed both tickets into her purse without looking at them, Luna’s words echoing in her ears. Learn to say no. If only you knew how many times I practice in the mirror.
Back in her studio apartment, Sera managed to kick off her heels and peel off her jacket before collapsing face-first onto her narrow bed, still fully dressed. Her purse tumbled to the floor, contents scattering across the worn hardwood, including two lottery tickets that fluttered under the radiator.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Danny: ‘Aced my organic chemistry exam! Thanks for believing in me, sis. Love you to the moon and back.’
Love you too, little brother, she thought drowsily, one arm dangling off the mattress. All of this is worth it for you.
Miles away, lottery balls tumbled in their machine: 3… 7… 13… 11… 32… Powerball: 27.
In her alcohol-hazed dreams, Sera finally found her voice. She told Milo exactly what she thought of his impossible standards and condescending attitude. She walked out of that bakery with her head held high, leaving him speechless for once in his arrogant life.
She had no idea that when she woke up tomorrow, hungover and late for work for the first time in her life, those dreams would be the least impossible thing about her new reality.
Sometimes the universe has a twisted sense of humor.
Sometimes it hands the quietest person in the room the loudest megaphone imaginable.
Sometimes it gives a girl who’s spent her whole life saying “yes, Chef” two point four billion reasons to finally say no.
