She walked into the kitchen, her heart racing. She had bought herself time. But she had also walked into the middle of something dangerous. She had heard the phone call. She knew about the merger, the missing signatures, and the leverage. And as she plated the stew ten minutes later, she realized something else. The man sitting at table four was not just hungry. He was being hunted.
The kitchen of the Kensington Royale was usually a symphony of controlled chaos, but when Livia Young walked in and demanded the staff stew for table four, the symphony crashed into a wall of silence. Jean-Luc, the head chef, a man whose ego was larger than the walk-in freezer, stared at her. He was holding a pair of tweezers he used to arrange microgreens. “You want to serve what to Viktor Molnar?” “The stew, Chef,” Livia said, grabbing a deep, rustic bowl from the shelf. “The one heavy on paprika and dumplings. Now.” “I have a Dover sole that costs eighty pounds,” Jean-Luc screamed, his face turning the color of a beet. “I have Wagyu beef flown in from Kobe. You are going to serve him peasant food? Preston will fire you. I will fire you.” “He asked for it specifically,” Livia lied, her voice steady despite her trembling hands. “He said if he sees another truffle, he’s buying the building and turning it into a parking lot.” Jean-Luc paled. He looked at the pot simmering on the back burner, the lunch meant for the dishwashers and busboys. It was a rich, oily, red stew made from potato scraps, tough cuts of beef, and an obscene amount of spices. It was delicious, but it was ugly. “If he hates it,” Jean-Luc hissed, ladling the thick red liquid into the bowl, “this is on your grave, Young.”
Livia did not wait. She grabbed the bowl, wiped the rim with a cloth, and marched back out. The dining room was still tense. Guests were whispering, glancing at the lonely billionaire who was staring out the window at the rain. When Livia placed the steaming bowl of red stew in front of him, the smell, earthy, spicy, and undeniably homey, wafted through the sterile air of the restaurant. It smelled like a grandmother’s kitchen, completely out of place amid the scent of expensive perfume and beeswax polish. Viktor stopped tapping his finger. He looked down at the bowl. The steam hit his face. He picked up his spoon. Preston, hiding behind a pillar, covered his eyes.
Viktor took a bite. He chewed slowly. He closed his eyes. For a moment, the billionaire was not in London. He was back in a small, drafty kitchen in the hills of Buda, before the money, before the private jets, before the weight of an empire crushed his ability to breathe. He opened his eyes and looked at Livia. The hardness in his face had softened just a fraction. “It needs more salt,” he said in Hungarian. “But it tastes like Tuesday nights in 1993.” Livia placed a small cellar of sea salt on the table. “Tuesday nights were always the best nights,” she replied in the same language. “The rest of the week is for work. Tuesdays are for surviving.”