Beneath the Shades

MarinaI swear, if I see one more job listing that says “minimum five years of experience” for an entry-level position, I’m going to scream.Lying in bed at eight in the morning — no, scratch that, eight-oh-seven because I hit snooze twice — I stare at the cracked ceiling and seriously consider giving up on this whole “being an adult” thing. Maybe I’ll move back in with my mom. Maybe I’ll open a food blog nobody reads. Or maybe I’ll just stay here under my cheap blanket and pretend the outside world doesn’t exist.But of course, my phone pings.Another job alert. Another fancy restaurant looking for someone “young, dynamic, passionate, but also willing to work sixteen-hour shifts for barely minimum wage.”Because that makes sense.I groan and roll over, burying my face in the pillow.Graduating from culinary school was supposed to be my big ticket. My dreams were shiny once — open a cozy bistro with my name on the sign, cook food that makes people close their eyes and smile, live a pe

MarinaBy the time I finish plating, my nerves are fried.I went with something simple — lemon herb pasta with grilled chicken — because simple is safe, right? Simple is honest. And also, simple doesn’t require me to accidentally blow up the spaceship kitchen.The voice from the speaker crackles back to life just as I’m wiping down the counter.“Bring the tray upstairs. Second floor. East wing. The office.”No please. No thank you. Just a command.Because apparently, in this place, manners are optional.I balance the heavy tray in my hands, trying to ignore the way my palms are sweaty. My shoes squeak on the marble again as I follow the long, silent hallways, feeling like I’ve wandered into a fancy hotel where I absolutely don’t belong.The stairs curve up, wide and dramatic, and by the time I reach the landing, I’m breathless in a way that has nothing to do with the climb.Office. East wing. Right.My heart thuds as I count doors — one, two, three — and then stop at a pair of tall, d

MarinaI finish cooking with my heart still somewhere up near my ears.The eggs are fluffy, the veggies are perfectly maybe too perfectly diced, and the pancakes are golden like I actually know what I’m doing.But then I hit a wall.Because — uh — how exactly am I supposed to let them know that breakfast is ready?There’s no little bell to ring. No staff swarming around.Just me, standing in a kitchen that costs more than my entire neighborhood, with a stack of pancakes and zero clue what comes next.I glance around like the walls might answer me.They don’t.Just me and my overcooked anxiety.“Do I…? Do I just…?” I mutter to myself, wiping my hands on a towel. “Yell? Knock? Send a smoke signal?”But before I can spiral into full-on panic, I hear it.Footsteps.Two sets.And then they appear.Both of them.voice — walks in first.His steps are… different.Measured. Like he’s counting them.His hand grazes the back of a chair as he passes, subtle but there. Like he’s making sure of his