Beneath the Shades

Marina

I 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 peaceful, quiet life. No drama. No stress. Just me, my knives, and a kitchen that smells like garlic and butter.

Instead, I’m twenty-four, broke, and living in an apartment that smells vaguely like my neighbor’s cat.

Living the dream, Marina. Truly.

With a sigh, I grab my phone again and start scrolling. And that’s when I see it —

“Private Chef Needed. Discreet. High Pay. Immediate Start.”

No details. No restaurant name. Just a number and a promise that it pays well.

Which, honestly, sets off a tiny alarm bell in my head. But I’m too tired, too broke, and too desperate to care.

So I click.

Because what’s the worst that could happen?

I stare at the listing for a solid minute, my thumb hovering over the screen.

Private Chef Needed. Discreet. High Pay. Immediate Start.

Discreet?

That’s sketchy, right? That’s code for illegal, or prepare to cook for a cult, or maybe don’t ask too many questions if someone comes in bleeding.

I should swipe away. I really should.

But then my bank app pings, reminding me that my balance is exactly $12.47, and my landlord already gave me the look last week. The one that says, “I’m giving you till Friday, sweetheart, and then you’re out.”

So I press Call.

Because desperation makes you do dumb things, and apparently, I’m leading the parade today.

It rings once. Twice. Three times.

And then — click.

“Hello?” The voice on the other end is smooth. Male. Deep enough to make my stomach clench a little.

Which is weird, because I’ve been single for two years and I’ve never found mystery job recruiters remotely attractive.

“Yes,” I say, trying to sound professional. “Marina Russo. I’m calling about the private chef position?”

There’s a pause.

Too long. Long enough for my nerves to start chewing on themselves.

“You’re available to meet today?” he asks. No small talk. No asking for a résumé. Just straight to business. “Two p.m. Bring your knives.”

My throat goes dry.

Bring your knives?

“Is there a—um—kitchen trial?” I ask, trying not to sound like I’m already regretting this.

“Something like that,” the voice says. And then, without missing a beat, “Text me your address. A car will pick you up at one-thirty.”

And just like that — click — the call ends.

I lower the phone and blink at my bedroom wall.

A car? A mysterious trial? No résumé?

Okay, Marina, I mutter to myself, flopping back onto the bed. This is either the best opportunity of your life… or the beginning of the N*****x documentary where everyone yells at you for ignoring the obvious red flags.

Either way, I’ve got until one-thirty to pretend I’m not freaking out.