chapter 2

Jamie's pov

for the last six weeks, my identity hasn't been defined by my past mistakes, but by the work of my hands and the bow of my head. I was a waitress at Izakaya Mori, and I was good at it.

Izakaya Mori wasn’t just a job; it was a sanctuary carved out of cherry wood and silence. Here, every movement was intentional, every service an art. I had spent countless hours practicing my posture, my gait, and the exact angle of my ojigi—the slight, respectful bow I offered every guest. Mark, who now treated me with a gruff but genuine respect, had drilled us mercilessly on omotenashi, the Japanese concept of wholeheartedly looking after guests. It required anticipating needs, not just reacting to them. I needed this job to feed my baby, and I needed it to prove to myself—and to the ghost of my former self—that I was capable of hard, honest work.

I knew the difference between nigiri and sashimi, could differentiate seven kinds of sake, and even managed to offer small courtesies in halting Japanese. The small salary I earned, one hour at a time, felt more real and more valuable than any money I'd ever chased.

Tonight, however, felt less like work and more like a theatrical performance on a high wire. I was responsible for the Sanfords, the undisputed first family of this city. Mr. Sanford was a stern man who ran a multi-billion peso construction empire; Mrs. Sanford, elegantly severe, owned half the art galleries downtown. Their presence demanded absolute perfection. My palms were damp as I placed the small, hot towels—the oshibori—on the edge of their table, using the tongs with a precision I didn’t know I possessed.

I was mid-sentence, carefully explaining the preparation of the special Kurobuta pork belly, when the kitchen’s swinging stainless steel door hissed open. It was usually silent, merely a momentary flash of white light and steam, but tonight, it opened and stayed ajar.

And then he walked out.

He was wearing the crisp, spotless white of a chef’s coat, the uniform of authority and expertise. He was conferring with a sous chef, his body language confident, dominant, and utterly professional. My breath hitched in my throat. I recognized the strong set of his shoulders, the meticulous way his dark hair was tied back, the steady power in his hands.

It was Larry.

Not the kind, soft-spoken boyfriend I’d abandoned, but a composed, imposing culinary expert. He was the Chef-for-the-Day, an arrangement Izakaya Mori sometimes made with prominent visiting culinary figures. He hadn't just recommended me for a job; he was now the temporary master of the kitchen that was my lifeline. The irony felt like a physical blow.

I froze. My mouth went dry, locking around the Japanese phrase for "please enjoy." My carefully constructed professional facade shattered into a million pieces. The Sanfords’ faces blurred; the clinking of silverware turned into a deafening roar. My heart hammered against my ribs, trapped by the overwhelming shame of standing before the man I had betrayed, dressed in the uniform he had essentially paid for.

He hadn’t seen me yet; he was focused on plating a delicate course. The prep cook left, and Larry finally lifted his head, scanning the dining room. His eyes—steady, deep brown, and profoundly familiar—swept past me, then snapped back.

The recognition was immediate, but his reaction was carefully controlled. There was no mockery, no venom, just a sudden, faint tightening around his mouth, a flash of something unreadable—was it pain? Disappointment?—before his face became a perfect, unmoving mask of professional neutrality. He treated me the way you would treat a priceless, but severely cracked, antique vase: with immense caution and distance.

"Ms. Jamie?" Mr. Sanford’s deep voice cut through my paralysis. "Is the yuzu glaze homemade?"

I blinked, forcing myself back into the dimly lit, tranquil dining room. Breathe. Omotenashi. Anticipate. This wasn't about us. This was about work. This was about proving that the selfish woman was truly gone.

"Yes, Mr. Sanford," I managed, my voice surprisingly level. "The chef prepares it fresh every morning, balancing the citrus with local honey. It's an exclusive recipe for this evening."

I bowed and backed away, my eyes locked on the kitchen door. The sake glasses were empty, and the tempura platter had to be replaced with the wagyu. There was no escaping the kitchen. I had to face him.

I pushed the steel door open and stepped into the organized inferno of the kitchen—heat, clanging metal, and the sharp scent of roasted meat. Larry stood at the pass, his arms crossed, inspecting every plate before it was cleared for service. He was the center of the room, radiating a competency that made me feel like an amateur.

"Table three, wagyu," I announced, keeping my voice clipped and strictly formal.

Larry didn't look at me. He looked at the plates. "The service station is for staff collecting prepared dishes. Waitresses must wait outside the yellow line unless directed otherwise." His voice was low, authoritative, and clinical. He used the tone he would use to correct a junior cook’s knife grip. It was impersonal, and that detachment felt like the heaviest pressure of all.

"My apologies, Chef," I whispered, stepping back instantly, my cheeks burning. He wasn't lashing out; he was simply imposing the structure and order I had to respect. He was demanding excellence, which in this moment felt like a moral judgment. He was asking: Are you finally going to be responsible, Jamie? Or will you cut corners here too?

He finally pushed the first plate across the counter. As I reached for it, our fingers brushed—a momentary electric shock that made my spine stiffen.

"The Sanfords," he said, still focused on the food, but speaking just loud enough for me to hear. "They require precision. Every plate placed on the table, starting from the matriarch, must be presented from the guest's right side, with the logo of the dish facing the center of the table. You are distracted, Jamie. That is unacceptable."

He wasn't bringing up the past, but the meaning was clear: Your distraction broke us. Don't let your distraction break this too.

"I understand, Chef. It won't happen again," I replied, grabbing the plates. I forced myself to look directly at the food, memorizing the placement of the garnish. My debt to him wasn't just for the job; it was for the dignity this job gave me. I had to pay him back with unwavering professionalism.

I took the plates and turned on my heel, pushing through the door. I walked slowly, professionally, back to the Sanfords’ table, the scent of expensive grilled meat filling the space between the kitchen and the dining room.

I reached the Sanfords' table and performed the service flawlessly, from the right, with the restaurant's crest perfectly aligned towards Mrs. Sanford. Every movement was precise. Every smile was genuine omotenashi.

Larry’s presence was a furnace of guilt, but it was also a crucible of discipline. The chaotic love that had ruined me was gone. In its place was the steady, demanding expectation of the good man I had failed. And I was determined to meet that expectation.

I placed the first plate down, smiled the perfect omotenashi smile, and began the description of the wagyu’s provenance.