Vengeance From The Past

Camila’s Pov

There’s something about the smell of garlic sizzling in butter that always feels like home. It takes me back to our cramped kitchen in Guadalajara — mamá humming old love songs, flipping tortillas while I sit on the counter, watching her turn whatever we had into something magical.

Now here I was, miles away in a high-end kitchen that smelled more like steel and stress than comfort. Still, that familiar scent calmed my nerves. Just for a second, it made me forget I was about to cook for one of the most important guests this restaurant had ever seen.

My station gleamed. Pans lined neatly. Herbs prepped. Meat resting. I wiped my hands on a clean towel and glanced at the clock. 7:14 PM. The VIP guest’s dish had to be ready by 7:30.

Sweat gathered at the back of my neck despite the cool air,every possible worst-case scenario flashed through my head.

I inhaled slowly.

I could do this.

“Need help with anything?” Isabella’s voice floated over to me, light and sweet.

I looked up and saw her leaning casually near the spice rack, a soft smile on her lips. Her dark hair was pulled into a loose bun, a few strands falling perfectly around her face — effortless beauty.

“I’m good, thanks,” I said, flashing her a quick smile. “Just need to reduce the sauce and finish plating.”

“You’re so calm,” she laughed. “I’d be sweating bullets if it were me handling the signature dish for tonight.”

“I am sweating bullets,” I admitted with a laugh. “I just hide it well.”

She stepped closer, holding a small bowl of garnishes. “Here, use some of this micro basil. It’ll elevate the color.”

“Oh — thanks!” I reached out and took it from her, grateful.

The silence stretched as she stood there, unwilling to break it, watching me stir the sauce. “You’re seriously amazing, Camila. Everyone’s talking about how you’re the next big name in the kitchen.”

I ducked my head, hoping no one noticed the color rising in my face. “Stop it,” I muttered, shaking my head. “I’m just trying not to burn anything tonight.”

As I turned back to the stove, Isabella’s praise still lingered in my ears. I liked her — she’d always been kind, always supportive, even when other chefs threw side-eyes at how quickly I’d climbed the ranks. We weren’t best friends, but in this kitchen, she was one of the few who felt safe.

Or so I thought.

The lamb came out perfectly seared, just the right shade of pink at the center. I spooned the red wine reduction carefully, adding the risotto next to it. Everything was balanced — the aroma, the colors, the texture.

The Head Chef passed by, giving it a quick glance.

“Make sure it’s perfect. That table is no joke.”

“Who’s sitting there?” I asked, unable to hide my curiosity.

“Leonel Castillo,” he said flatly, walking off.

I blinked. The name didn’t mean much to me. I’d