The kitchen of Steele Mansion looked like something straight out of a culinary magazine ,spotless marble counters, shining copper pots hanging in neat rows, and a soft hum of appliances that probably cost more than Mia's entire life savings. The air smelled faintly of lemon polish and something earthy , rosemary, maybe.
Mia stood by the counter, sleeves rolled up, her apron slightly too big, and her nerves buzzing like an electric current. Margaret watched her with folded arms, her glasses perched at the tip of her nose.
"So," Margaret said, breaking the silence, "our mysterious chef candidate. You've survived the butler's stare, the driver's frown, and my kitchen rules. Let's see if you can survive the stove."
Mia gave a nervous laugh. "I promise not to burn the mansion down. That's… a start, right?"
Margaret smirked. "Flattery and humor won't save you if you ruin my pans, dear. Now,what would you prepare for a man who doesn't like being impressed, but must be impressed?"
That question hung in the air like a test.
Mia thought for a moment, glancing at the neatly stacked vegetables and the gleaming rack of spices. "Something simple," she said finally. "Comforting, but elegant. Like… rosemary lemon chicken with roasted vegetables and a light cream sauce. Not too rich, not too plain."
Margaret's eyebrow arched. "Hmm. Bold choice. You know, most applicants start with something showy ,soufflés, glazed duck, pasta spun by angels."
"I'm not here to perform," Mia said with a soft smile. "Just to feed."
For the first time, Margaret's expression softened, ever so slightly. "All right, Chef Mia. Let's see what your 'feeding' looks like."
The next hour was a symphony of movement. The sizzle of oil, the rhythmic chop of a knife, the low simmer of sauce. Mia worked with focus, but there was something natural in the way she moved , like her hands already knew what came next.
Margaret watched quietly, only stepping in once or twice to correct her knife angle or hand her a cleaner towel.
"You've got good instincts," she said after a while. "Who taught you?"
Mia hesitated. "Mostly myself. My mom… a bit. But it's always been what calms me."
Margaret hummed thoughtfully. "Cooking and therapy , a dangerous combination. Can cure anything from heartbreak to hangovers."
Mia laughed, the sound lighter this time. "That's true. Though I don't think it can fix heartbreak. Only distract it with carbs."
That earned her a chuckle from Margaret.
When the chicken went into the oven, the smell filled the kitchen ,golden herbs, lemon zest, and the warmth of roasting tomatoes . Even the old butler, Mr. Harold, peeked in under the pretense of polishing silver.
"Smells decent," he said in his gravelly voice.
"Decent?" Margaret said, hands on hips. "You called my wedding cake 'decent' too, Harold."
"That's because it nearly cracked my dentures," he muttered before disappearing, and Mia bit her lip to hold back a laugh.
"You see what I deal with here?" Margaret said with mock indignation. "Everyone in this mansion thinks they're a critic."
"Even your boss?" Mia asked lightly.
Margaret glanced up at her sharply, then softened. "Especially him. Though he'd never admit it. That man could eat heaven's pie and still say it was missing salt."
They shared a laugh, but inside, Mia's curiosity stirred. Who exactly was Alexander Steele? Every mention of him came wrapped in mystery.
By the time the chicken came out of the oven, the kitchen felt alive. The sauce shimmered like silk under the light, and the roasted vegetables glowed with color ,golden carrots, deep red peppers, tender asparagus tips.
Margaret nodded approvingly. "Well, you haven't burned anything. That's already a miracle."
Mia smirked. "High standards around here, huh?"
"Steele standards," Margaret corrected. "Now, let's see if this can impress a man who doesn't get impressed."
She plated the food herself ,neat, elegant, and minimalistic , then called for one of the staff, a quiet, silver-haired man named Tobias.
"Take this to the boss," she said. "Tell him it's the candidate's trial meal."
As Tobias left with the tray, Mia suddenly felt her stomach twist. She'd faced interviews, rejection letters, even harsh criticism before, but this was different. Somewhere in that vast mansion, behind some closed office door, a man she hadn't met was about to decide her future with a single bite.
She tried to joke it off. "If he hates it, I'll just quietly vanish through the back door."
Margaret gave her a small, knowing smile. "Relax, dear. You've done well. And besides," she added with a wink, "he's had worse."
That drew out a laugh from Mia, but inside, her heart still drummed.
They waited in quiet anticipation, the ticking of the kitchen clock suddenly loud. Then, the sound of footsteps , Tobias returning. He handed Margaret a folded note.
She opened it, read silently, then looked at Mia with that same unreadable expression.
"Well?" Mia asked, her voice a mix of nerves and hope.
Margaret folded the note slowly. "He says…" she paused for effect "'Not bad. Tell her to come back tomorrow.'"
Mia blinked, her mouth parting in disbelief. "That's… good, right?"
Margaret's lips twitched into a smile. "From him? That's practically a standing ovation."
Mia's laughter burst out ,half relief, half joy. "I'll take it!"
Margaret chuckled and patted her shoulder. "Welcome to Steele Mansion, Chef Mia. Let's hope you survive the week."