By the time the first batch of pancakes hit the plate, the kitchen looked like a war zone.
There was flour on the ceiling.
A broken whisk was taped together with duct tape and hope.
Camille had burned her sleeve, Valeria had managed to flambé part of her own hair ("Only the tips!" she insisted), and Marco had stirred so vigorously that he'd splattered batter across the chandelier.
For a professional chef like Marco, this was definitely a rookie mistake. However, considering he'd been tormented by his ex-girlfriend for days and was in a dire mental state, such an outcome seemed somewhat understandable.
And yet—somehow—they were all laughing.
Camille, whose idea of joy used to be a perfectly sharpened insult, was now leaning on the counter, breathless with giggles. "You call this a proper sauté, Valeria? This is food-based violence."
Valeria blew a kiss. "Everything I do is violent. It's part of my brand."
