Bitter Sweet Love with My Stepbrother CEO-Chapter 42: The Heat of the Kitchen

(Yvette POV)

The Institut Culinaire de Paris did not smell like food.

Not yet.

It smelled like steel counters freshly sanitized, starch-heavy uniforms, and something sharp beneath it all—anticipation mixed with fear. The kind that lingered in places where people came to be measured and found wanting.

I arrived early.

Not because I was eager, but because I refused to arrive late on my first day.

The hallway outside the main orientation kitchen was already filling when I reached it. Students clustered in loose groups, voices overlapping in French, English, and accents I couldn’t quite place. Some laughed too loudly. Others stood with rigid posture, eyes darting around as if mapping threats.

I took in details the way I always did when entering unfamiliar territory.

The confident ones.

The anxious ones.

The ones pretending not to be either.

I adjusted the strap of my bag on my shoulder and took a quiet step inside.

The kitchen was vast—rows of stainless steel workstations lined with precision, each equipped identically. No one would have an excuse here. No advantage beyond what they carried in their hands.

I chose a station near the middle.

Close enough to observe. Far enough not to invite attention.

Or so I thought.

"That one’s taken."

The voice was cool, precise, unmistakably French.

I turned.

Three women stood a few steps away, already wearing their uniforms like armor.

The one who had spoken was tall, her dark hair pulled back so tightly it looked effortless. Her posture was impeccable, chin slightly raised, eyes sharp with an assessing calm that reminded me of executives who never had to raise their voice to be obeyed.

Camille Rousseau.

I didn’t know her name yet—but I would.

Behind her stood two others.

One leaned slightly forward, lips already curled in amusement, eyes flicking over me with thinly veiled curiosity. The other crossed her arms, gaze direct and unapologetic, the kind of stare that dared you to flinch first.

"This station?" I asked calmly.

Camille’s eyes flicked to the empty counter, then back to me.

"Yes."

I glanced around. There were at least five unoccupied stations nearby.

"I didn’t see a name," I said evenly.

A pause.

Then Camille smiled.

It wasn’t friendly.

"It’s assumed," she replied.

The girl behind her—Élodie, though I didn’t know it yet—let out a soft laugh.

I studied them for half a second longer than necessary.

Then I nodded.

"No problem."

I moved without further comment, choosing another station closer to the back.

Behind me, I heard a whisper.

"She looks lost."

Another laugh followed—soft, dismissive.

I kept my hands steady as I unpacked my tools.

I didn’t come here to be liked.

Orientation began without ceremony.

A tall man with graying hair and eyes that missed nothing stepped forward. His chef’s coat was pristine, the insignia on his chest worn with quiet authority.

"Bienvenue," he said. "This is not a school for egos. This is a school for discipline."

His gaze swept across us.

"Here, you start from zero."

Good.

We were handed our first task within minutes.

Knife skills.

Basic. Brutal. Unforgiving.

A crate of vegetables was wheeled out, and the instructions were delivered without embellishment.

Uniform cuts.

Time limit.

Consistency over speed.

I tied my apron, slipped my knife from its sheath, and grounded myself in the familiar weight of the handle.

Around me, the room filled with the sound of blades against boards.

Chop.

Slice.

Julienne.

I fell into rhythm quickly—muscle memory guiding my hands where my thoughts threatened to wander.

Then someone stepped closer.

"Careful," a voice said loudly. "You might hurt yourself."

I glanced up.

The girl with crossed arms from earlier—Nina—had positioned herself deliberately at the adjacent station. Her eyes flicked to my hands, then to my face.

Her lips curved into a grin.

"First day nerves, right?"

A few heads turned.

I didn’t answer.

Instead, I adjusted my grip and continued cutting.

My hands trembled—for a fraction of a second.

Then steadied.

The blade moved cleanly. Precisely.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Camille watching—not openly, but enough to notice.

When the instructor passed behind me, he paused.

He didn’t speak.

But he looked at my board a moment longer than the others.

That was enough.

When time was called, we stepped back from our stations.

The instructors moved down the rows, inspecting boards with clinical detachment.

Some students stood straighter with every nod of approval. Others shrank under quiet disapproval.

Camille’s station received a brief nod.

"Consistent," the instructor said.

Her smile sharpened.

At Nina’s station, he paused longer.

"Speed is good," he said. "Control is not."

Her grin faltered.

When he reached mine, he stopped.

I felt it immediately—the subtle shift in the room.

He picked up a slice between his fingers, examined it, then set it down.

"Fundamentals are solid," he said. "But you’re slow."

I inclined my head. "Yes, Chef."

"Speed comes naturally along the way," he added. "Bad habits don’t."

Then he moved on.

A murmur rippled faintly through the group.

Behind me, Camille’s voice was barely audible.

"That was neutral," she murmured. "That’s not praise."

Élodie leaned closer. "It’s worse. It means she’s invisible to his eyes."

I pretended not to hear.

But inside, something settled—not discomfort, but clarity.

They weren’t afraid of me yet.

They were annoyed.

That was fine.

Because I wasn’t here to compete for attention.

I was here to endure the heat—and let the results speak.

The next exercise followed almost immediately.

No buffer. No time to recover from first impressions.

We were assigned stations again—this time in tighter rows, our movements overlapping, the kitchen growing louder as pressure mounted. The task was deceptively simple: a basic stock. Clear, clean, and foundational.

The kind of thing everyone thought they knew how to make.

The kind of thing that revealed everything when done wrong.

I focused on my mise en place, moving deliberately. Bones blanched. Aromatics prepped evenly. Heat controlled—not rushed, not timid.

Halfway through, I felt it.

A fraction too much heat.

I adjusted instinctively, but the damage had already been done. A faint cloudiness bloomed where clarity should have been.

Not a failure. 𝓯𝓻𝒆𝙚𝒘𝓮𝙗𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝒍.𝙘𝓸𝙢

But a flaw.

"Stop."

The instructor’s voice cut cleanly through the room.

My hands stilled.

He stood beside my station now, tall and immovable.

"You," he said, not unkindly. "Explain."

I straightened. "I let the temperature rise too quickly, Chef."

He nodded once.

"Correct." He lifted the ladle, examined the stock, then set it down. "You know the principle, but you failed the execution."

The room felt suddenly very quiet.

"Again," he said.

"Yes, Chef."

I dumped the pot without hesitation and started over.

Behind me, a soft scoff.

"I guess being precise doesn’t help if you don’t know timing," Nina murmured—loud enough to be heard.

A few students snickered nervously.

The instructor turned.

"Do you have something to add?" he asked.

Nina stiffened. "No, Chef."

"Good," he replied flatly. "Then focus on your own station."

The silence afterward was sharper than any insult.

My cheeks burned—not from humiliation, but from awareness. I was being watched now.

That was fine.

I worked faster the second time—not reckless, but decisive.

When time was called again, my stock was clear.

Not perfect.

But clean.

The cafeteria buzzed with relief as we filed in.

Uniforms loosened. Shoulders dropped. Voices rose.

I grabbed a tray and moved along the line, choosing something light. Hunger existed, but exhaustion sat heavier.

I scanned the room.

Groups had already formed—fast, instinctive, as if everyone had known where they belonged before the day even began.

I chose a table by the window.

I was alone.

I didn’t mind.

I had just taken my first bite when laughter erupted nearby.

Too loud. Too deliberate.

Camille’s group had chosen the table diagonally across from me.

Camille sat with perfect posture, crossing her legs with casual elegance. Élodie leaned in close to her, whispering loudly enough to carry.

"Some people think being quiet makes them mysterious," Élodie said. "It usually just means they don’t have anything to say."

Nina laughed openly.

Camille took a sip of her drink, eyes flicking briefly in my direction before looking away.

"I suppose it’s difficult," she said mildly, "to adjust when you’re used to... different standards."

I chewed slowly.

Around us, conversation faltered. Students pretended not to listen while listening very carefully.

"They let just anyone in these days," Nina added. "Foreigners especially."

That earned a few uncomfortable chuckles.

I finished my bite and set my fork down.

My heart beat steadily—not fast, not panicked.

I stood, gathered my tray, and walked past their table.

Camille looked up, clearly expecting some reaction.

I met her gaze.

Then I smiled politely and walked away.

The silence that followed was... satisfying.

After afternoon sessions, my shoulders ached and my hands felt raw.

I was scrubbing my station when a shadow fell across the counter.

"Ms. Matthews."

I turned.

The instructor from earlier stood there, arms crossed loosely.

"Yes, Chef?"

"Walk with me."

We moved to the side, away from the others.

He lowered his voice—not conspiratorial, just professional.

"You made a mistake today," he said.

"Yes, Chef." I replied with my head held low.

"You corrected it," he continued. "Without complaint and without excuse."

I nodded. "It was my responsibility."

He studied me for a long moment.

"Your fundamentals are solid," he said again. "You lack the speed. You lack the confidence."

I waited.

"But you listen," he added. "That matters more than talent here."

My chest loosened slightly.

"Don’t concern yourself with the noise in the background," he said. "It fades in time."

Then he walked away.

I stood there a moment longer, absorbing the weight of that simple acknowledgment.

No praise.

No reassurance.

Just truth.

And somehow, that meant everything.

The locker room was nearly empty when I went to change.

I was halfway through untying my apron when footsteps echoed behind me.

"Yvette."

I turned.

Camille stood a few steps away, arms folded, expression carefully neutral. Élodie and Nina lingered near the door.

"I didn’t catch your last name earlier," Camille said lightly.

"Matthews," I replied.

She tilted her head. "You won’t last here if you keep pretending you’re invisible."

I met her gaze calmly.

"I’m not pretending." I replied.

Her eyes sharpened.

"This place rewards presence," she continued. "Not endurance."

I slipped my apron off and hung it neatly.

"Then we’re here for different things," I said.

Camille’s smile thinned.

"We’ll see."

I stepped past her, not brushing shoulders, not slowing down.

Behind me, I felt her stare like heat against my back.

This wasn’t over.

But it didn’t scare me.

Because I hadn’t come here to win against them.

I had come here to become someone they couldn’t ignore.