The cafeteria was too clean to be real.

Sunlight ricocheted off marble floors, glass walls, and metal chair legs until everything shimmered like a mirage. The air hummed with espresso steam, fryer oil, and perfume so thick it clung to my tongue. Somewhere, a milk-frother hissed like a small dragon losing patience.

I’d claimed a corner table by the windows, close enough to the light but far from the center noise. My tablet glowed with open files — employment rosters, references, questions sorted by priority. I’d triple-checked everything twice, which somehow didn’t count as preparation because my heart was still racing in an eight-beat loop.

One-two-three. One-two-three.

My thumb found the inside seam of my sleeve, rubbing the thread until my pulse tried to match it.

The cafeteria doors opened again and Cassie wove through the crowd like gravity had given up on her. Tray balanced perfectly, expression halfway between fond and exasperated. She stopped beside me and set down enough food for two small kingdoms.

“Lunch,” she said, sliding the tray into my airspace. “And no, you don’t get to say you’re not hungry.”

I stared at the spread: truffle fries, iced mocha, mozzarella sticks steaming like tiny prayers. “I wasn’t going to.”

She arched a brow.

“…Fine,” I admitted. “But this counts as multitasking.”

Cassie sat, crossing one leg over the other. “You’re multitasking survival. Slight difference.”

A laugh ghosted in my throat but didn’t quite make it out. My stomach grumbled instead, traitor.

Across the room, Kael had positioned herself three tables away — textbook open, pen in hand, the picture of academic diligence. Every few seconds her gaze swept the room’s edges, subtle as breathing. Watching without watching.

I picked up the iced mocha. The condensation chilled my fingers. First sip — sweet, cold, bitter, grounding. “Mother would be thrilled,” I muttered.

Cassie smirked. “Someone should be.”

The noise of the cafeteria swelled — chairs scraping, laughter ricocheting, someone dropping a metal tray that clanged too close to my ear. My whole body tensed before I could stop it.

Cassie reached across the table and flicked one truffle fry toward my plate. “Eat. Caffeine doesn’t count as a food group.”

“I’m fine.”

“Fine is an autopsy word,” she said lightly, stealing the line my mother had used that morning.

I huffed a quiet laugh and took the fry. Salt. Crisp. Grease. Real.

The motion around us blurred again: students shouting across tables, perfume clouds colliding, the scent of bleach underneath everything. The world flattened into overlapping noise.

One-two-three. One-two-three.

The sleeve seam bit gently against my thumb, and I could breathe again.

Cassie angled her chair so her shoulder brushed mine. “You’ve got, what, three minutes until the first victim?”

“Candidate,” I corrected. “And yes.”

Kael’s voice drifted over from her fake-study perch. “You’re drawing an audience already.”

I looked up. She was right. Students were stealing glances at the corner table, whispering behind half-raised coffee cups. Princess, I could almost read on their lips. Interview. Duchess. Weird.

Cassie didn’t seem to care. She tilted her head at the crowd. “Let them watch. Maybe they’ll learn what leadership looks like.”

“Leadership looks like panic with better posture,” I said.

“Then you’re nailing it.”

I pulled my tablet closer, forcing myself to focus on the checklist — two names, two interviews, one goal: hire a chef before the bell rang. Easy. Ordinary.

The words blurred for half a second, the hum of the cafeteria thickening until I could feel it in my teeth. I blinked hard, grounding on the scent of fries and coffee.

“All right,” I whispered mostly to myself. “Let’s prove we can do this.”

Cassie nudged the mocha back toward me. “Drink first. Duchess later.”

I obeyed, because resistance took more energy than caffeine did.

Somewhere across the cafeteria, Kael’s gaze sharpened—scanning the entrance. “Your first applicant just arrived.”

I straightened my notes, wiped my palms against my skirt, and told my heartbeat to behave.

Three taps. Inhale. Exhale.

Showtime.

Kael’s voice cut through the cafeteria. “Incoming.”

I looked up from the glowing tablet and saw him—Chef Verand Kole—parting the student crowd like he was walking a red carpet instead of a lunch line. His jacket was blinding white, pressed within an inch of its life. Buttons gleamed like tiny medals. The scent hit before his voice did—overpowering cologne with a base note of something citrus-metallic that didn’t belong anywhere near food.

He stopped two paces from the table, hand to heart, bow so deep his forehead nearly grazed the fries.

“An honor to serve Your Radi—”

I flinched so hard my straw clinked against the mocha cup. “Miss Firebrand,” I said fast, sharper than intended.

Every conversation in a three-table radius snapped like a rubber band. Forks hovered. Someone actually whispered, Did he just say ‘Your Radiance’?

Cassie didn’t miss a beat. “We keep titles off the menu, Chef.”

Her tone had that practiced lightness that made mortals forget they’d almost offended royalty.

Kole straightened, blinking owlishly. “Ah—of course. Naturally.” He smoothed his jacket though not a single thread dared rebel.

The pause was a vacuum; I filled it before panic could. “Please, sit. Thank you for coming on short notice.”

He took the chair across from me with ceremony, folding his hands as if expecting fanfare. The sound of the cafeteria rushed back all at once—tray wheels squeaking, laughter, a soda can snapping open. The smell of grease and sugar tightened behind my eyes.

I forced a smile, found my sleeve seam beneath the table—one two three, one two three. The texture bit pleasantly against my thumb, the pain small enough to be useful.

“So,” I began, “tell me about your experience with large kitchens—”

“Ah, experience.” He leaned forward, cutting me off with a grin so polished it squeaked. “I began under Master Helrain in the Capital’s premier restaurant, The Gilded Truffle. You might have heard of it?”

Across from me, Cassie’s expression turned to glass. “Can’t say we’ve had the pleasure.”

Before I could wrestle the interview back, motion flickered at the edge of my vision—two freshmen creeping closer, phones half-hidden behind notebooks.

“Princess—uh, Miss Firebrand,” one blurted, cheeks flaming, “could we get a quote for the newsfeed? It’s about student leadership!”

“Yeah!” the other added, voice cracking. “Historic first day of the year, you know?”

Cassie turned her chair slightly, smile sweet as sugar glass. “The interview’s exclusive, darlings. Try again when you’re seniors.”

The kids froze, blinked, and vanished like spooked wildlife.

Kole chuckled, mistaking everything for lighthearted spectacle. “Quite popular, I see.”

“Occupational hazard,” I said through my teeth, trying to remember my next question.

He didn’t wait. “My philosophy,” he began, voice rising to reach imaginary balconies, “is that kitchens thrive under firm control. Every dish should be executed precisely as envisioned. Subordinates must never improvise—”

A paper ball flew from somewhere behind us and bounced off his shoulder.

“Oops!” someone called. Laughter rippled outward.

Heat crawled up my neck. The overhead lights shimmered too bright, the buzz of conversation splitting into fragments I couldn’t sort.

Kole brushed invisible lint from his sleeve, oblivious. “As I was saying,” he continued, louder, “excellence is discipline. Passion is optional.”

Optional.

That word echoed like a cracked plate.

Under the table my fingers tightened on the seam again—one two three—breathe, don’t burn, don’t show.

Cassie’s smile didn’t move, but her eyes glinted like a drawn blade. “Thank you, Chef. We’ll let you know.”

He stood, bowing once more. “A delight, Miss Firebrand.”

The second he turned, Cassie muttered under her breath, “We’re never eating anything he touches.”

I let the breath I’d been holding leak out slowly. “Agreed.”

Across the room, someone restarted the espresso machine; steam hissed loud enough to sound like applause. Kole disappeared into it, leaving behind the faint smell of burnt citrus and ego.

I picked up another fry, the salt scratching my tongue, and told myself the worst candidate had to come first.

That was the rule of averages.

And if there was one thing I trusted, it was math—

even in a cafeteria that smelled like chaos.

The second candidate did not look like he belonged in a high school cafeteria.

He walked in like sunlight pretending to be mortal — sleeves rolled to his elbows, skin faintly bronzed with a shimmer that wasn’t sweat but residual magic. The faint gold markings up his arms caught every beam of light as if the sun itself had signed its name on him. His hair wasn’t quite blond and not quite copper, the kind of color the sky turns right before sunset admits it’s night.

And the air changed when he entered.

Not sharply — just… recalibrated.

Like everyone else had been breathing wrong until he showed up.

Cassie blinked, visibly impressed despite herself. “Well,” she murmured. “He’s not Kole.”

He reached the table with the easy stride of someone who didn’t need introductions. His accent rolled in warm and coastal — the kind that made vowels stretch just slightly longer than they should. “So this,” he said, looking around at the chaos of teenagers and fluorescent lights, “is the royal interview circuit?”

“Budget cuts,” I said automatically, because humor was easier than dignity.

He laughed — a low, rough-edged sound that carried over the cafeteria noise without forcing it. “I’ve cooked in worse places. Once made a feast for a pirate crew on a rocking deck.”

My attention snagged despite myself. “Did they pay you?”

“A barrel of rum and one eye patch,” he said, grin tilting sharp. “Still better than exposure.”

Cassie popped a fry into her mouth. “You’re hired for comedy alone.”

He pointed at her fry with mock solemnity. “Careful. I charge extra for wit.”

The corners of my mouth betrayed me; I hid the smile behind my iced mocha. “Let’s start with experience,” I said. “Your philosophy in the kitchen?”

He leaned back, folding his hands on the table, and something about the way he did it — relaxed, grounded, unapologetically alive — made the cafeteria feel smaller, quieter.

“Simple,” he said. “Feed people. Feed them well. Feed them even when they don’t think they deserve it.”

That last sentence landed like a note in my chest, perfectly struck.

I stilled, the fabric of my sleeve caught halfway through a nervous roll. “Even then?”

“Especially then.”

The hum of the cafeteria dimmed around the edges. For the first time since lunch began, my heartbeat slowed without me forcing it.

He didn’t look away when he said it — didn’t shrink from the truth of his words the way nobles did when pretending at compassion. There was a steadiness to him, the kind of confidence that didn’t need to prove itself.

Cassie tilted her head, studying him like she couldn’t decide whether to test or trust him. “So what do you feed people who don’t think they deserve it?”

He smiled, slow and sure. “Something warm enough to make them remember they’re still alive.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

I pressed my palm flat to the table, grounding on the chill of polished stone.

The lights overhead flickered once, briefly; the hum of fryer oil and espresso faded into something softer — background instead of battle.

And for a single, rare heartbeat, the world felt manageable again.

The moment stretched like sugar pulled thin.

The chef—whatever sunlight had sculpted him—rested his forearms on the table, casual and magnetic all at once. The hum of his presence pressed softly against my skin, warm but not invasive, like standing near an open oven after a long night.

Up close, the sun-marks up his arms resolved into faint patterns—lines like sunrays etched into bronze skin, the kind of detail that made you want to trace them just to see if they were real. His eyes—saints, his eyes—were the kind of gold that belonged in stained glass or ancient treasure vaults, steady but bright.

Cassie noticed too; I could feel it in the bond, that flicker of begrudging appreciation. She took another fry, pretending it didn’t exist.

“So,” he said, glancing around at the tables full of gawking teenagers, “do you always conduct royal business in food courts, or is this a new fad?”

“Efficient multitasking,” I said dryly. “Democracy of fries.”

He grinned, leaning back in his chair with a confidence that bordered on reckless. “I like you. You’ve got the posture of someone who pretends she’s fine while juggling knives.”

I blinked, unsure if it was meant as flattery or observation. “You’re not wrong.”

“Good,” he said. “Means you’ve got balance. Balance keeps the knives spinning.”

Cassie smirked, twirling her straw. “And what keeps you spinning?”

“Deadlines,” he said easily. “And caffeine. Maybe a touch of divine spite.”

That earned him an honest laugh out of me. It startled even me, the sound—unmasked, too real. “You sound like half the nobles I know, minus the diplomacy.”

He made a face. “Diplomacy is just lying politely.”

“Accurate,” Cassie muttered.

He leaned forward again, elbows on the table, golden eyes flicking between us. “So which one of you is the scary one?”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

He gestured with two fingers. “Every ruling pair’s got one who terrifies the kitchen staff and one who pretends to apologize for them later. I’m trying to decide if I need to bow or duck.”

Cassie arched a brow. “Why not both?”

He grinned. “Thought so.”

It was ridiculous how easily the tension bled out of the air around him. My heart didn’t feel like it was trying to hammer through bone anymore. For a few blissful seconds, I could almost forget that we were in a cafeteria, surrounded by stares and whispers and the constant clang of mortal chaos.

I wanted to keep it that way.

But peace never lasts.

The shriek hit like a cymbal crash—Bree’s laughter, amplified by a phone mic somewhere behind the crowd. Too loud, too sharp.

Sound spiked; light fractured.

My vision blurred into white noise, cafeteria glare turning into a migraine.

Cassie set down her drink, reading me in an instant. “Stay here,” she said quietly.

“Cass—”

“You can’t fight everything,” she whispered, fingers brushing my wrist once before she slipped into the crowd.

I tried to follow her movement, but the noise swelled—every sound blending together, echoing too close. Breath caught in my throat, shallow and quick. My fingers curled against my sleeve until the seam bit.

Then—his voice. Calm, low, absolute.

“Look at me, Princess.”

The title should’ve made me tense; it usually did. But from him, it didn’t sound performative. It sounded like recognition.

“Inhale,” he said, tone steady as heartbeat. “Smell the coffee. Count the bubbles on the surface. One… two…”

I did. The bitter-sweet scent cut through the cafeteria haze. My world narrowed to that smell, that sound, his voice.

“Now exhale,” he said. “Slow. That’s it. It’s just sound, not fire.”

My chest loosened. The edge of panic dissolved, leaving warmth in its place. I unclenched my fingers from the sleeve and flexed them slowly.

“Good,” he murmured. “Chaos is loud, but it can’t cook. You can.”

A small, wet laugh escaped me before I could stop it. “You talk like therapy with seasoning.”

He winked. “Best kind.”

Something about that look—half mischief, half reassurance—hit dangerously close to charm. The sunlight marks on his arms seemed to pulse faintly as he leaned back, the lines catching the light again.

I reached for a mozzarella stick. It was lukewarm, greasy, perfect. I bit down just to have something real in my mouth.

“I love cooking,” I said softly, words slipping out before I could pull them back. “It’s… order I can create. No politics. Just ingredients that listen.”

His grin softened into something real. “Then my kitchen’s yours whenever you need it. You’ll learn fast, I can tell.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough,” he said. “You keep your world spinning while everyone’s trying to tilt it. That’s rare.”

For half a second, I forgot how to breathe. Not in the panicked way—just that kind of stillness that comes when someone says the thing you’ve been pretending you didn’t need to hear.

Across the cafeteria, the noise began to fade. Cassie reappeared through the crowd, expression smooth but tight. Her scent hit first—storm-bright citrus and irritation.

I didn’t ask. I just turned back to the chef. “You didn’t tell me your name.”

He rose, sunlight catching his hair again. “Gorgan Ramsey. Verdant Isles, Day Court—though my friends just call me Gorgan. Or worse.”

“Chef Gorgan, then,” I said. My voice came out steadier than I felt. “You’re hired.”

He grinned, a spark of devilish humor in his gold eyes. “You sure? You haven’t seen me yell yet.”

“I’ve survived nobles and calculus,” I said. “I’ll cope.”

He laughed, rich and effortless. “Then I’ll see you in your kitchen, Princess. And maybe I’ll even teach you to eat lunch without a battle plan.”

“That might take time.”

“I’m patient,” he said, bowing just enough to make it teasing. “Comes with the job.”

He walked away through the light and chatter, leaving behind a trail of warmth and the faintest echo of citrus and salt air.

Cassie dropped back into her seat, exhaling. “Please tell me we hired the hot one.”

I took another sip of mocha. “We hired the brilliant one.”

“Same difference,” she muttered.

The cafeteria finally exhaled.

Gorgan was gone—vanished through the shimmer near the service doors, sunlight trailing after him like he’d stolen half the sky on his way out. The air he left behind still hummed faintly warm, as though the space itself hadn’t realized he’d departed.

I sat there a long second, just letting the noise thin. Paper rustled under my fingers—notes, résumés, my checklist of “competent adult behavior.” Cassie’s hand brushed mine as I began stacking them.

“Handled?” I asked quietly.

She smiled too quickly. “Handled.”

She was lying, and we both knew it. Her mask had that brittle shine—too polished, too still. I didn’t press; I was too tired to poke at cracks when I was already holding myself together with caffeine and stubbornness.

The fries were cold, but I reached for one anyway. Salt and truffle oil, sharp enough to remind my brain where my body was. Then a sip of mocha—melted ice, bitter-sweet sugar rush, grounding through flavor.

Kael appeared out of nowhere, tray in hand, the picture of calm judgment. “You hired a swearing fae chef in a public cafeteria,” she observed.

I rubbed my temple. “He was the only one qualified.”

Kael nodded like a priest hearing confession. “Fair.” She sat down long enough to steal one of Cassie’s fries, then said, “I’ll notify security that your future interviews require fire insurance.”

Cassie smirked. “And patience.”

Kael popped the fry into her mouth, unbothered. “You’ll need both. Also… was it just me, or did our new chef look like the sun decided to manifest in a man’s body?”

I blinked. “What?”

Cassie nearly choked on her drink, hiding a grin. “Oh, she noticed.”

Kael arched an eyebrow. “Please. Everyone noticed. Half the cafeteria melted. Including you, Duchess.”

Heat crawled up my neck. “I did not melt.”

Cassie leaned her chin on her hand. “You definitely melted.”

“I was overwhelmed,” I said, too defensive to sound convincing.

Kael gave me that calm, surgical smile. “Sure. Overwhelmed. By biceps.”

“Kael,” I groaned.

“Just saying,” she went on, tone dry. “If Cassie hadn’t been married to you first, I’d have worried he’d leave with both your numbers.”

Cassie laughed, low and wicked. “You assume he didn’t.”

Kael shrugged, standing again. “You two are hopeless. Don’t burn down the cafeteria while flirting with your staff.” She left with all the grace of someone who knew she’d won the conversation.

When she was gone, Cassie nudged my mocha toward me. “Drink, Duchess. You look like you’re thinking too hard.”

I took a long sip, mostly to hide the smile still threatening my mouth. The sugar hit, followed by caffeine—and the intrusive thought that, Saints, he really had been unfairly attractive.

The image rose before I could stop it: sun-tattooed arms, that easy grin, his voice steady enough to quiet storms. I caught myself imagining how far those tattoos went—

“Stop it,” I muttered.

Cassie blinked. “Stop what?”

“Nothing.” Too quick. Heat prickled under my collar. Married. Professional. Duchess. Absolutely not someone who develops crushes on her staff.

Cassie gave me that look—the one that said she could read every word of my internal monologue and was choosing mercy. “He’ll be good for the kitchens,” she said instead, pretending casual. “He’s got the kind of backbone nobles need to meet.”

“Backbone,” I repeated. “Right. That’s what you noticed.”

Her smirk was pure sin. “Oh, I noticed more than that.”

“Cassie,” I groaned again.

She laughed softly, the sound curling under my ribs like relief.

I pulled out my phone, the brightness stabbing my eyes. It felt good to do something practical. My thumbs flew over the keys.

To: Seneschal Aelric

Chef candidate secured. Name: Gorgan Ramsey of the Verdant Isles, Unseelie Day Court.

Ensure proper accommodations at the Starveil residence—preferably something with windows.

Begin assembling a kitchen staff for my approval by tomorrow.

Treat him as senior personnel, not decoration.

I reread it once, then added a final line:

Also—tell him to bring his knives.

The message chimed sent. I flipped the phone facedown and exhaled through my nose.

Cassie leaned her head against mine, warmth seeping through the exhaustion. “You did it,” she murmured. “Day one of duchess duty while being a high school senior all without setting anything on fire.”

“Yet,” I corrected automatically.

Across the room, Bree’s laugh sliced through the remaining chatter—too bright, too deliberate. The light above her flickered once, twice, like static wrapped in charm.

Something twisted low in my gut. The air near her table felt wrong again, vibrating like glass about to crack. “Something’s changing,” I said quietly.

Cassie’s hand slid into mine beneath the table, thumb tracing one small grounding circle across my skin. “Then we’ll change faster.”

The noise of the cafeteria dulled again, replaced by that warm steady pulse that always came when Cassie touched me. Not quiet, but survivable.

I drained the last of my mocha, caffeine settling under my ribs like armor, and thought: Mother would be proud.

Or horrified.

Maybe both.