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 heard it before, maybe in passing. Some big name in business, I assumed.

“Table 9,” a server said, rolling in to pick up the dish.

I looked at my plate one last time. My chest thudded so hard it almost hurt,I swore everyone could hear the drumming inside me.

“Tell him I hope he enjoys it.”

I watched as he raised his fork slowly, brought the bite to his mouth, and chewed—once, twice. Then he paused.My hands trembled with each pulse.

His forehead wrinkled as if he were puzzling something out.

He dropped the fork.

The next moment, his voice thundered across the entire restaurant.

"WHO MADE THIS?!"

The room froze. Every customer turned to look. Forks were mid-air. Conversations died.

The manager rushed to him, stuttering, "S-sir, what seems to be the problem?"

Leonel stood up slowly, eyes burning with fury. "I asked who made this pathetic excuse for food. Are you people trying to poison me?"

I felt the blood drain from my face. What?

The manager looked toward the kitchen.

"Camila," he said. "Did you prepare Table 9's dish?"

I nodded, stepping out from behind the counter. My hands were trembling, but I forced myself to walk with my head high.

"Yes, I did. Is there a problem with it, sir?"

Leonel's eyes pinned me in place. There was no warmth, no mercy, only sharp calculation.

"Problem? It tastes like someone dipped it in expired cream and called it art. Disgusting."

The restaurant gasped. I stared at him in disbelief.

"With all due respect, sir, my dishes are always fresh," I said, my voice firm. "Maybe you’re simply not familiar with actual Mexican cuisine."

Hands flew to mouths as the sound of surprise swept through the crowd.

His expression wavered, caught between seriousness and laughter—was it amusement or anger?

"Watch your tongue," he said darkly. "You're lucky I didn't shut this entire place down."

I wanted to scream. Cry. Tear off my apron and walk out. But I stood there, breathing hard.

He picked up the plate and, without warning, flung it onto the marble floor.

The shattering sound made me jump. The red, white, and green splattered across the floor like a murdered flag.

He looked at me one last time, then turned and walked out, his guards trailing behind.

I stared at the mess on the floor, my hands balled into fists. I turned to Isabella,she couldn’t seem to tear her gaze away, her mouth caught between her teeth.

"I swear, I followed the recipe. Everything was fine," I said.

She nodded too quickly. "Of course, Camila. It must be... I don't know, maybe the cream was off?"

No. I knew that kitchen. I checked everything. I made that sauce myself.

Something was wrong.

Ten minutes later, the phone rang.

Not just any phone — the red line that connected the dining floor to the kitchen.

Heads turned.

The Head Chef picked up. “Yes?”

He went still.

And then, slowly, his gaze locked onto me.

It felt as if the ground had vanished beneath my feet.

“Camila,” he said sharply. “Office. Now.”

I stood in front of his desk, confused and sweating.

“What happened?” I asked, heart racing.

He tossed a folded paper onto the desk. “You tell me.”

I picked it up with shaking hands. A complaint.

“What—? I—I followed everything. Chef, I swear, I tasted the sauce. It was fine. It was more than fine—”

“Table 9 is Mr. Leonel Castillo. You understand the kind of man he is?”

I swallowed. “I—no, not really.”

“He’s a man who could ruin this place with one review,” the Head Chef snapped. “And you served him something he called disgusting.”

I took a step back. “That’s not possible. I double-checked every ingredient—”

“Are you saying Mr. Leonel is lying?”

“No! I’m saying something’s not right.”

He didn’t even blink. “You’re fired.”

I stared at him. “What?”

“Effective immediately. Turn in your ID. You’ll find your termination letter inside this envelope.”

It felt like the floor had dropped out from under me. “But—Chef, I’ve never had a single complaint—”

“And now you’ve had the worst one possible,” he said coldly. “I don’t have time for tears, Camila. You’re done here.”