The Culinary Institute was a humbling hellscape. Marcus, in simple chef's whites with "Trainee" on the lapel, was the oldest person in the support staff. He was ordered around by twenty-two-year-old prodigies. He scrubbed industrial mixers, hauled sacks of organic flour, and was publicly corrected on the precise temperature of sugar syrup. Chloe was a natural, her practical knowledge merging with theory to impress the master pâtissiers. She was strict, fair, and professional with him, calling him "Thorne" in front of others.
During a grueling chocolate tempering practical, Marcus, sleep-deprived and covered in cocoa, ruined a batch. The master chef, a fierce Frenchwoman, berated him in front of the class. "You are wasting beautiful ingredients! You have no feel, no respect for the craft!"
Chloe watched silently from her station. Later, in the empty kitchen, Marcus was scouring pots, frustration etched on his face. She approached, leaning against the counter. "You know why she yelled at you?"
"Because I failed."
"No. Because you tried to algorithmize it. You were counting seconds, measuring millimeters, not listening to the chocolate. You were being Marcus Thorne, CEO. Here, that's worth less than this." She flicked a drop of water at him. "You have to surrender to the process."
It was the first real, non-transactional advice she'd given him since the confrontation. A crack in the professional wall.