Chapter 1 - The Day Everything Was Stolen
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Ritsuka Izumi pressed her thumb lightly against the edge of the steak, feeling the perfect give of the meat beneath her glove.
"Medium rare. Exactly where it needs to be," she thought.
Around her, the open kitchen of Le Ciel hummed in her ears. She heard copper pans hiss as flames licked their undersides and the sharp clack of plates sliding along the pass in a steady parade.
The air smelled of seared meat, butter, garlic, and the faint bite of wine from a reduction simmering beside her.
She lifted her gaze for a moment.
Past the heat lamps and the pass, she could see the dining room glowing in warm amber light. Beyond the glass, the thirty-second-floor view of Tokyo spread out beneath them: clusters of neon, slow ribbons of headlights, dark patches where the city fell away.
Can't let myself get distracted. Tonight is special. I finally get to put my own steak on the menu." Ritsuka thought, dragging her focus back to the cutting board.
She let her eyes travel over the plate the way her instructor in Lyon had drilled into her. The crust, the color, the shine of resting juices. The faint whisper of spice that reminded her of long nights in a cramped Dar es Salaam kitchen.
Char-kissed wyomori sirloin. My marinade. My spice balance. My plating, she thought, feeling her chest grow tight with quiet pride.
"Two seconds, Chef Izumi!" one of the line cooks called, metal scraping as he slid a pan toward her.
"I see it," Ritsuka answered automatically.
Her hands moved on their own, muscle memory and decades of practice guiding every motion. She dipped the brush and smelled the rich, nutty scent as she swept infused butter over the meat. Her fingers felt the crisp texture of blackened garlic chips as she scattered them across the top.
She watched the reduced red wine just catch the light as she pulled it in a clean line with the tip of her spoon.
On the side, she set the roasted baby vegetables she had fought for in last week's menu meeting, their skins blistered and shining, colors bright enough to pop under the restaurant's warm lights.
Ritsuka stepped back and let herself really look at the plate.
The steak sat in the center like a king on a throne, glistening and fragrant, a curl of steam carrying its aroma straight to her nose. Her chest tightened with a familiar mix of pride and frustration.
"Beautiful as always, Chef Izumi," one of the younger cooks, Kenta, muttered as he passed behind her.
"Eyes on your station, Kenta," she said, but a small smile tugged at her lips in spite of herself.
The ticking of the kitchen clock cut through the layered noise of pans, flames, and voices. She glanced up.
8:03 p.m.
"My forty-first birthday is flying by," she thought. "Happy birthday to me." She thought sarcastically
"Ritsuka."
The head chef's voice cut through the clatter sharper than any knife. Hayama Shouhei appeared at her side, close enough that she could smell the faint trace of his cologne under the heavier scents of seared meat and wine. His white jacket was immaculate, thinning hair slicked back, his smile already prepared for the dining room.
He leaned over the pass, inhaled, and let out a low whistle.
"You really outdid yourself tonight," he said, savoring the aroma. "Perfect. The chairman and his wife are going to lose their minds."
Ritsuka felt her spine straighten before she realized she was doing it.
"If it goes well," she said carefully, "I would like to speak with him. Just for a moment."
She felt the rest of the words gather behind her teeth and forced them down before they could turn into something reckless like "I want my own restaurant."
Hayama chuckled and reached for the plate.
"You know how these VIP nights are. He is not here to talk business with the sous chef," he said, voice light, words sharp enough to scratch. "I will present the dish. You stay here and make sure the next six go out just as perfect."
His hand closed around the rim of the plate like a claw. The porcelain clicked softly against the pass.
Ritsuka's fingers twitched at her side. Her chest tightened.
"That is my dish," she thought. "My work. My name." The protest burned on her tongue, then crumbled.
"Of course, Chef," Ritsuka said instead, reminding herself this how things was.
She watched him lift the plate, straighten his jacket, and push through the swinging doors. For a second she saw him reflected in the glass again, that bright, practiced smile pasted on as if he had cooked every component himself.
Behind her, one of the junior chefs hissed under his breath.
"What an asshole."
"Shh," another muttered. "You do not want to lose your job, do you? You know he hears everything."
Ritsuka forced her eyes back to the stove. Flames snapped under the pans. Printer paper rattled as new tickets spat out beside her, the same rhythm that had ruled her nights for years.
"It has been like this for years," she thought. "I should be used to it by now."
Her throat ached anyway.
"It should not still hurt," she thought. "But tonight it does. I cannot spend the rest of my life making other men look like geniuses. I need a place with my name over the door."
Her phone buzzed on the shelf above the spice rack, a small vibration against stainless steel.
Ritsuka stole a quick glance between orders.
[Kuno Tatsuya]
Happy birthday, Ritsu.
I know you are still at work, but do not be late tonight.
I even helped cook your favorite.
Mio came over to assist. We made something special for you.
Ritsuka felt a small flicker of surprise and reluctant warmth in her chest.
"He cooked…?" she thought.
Tatsuya never set foot in the kitchen at home. In ten years of marriage, every "special" dinner had started with him saying, "Let us book somewhere nice," and ended with her making breakfast the next morning while he slept in.
"Maybe he is trying," she told herself.
Her thumb hovered over the keyboard.
A ticket slammed into the rail.
"Service!" she called, shoving her phone back onto the shelf.
The night slid into a blur of fire and steel.
She sent out six more plates of the wyomori sirloin. Each one identical to the first. Each one lifted from the pass by Hayama with that same little nod and tight smile, like he was carrying a jewel he alone had forged.
When the rush dipped, Ritsuka drifted toward the small window that looked into the private dining room.
"I should not look," she thought. "It never makes me feel better."
She looked anyway, heart buzzing with a dull sting.
Through the glass, she saw the chairman and his wife at the corner table, city lights blazing behind them like a wall of stars.
Hayama bowed at their side, his back to the glass, hands moving as he spoke.
The chairman cut a piece of her steak and ate it.
Even from here, Ritsuka saw his eyes sharpen. His jaw slowed so he could taste it properly. He set down his fork and said something that made his wife look impressed.
Hayama's shoulders squared, like a man who had just heard his name carved into stone
"I already know what you are saying," she thought.
She did not need to hear the words.
Ten minutes later, Hayama slipped back through the swinging doors, still glowing.
"He loved it," he said, not waiting for anyone to ask. "Said it was the best meat dish he has had in ten years. Wants to talk to me about possible expansion, with me leading."
Several of the cooks glanced toward Ritsuka without meaning to, eyes flitting away just as fast. Everyone knew where the real talent stood.
Her fingers tightened around the edge of the counter until her knuckles went white.
"Congratulations, Head Chef," she said softly.
He slapped her shoulder as if he had just complimented her on dicing onions.
"And of course, I could never do it without a solid sous like you," he added. "Keep this up, Lady Izumi, and we will all benefit."
"We will all benefit," she repeated in her head, the words sour in her mouth.
She forced a thin smile.
"Of course," she answered.
The staff trickled out one by one as the night wore on. Footsteps faded. Goodnights were murmured. The kitchen heat slowly thinned.
Ritsuka stayed behind to check the inventory sheets for the three satellite branches, eyes burning as she forced herself to focus on numbers instead of the echo of Hayama's voice.
By the time she finally peeled off her jacket and hung it in her locker, her shoulders ached and her birthday had already been over for two hours.
Her phone buzzed again.
[Kuno Tatsuya]
Ritsu?
You are going to miss your own birthday dinner at this rate.
She exhaled, long and slow.
"Coming," she typed.
She slid her phone into her bag.
On her way down the back hall, she passed the staff break room. Voices drifted through the door, low and tired.
"…I really feel for Chef Izumi, you know?"
"That dish tonight was hers. Everyone knows it."
"She works harder than anyone. Head Chef just smiles and takes her credit."
"And did you hear the apprentice she is training is sleeping around with her husband, too…"
Ritsuka stopped.
Her heartbeat skipped. Something in the tone of that last sentence froze her feet in place.
"What about her husband?" another voice asked.
"My cousin works at that Italian place in Shibuya," the first whispered. "He said he saw Kuno-san having dinner there last month. Just him and that new girl from prep here, Aoi. The pretty one. Hands all over each other."
"No way. Chef Izumi's apprentice, Aoi?"
"She says she only goes over to help Chef Izumi, but how, when she is always here? Feels like bullshit if you ask me."
A short, bitter laugh followed.
"Chef Izumi is too nice."
Air burned in Ritsuka's lungs.
She moved before anyone could open the door and catch her standing there like a ghost. Her shoes clicked down the corridor on autopilot, carrying her out the staff exit and into the cool air of the parking area.
He was already waiting.
"Good evening, Lady Izumi," he said, bowing as he opened the car door. "Happy birthday."
"Thank you," she answered, her voice steady by habit.
She slid into the back seat. Tokyo flowed past the tinted window, neon signs smearing across her faint reflection.
Her stomach twisted.
"Aoi…?" she thought.
She pictured the younger woman's bright smile, the way Aoi clung to her arm and asked about sauces and searing temperatures and plating tricks. The way she blushed and laughed about "needing to learn from the master."
She pictured Tatsuya's weary smile when he came home late, tie crooked, smelling of perfume that was not hers. She had told herself it was from clients, from receptions, from expensive hotels where deals were made.
Now the pieces slid together in shapes she did not want.
"You are being paranoid," she muttered, fingers tightening in her lap. "People gossip. They always gossip."
The words felt thin inside her chest.
The driver turned off the main road, climbing toward the quiet, expensive neighborhood where she lived. Streetlamps thinned. The distant city noise dulled to a faint hum.
Her phone buzzed again.
[Aoi Mio]
Ritsu-san!
We just finished setting up. Hurry home, okay?
We made your favorite. ❤️
Ritsuka stared at it until her eyes blurred. Then she closed the chat and forced air into her lungs.
"I do not want to walk into my own home already believing the worst," she thought. "If it is true, I will see it with my own eyes. If it is not, then I have nothing to worry about."
The driver pulled up in front of the Kuno residence. The house rose behind a trimmed hedge, modern and sharp-lined, wide windows spilling warm light across polished floors.
No other cars were parked outside.
"Shall I wait, Lady Izumi?" the driver asked.
"No need," she said. "Thank you for today."
He bowed and drove away.
The front door opened before she reached it.
"Welcome home," Tatsuya called.
"Thank you," she answered automatically, slipping off her shoes as she stepped inside.
"Good to see you, dear," he said.
He stood in the entryway in a crisp dark shirt, top buttons undone, hair styled back. He looked like he had just stepped out of a magazine ad.
"No guests yet?" she asked, glancing past him into the quiet house.
"I told everyone to come a bit later," he said. "I wanted some time with just you first. You are always so busy at the restaurant that your husband has to book an appointment to see you."
He laughed lightly.
"Go change into something comfortable. We have everything ready."
"We?" she asked, even though she already knew the answer. She wanted to hear what he would say.
"Aoi is here," he said. "She helped me in the kitchen. I hope you do not mind."
His eyes flicked to the side.
From the doorway to the dining room, Aoi Mio peeked out and waved, cheeks flushed, apron tied over a simple dress.
"Ritsu-san," she said. "Happy birthday. I… I tried my best not to ruin anything."
She laughed nervously.
The sound hiccupped in the air and faded.
Ritsuka forced a smile. Her chest felt hollow.
"Thank you," she said. "I will just wash up and change."
Her bedroom felt like a hotel suite she had stayed in too long. Expensive, tasteful, arranged by someone else's idea of comfort.
She slipped out of her uniform and stood in front of the mirror in her slip, staring at the woman looking back at her.
Long black hair pinned up in a messy knot. Faint lines at the corners of her eyes that had not been there ten years ago. Light tattoos curling along her shoulders and upper arms, delicate designs of herbs.
"Ritsuka Izumi," she thought, saying her own name silently like a reminder.
Her dream had always been simple.
"Just one restaurant," she thought. "My restaurant. My menu. My name on the door, and on a cookbook stained with sauce and coffee."
"Chef Izumi."
She changed into a soft blouse and long skirt, let her hair down around her shoulders, and went back downstairs.
The dining room had been set for three. Candles flickered in crystal holders. The good plates were out. A neat bouquet of flowers sat in the center of the table. The smell of seared meat hung in the air, rich and familiar.
On the table in front of her place, a steak waited.
The crust looked decent. The grill marks were uneven, but not bad for an amateur. The sides were all things she loved: buttered potatoes, sautéed greens with garlic, a simple salad with citrus dressing.
"It should make me happy," she thought.
Tatsuya pulled out her chair with a small flourish.
"For the birthday girl," he said. "We can start without the others. They will only complain if we let your favorite go cold."
"Who is coming?" she asked as she sat.
"Some colleagues," he said lightly. "A client or two. You know how it is. Celebrations are networking opportunities."
"Of course," she answered.
"Ritsu-san, here," Aoi said, setting a small dish near her elbow. "I made the sauce. It might be too salty. Please do not hate me if it is."
Ritsuka smiled despite herself. Aoi's hands trembled. There was real anxiety there, a real desire to please.
"If you are sleeping with my husband and still going this far to pretend…"
She shoved the thought away.
Tatsuya lifted his glass.
"To my wife," he said.
The words landed like glass beads. Pretty. Hollow.
She clinked her glass against his and took a sip of wine. Her gaze drifted back to the steak.
"Go on," he urged. "Try it."
Aoi laughed a little too loudly.
"Yes, please," she said. "I need someone to wash dishes with me."
Ritsuka let out a small chuckle and picked up her knife and fork.
Up close, the steak's aroma wrapped around her. Butter, garlic, rosemary, a faint char from the pan. It almost smelled like the ones she had made that night at Le Ciel, but there was a bitter edge underneath it, something she could not place.
She cut off a small piece and lifted it to her mouth.
The first chew was fine. The texture was surprisingly tender. The seasoning was a little heavy, but she had eaten far worse "homemade" attempts for wealthy clients.
Then a metallic tang hit the back of her tongue.
Her throat tightened.
Heat flooded her chest, a burning that was not spice.
Her fork slipped from her fingers and clattered against the plate.
"Ritsu?" Tatsuya's voice sounded far away. "You okay?"
The room lurched. Candlelight smeared into streaks. Her heart hammered in her ears, then stuttered. Her breath came short and sharp.
"Poison," she thought.
She tried to stand. Her legs buckled. The world tilted. She crashed against the table, sending her wineglass spinning. Red liquid bloomed across the white tablecloth like a spreading bruise.
Hands grabbed her shoulders.
"Shit," Aoi whispered. "Shit, shit, shit, it worked too fast. I thought you said it would be slower. I thought she would just…"
"Calm down. You said you wanted this, you wanted us," Tatsuya hissed. His voice had lost its smooth public charm. "We cannot have that with her in the way."
Ritsuka stared up at him from the floor.
The chandelier above him fractured into five, six, ten shimmering orbs as her vision splintered.
His eyes were cold.
"How… could you…" she tried to ask.
No sound came out.
He leaned closer, expression twisting into something she had never seen fully aimed at her before.
Annoyance. Relief.
"I am sorry, but you were getting too old for me," he murmured. "And your thoughts of running off to make your own restaurant when I gave you everything…"
Aoi hovered behind him, pale and shaking, hands clasped tight.
"I did not want to, Ritsu," she whispered. "He…"
Her voice dissolved into a babble of apologies.
"Aoi, hush. You said you wanted her life yourself," Tatsuya snapped. "You cannot have that when she is here. This wench would never have divorced me."
Ritsuka's heartbeat pounded against her skull. Her chest felt too tight, her arms too heavy. The edges of the room dimmed, like someone was slowly turning the world's lights down.
"I am going to die," she thought.
The thought landed clear and heavy.
A strange calm unfurled through the panic.
Images flickered in her mind, moving too fast to catch.
The restaurant she had dreamed of since she was a child. Her own sign. Her own kitchen.
"I never even got to open it," she thought.
Hot tears slid sideways across her temples into her hair.
"It is not fair."
The ceiling darkened. The chandelier's light shrank into tiny distant stars.
In the shrinking gap between her and the world, something else slipped in.
A voice.
Soft. Neither male nor female. It felt like water sliding over stone, carrying words with it.
"Feed them."
The sound rang inside her skull, not in the room.
"Guide him."
"Who…?" she thought.
The burning in her chest shifted. Warmth threaded through the pain, coiling gently around her heart.
"Change this starving land."
Images poured into her mind that were not hers.
An island bathed in sun, its coasts gnawed by seabeasts. Children with hollow cheeks staring into empty bowls. A young man standing before a crowd, shoulders thin but stubborn.
"Then you will understand why you are here."
Her consciousness, fraying at the edges, latched onto the last word.
The warmth in her chest pulsed.
Darkness folded around her.
Once she opened her eyes a girl stared back at her from a tall mirror framed in carved wood.
"That is… not my face," she thought.
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End of Chapter 1