Page 19 of Knotting on Heaven's Door

I could do this.

Even if Ada de la Vega hated my fucking guts.

The second presentation was somehow worse than the first.

An entire slideshow dedicated to how to properly lift a box without breaking your back or getting sued. Diagrams, stock images of smiling employees demonstrating “ergonomic posture,” and a five-minute video of someone saying “bend at the knees, not the waist” like it was a religious mantra.

I was seconds away from faking a fire alarm when the office door opened.

Salvation walked in wearing sleek black slacks, a crisp white blouse, and a ponytail sharp enough to slice through HR tape.

“Mila,” she said, striding in like she owned the room. “Sorry I’m late—someone had to approve the produce delivery before the tomatoes started a rebellion.”

Susan stood and adjusted her scarf like she’d been personally offended by the interruption. “I was just finishing up the onboarding presentation.”

Mila smiled, professional but warm, and looked at me. “You still alive in there?”

“Barely,” I said, standing. “If I ever see another clip art safety cone again, it’ll be too soon.”

She laughed. “You made it through the hardest part of the job. Come on, I’ll take it from here.”

I grabbed my bag and followed her out with something close to gratitude. I’d liked Mila from the interview—she was sharp, capable, and didn’t bullshit. She had that clean, minimalist look about her: black hair pulled into a high, no-nonsense ponytail, barely-there makeup, and the kind of build people called willowy in books but skinny as hell in real life. She carried herself like someone who knew exactly what happened in her kitchen even when she wasn’t in the room.

“This way,” she said, nodding down the stairs that led back into the main kitchen area. “Time for the tour.”

The facility was bigger than I’d expected. Two prep kitchens—one hot, one cold—plus a pastry section, dry storage, a separate station for packaging meals, and a walk-in fridge so cold it could double as a morgue.

“Three of the kitchen staff have today off,” Mila said as we passed a row of stainless steel work tables. “They were on site for the Laurent ceremony yesterday. You’ll meet them tomorrow.Today, it’s a skeleton crew—just me, two prep cooks, and you.”

“Cozy,” I muttered.

She smirked. “Don’t worry, it’s not always this quiet. Most of our major events happen on weekends—weddings, ceremonies, fundraisers. But from Monday to Friday, we prep meals for a few downtown offices and a law firm in Westbridge.”

“Westbridge?”

“Town next over. Twenty-five-minute drive. Don’t worry, you won’t have to deliver anything—just help with prep. Simple stuff. No truffle foam or wine reductions. Think balanced, clean, affordable. We do about sixty to seventy portions a day.”

I nodded, absorbing the flow of her voice, the way she moved through the kitchen like she knew every inch of it. She spoke like a manager, but moved like a chef—confident, grounded.

“This is where you’ll set up,” she said, pointing to a counter near the back. “Prep station five. It’s usually used by the rotating sous—so congrats, it’s yours for now.”

I dropped my duffel on the floor, glanced around, and ran a hand over the cool steel counter.

Mila led me down a narrow hallway off the main kitchen and stopped in front of a row of lockers. “This one’s yours,” she said, tapping the metal door with perfectly manicured fingers. “There’s a spare key in your onboarding bag. We’re not fancy—just don’t leave your wallet sitting out and you’ll survive.”

Her phone buzzed. “One sec,” she added, stepping away to answer. Her voice dropped into manager-mode instantly—tight, professional, with a smile tucked beneath every syllable.

I opened the locker and pulled out the black uniform jacket, the one Susan had handed me like a trophy or a sentence—I wasn’t sure which yet.

It fit well.

Black, clean lines, silver thread glinting on the chest:De la Vega Events. I buttoned it up and caught sight of myself in themirror across the locker room.

I stood still for a long second.

This wasn’t how I ever imagined my life would end up. Not even close.

I always had a passion for cooking,sure. I loved the rhythm of it, the precision, the heat and fire and creativity of building something from scratch. But I wasn’t naive. I knew the truth. I’d never have gotten into that cooking school without my father’s name. Never would’ve brushed elbows with the chefs I did, or gotten that internship at L’Oustau without a Laurente signature and a fat donation behind it.

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