Chapter 7: TikTok in the Kitchen

Mondays are the worst. The bane of my existence. Why couldn't weekends be three days long? Dragging myself out of bed felt like trying to escape quicksand – impossible. My eyelids felt like they had tiny weights on them.

"Sacha, honey, you'll be late for work," Mom's gentle voice floated in from behind my closed door. I groaned.

I finally managed to peel myself off the sheets, the scent of my Chanel No. 5 clinging to my pajamas. A quick glance in the mirror revealed the extent of the damage – my usually perfectly styled blonde hair stuck out in odd directions, and my eyes were still half-closed. Not my most glamorous moment.

Downstairs, the aroma of coffee filled the air, and I could hear Dad's booming laughter from the dining room. Mondays at the Jacques' household were always a lively affair.

"Morning, sleepyhead," Dad greeted, his eyes twinkling as he sipped his coffee. He was already dressed in his usual crisp linen shirt and light trousers, looking more like he was about to embark on a leisurely stroll along the French Riviera than run a business empire.

Mom, her blonde hair elegantly styled in an updo, smiled at me from behind a plate piled high with croissants. "You really slept through the entire drive back last night, darling. Stefan had to practically carry you inside."

Speaking of the devil, Stefan sauntered into the dining room. He was already dressed in a simple t-shirt and jeans, his muscular physique evident even in casual clothes. I swear, that guy could find a way to look effortlessly stylish even in a potato sack.

"Morning, sleepy beauty," he said, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "Did you dream of sugar plums and handsome princes?"

I rolled my eyes. "Very funny," I mumbled, reaching for a croissant.

Breakfast was a blur of chatter and laughter, the remnants of our weekend getaway still lingering in the air. I mostly just listened, my brain slowly coming back online with each sip of coffee.

As I was finishing up, I noticed Stefan scrolling through his phone, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Looking for another job already?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

He shrugged. "Just browsing. Never hurts to be prepared, right?"

"True that," Dad chimed in. "Always be on the lookout for opportunities. That's how you build an empire."

Soon, it was time for me to leave for work. I kissed Mom and Dad goodbye, ignoring Stefan's teasing grin – something about "don't burn the croissants, chef."

As I settled into the driver's seat of my black Porsche Taycan, the familiar feeling of Monday dread started to creep in. But then, I remembered the new K-Pop album I had pre-ordered, and a small smile touched my lips. Maybe Mondays weren't so bad after all.

◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇

The familiar hum of the kitchen filled my ears as I stepped into The Grand's hallowed culinary domain. The aroma of freshly baked bread and brewing coffee did little to soothe my Monday mood. It was still too early, the memory of the weekend's carefree fun a fading dream.

As I tied my apron, I noticed a few hushed whispers coming from the other end of the kitchen. My ears perked up. Was it about the new pastry chef? Was she even worse than the last one who had threatened to quit if anyone touched her precious sourdough starter?

The whispers seemed to follow me as I made my way to my station. I caught a few stifled giggles and curious glances directed at me. It was unnerving, to say the least. Had I somehow gotten flour on my face already? Or was my hair even more of a disaster than I thought?

I tried to ignore the strange behavior of my colleagues, focusing on the mountain of croissants that needed my attention. But the whispers were persistent, like a pesky fly buzzing around my head. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore.

"Is there something amusing?" I asked, directing my question to one of the younger chefs who seemed particularly entertained by whatever was going on.

The lanky boy with a mop of brown hair, nearly jumped out of his skin. He stammered, his face turning a bright shade of red. "No, Chef Sacha! Nothing at all, sir!"

His over-the-top reaction only fueled my curiosity. This was definitely about me. But what could it be? I was about to demand an explanation when the head chef, a formidable woman named Madame Colette, swept into the kitchen. Her presence had a way of silencing even the most gossipy of cooks.

As I meticulously glazed a tray of pain au chocolat, a wave of exhaustion washed over me. Maybe it was the late-night drive back from the resort or the lingering effects of Stefan’s relentless teasing, but I felt completely drained. I just wanted to finish my shift and crawl back into bed with a good K-Drama. Was that too much to ask?

The scent of buttery croissants filled the air, the rhythmic clatter of whisks and spatulas providing a steady beat to my Monday morning. I was elbow-deep in a batch of pain au chocolat, trying to lose myself in the precision of pastry-making. The sooner I finished my shift, the sooner I could indulge in some serious K-Drama time.

That’s when I heard it. A faint but unmistakable melody drifting from the far end of the kitchen. Were they seriously watching TikToks in the middle of work? Madame Colette would have their aprons for dishcloths if she caught wind of this.

Then, I heard it – a muffled giggle, followed by another. Okay, now I was curious. It wasn’t unusual for the younger staff to sneak in a quick phone break when Madame Colette was busy terrorizing the sous chef, but blasting K-Pop and giggling in the middle of the kitchen was a whole new level of daring.

As I expertly maneuvered a tray of perfectly browned croissants, the melody wormed its way into my head. It was the same song I’d practiced dancing to with Stefan last weekend at the resort. He’d even filmed me attempting the ridiculously complicated footwork, much to my chagrin. I could practically hear his laughter now, picturing him shaking his head at my less-than-stellar moves.

My foot started tapping to the beat involuntarily. I couldn't help myself. It was such a catchy tune. Maybe I could use a few of those moves for my next TikTok attempt. Okay, maybe not. I'd probably trip over my own feet. And Stefan would never let me live it down.

◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇

The aroma of warm bread and melting chocolate couldn't mask the rising heat in my cheeks. That blasted K-Pop song was still echoing through the kitchen, but now it felt like a spotlight was aimed directly at me. It was bad enough that my colleagues were shamelessly enjoying their little TikTok marathon on company time, but did they have to choose that song? The one he clumsily practiced days ago? The one with the ridiculously complicated footwork that made me look like a flailing windmill?

And as if summoned by my mortification, he appeared. Marc, the resident class clown of The Grand's kitchen, sauntered past my workstation, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He paused, a slow grin spreading across his face, and then… he did it.

With the grace of a drunken giraffe on roller skates, Marc launched into the signature move of the K-Pop dance. His limbs flailed with frenzied motion, his apron flapping like a flag in a hurricane. It was a horrifyingly accurate, yet hilariously awful, imitation of my own attempt at the dance just a few days prior.

The kitchen erupted in laughter. I could feel my face burning as Marc took a theatrical bow, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Looking good, Chef Sacha!" he called out, his voice dripping with faux admiration.

I wanted to disappear. Melting into a puddle of melted chocolate suddenly seemed like a viable escape route. I could already picture Stefan’s reaction when I told him about this. He’d probably laugh so hard he’d choke on his precious strawberry milk.

Maybe I could convince Dad to transfer me to the resort permanently. At least at Jardin de la Mer, I was safe from rogue K-Pop dances and overly observant coworkers.

A cold dread crept up my spine, chilling me more effectively than the blast chiller I used for my pastries. Something was definitely off. It was more than just Marc’s ridiculously accurate impression of my… questionable dance moves.

The whispers, the stifled laughter, the knowing glances – it all pointed to something sinister. It was like everyone in the kitchen was in on a joke, and I was the punchline. But I couldn’t figure out what the joke was.

Lunchtime arrived, signaling the end of my shift and my escape from this culinary circus. I practically sprinted to the staff room, eager to shed my apron and the weight of a thousand judging eyes. My phone buzzed in my pocket. Assuming it was Stefan, I knew he was probably craving another one of my gourmet burgers.

But just as I was about to make a beeline for the door, Monsieur Dubois, the hotel manager, materialized in front of me. His usual impeccably-combed hair seemed a bit more ruffled than usual, and there was an odd twitch to his left eye.

"Ah, Sacha, just the chef I wanted to see," he said, his voice unusually high-pitched. "Could I have a word with you in my office?"

My stomach lurched. What had I done now? Had someone complained about the croissants being a tad over-baked? Or maybe they finally discovered my secret stash of K-Pop photocards behind the kimchi fridge?

Monsieur Dubois’ office was exactly what one would expect from a man who managed a five-star hotel: sleek, minimalist, and vaguely intimidating. He gestured for me to sit down and proceeded to close the blinds, plunging the room into a state of semi-darkness. Okay, now I was really starting to panic. Was he going to fire me?

"Sacha," Monsieur Dubois began, his voice grave, "I need to show you something."