Chapter 8: The Dancing Chef

Monsieur Dubois turned his computer monitor towards me, and my jaw dropped. It was… me? Well, technically, it was a video of me.

The blood rushed in my ears, drowning out the gentle hum of the air conditioning in Monsieur Dubois' office. On the screen, a figure I recognized with a mix of horror and disbelief strutted and shimmied with an almost painful level of enthusiasm.

It was me. Dancing. Well, attempting to dance. To be more accurate, it looked like I was trying to escape from a particularly clingy spider web while having a seizure.

And the worst part? The video was captioned, "Best This! 😎 #dancechallanege #jardinsdelamer" with a string of laughing emojis. Stefan!

My confident, albeit clumsy, dance routine, the one I had performed solely for Stefan’s amusement, was now immortalized on the internet for all eternity. And judging by the view count ticking upwards faster than the speed of light, it seemed the internet was thoroughly enjoying my pain.

Memories of that afternoon at the resort came flooding back. The sun had been warm on my skin, the scent of salt and sunscreen lingering in the air. Stefan, ever the supportive little brother, filmed me practicing the latest K-Pop dance challenge. He said he'll edit out the parts where I looked like a malfunctioning robot, bless his soul.

I had clowned around, exaggerating my moves, knowing Stefan would find it hilarious. He always had been my biggest cheerleader, never judging my sometimes-questionable taste in music or my even more questionable dance skills. He laughed, I laughed, it was a typical day in the Jacques’ household.

But I never, in my wildest dreams, imagined he would upload it for the entire world to see. The world, including but not limited to, my coworkers, the guests at The Grand, and probably Madame Colette, who I was fairly certain had a secret stash of "How to Survive a K-Pop Apocalypse" guides hidden in her office.

As Monsieur Dubois scrolled through the comments, I wanted to crawl under his sleek, minimalist desk and die. The internet was a cruel, unforgiving mistress, and I was currently her latest victim. Except, it wasn’t quite the public execution I was expecting.

"Look at these engagement numbers, Sacha," Monsieur Dubois chuckled, shaking his head. "You’ve become quite the… internet sensation."

Sensation? Me? This had to be some kind of cruel joke. But as I peered at the screen, my jaw slackened. The video had racked up millions of views, and the comment section was a chaotic mess of heart emojis, laughing emojis, and enough fire emojis to rival the sun.

"He’s so extra, I love it!" one comment read.
"This is the confidence boost I needed today," declared another.

And then, the thirst comments started pouring in.

"Is this what they serve at The Grand? Because I’ll take ten!"
"Someone knows his insta? 👀 asking for a friend."
"Wait, is that a guy or a girl? Either way, Queen! 👑"

I groaned internally. Of course, people were confused about my gender. It wasn’t the first time my androgynous features had caused a stir. I mean, I knew I had a pretty face – Mom never let me forget it – but sometimes I wished people would see past the delicate features and appreciate my killer culinary skills instead.

By the time I left Monsieur Dubois’ office, my head was spinning. He'd actually congratulated me on my newfound viral fame, suggesting I could even use it to promote the hotel. The man was clearly delusional.

Bursting out of the staff room door, I was met with a chorus of cheers and whistles. My fellow chefs, the waitstaff, even the usually stoic dishwasher, were all grinning at me, their phones held aloft, undoubtedly replaying my dance of shame.

"Sacha, you’re a legend!" Marc, the instigator of my current predicament, slapped me on the back hard enough to rattle my teeth.

"I knew you had moves!" someone shouted from the back.

I could feel my ears burning, but a small smile tugged at the corners of my lips. Maybe this wasn’t so bad after all. It was just… unexpected. And a little mortifying. But mostly unexpected.

As I slid into the driver’s seat of my Porsche, the engine purring to life like a contented cat, I couldn’t help but think about Stefan. The little rascal was probably at home right now, scrolling through the comments and basking in the glow of his viral masterpiece. I'd have to give him a piece of my mind – and maybe steal his phone for a few days, just to be safe.

But as I pulled out of the hotel parking lot, I realized something. Life was too short to take yourself too seriously. Sometimes, you just had to embrace the chaos, laugh at your own expense, and maybe, just maybe, learn a few new dance moves along the way.

Even if those moves did end up on the internet for the whole world to see.

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The moment I stepped into the house, the scent of Mom’s lavender air freshener mingling with the faint aroma of Stefan’s signature strawberry milk, I knew I was in for it. And there he was, sprawled across the living room couch like he owned the place, grinning broadly.

The second I met his gaze, Stefan burst into laughter. Not just a chuckle or a giggle, but a full-blown, window-rattling guffaw that echoed through the house. He doubled over, clutching his stomach, his entire body shaking with mirth.

"You think this is funny, do you?" I growled, tossing my keys onto the entryway table. My attempt at sounding menacing was probably undermined by the fact that I was carrying a box of leftover macarons from the hotel.

Stefan, still wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, managed to sputter out, "You… you should see… the comments!"

I lunged at him, my fingers itching to inflict some much-needed brotherly love. In the past, a swift headlock and a few knuckle-raps to his messy hair would have sufficed. But as I reached for him, I realized something had changed.

Stefan wasn’t that scrawny kid brother anymore. He had shot up like a weed while I was busy perfecting my soufflé technique. His shoulders were broader, his arms sculpted, and his head… well, let’s just say the buzz cut didn’t leave much room for my usual head-ruffling antics.

Before I could adjust my attack strategy, Stefan effortlessly sidestepped me, his laughter subsiding into a smug grin. "Missed me, short stack," he teased, his voice laced with the annoying confidence that came with being few centimeters taller than me, his older brother.

I glared at him, my cheeks burning. "Just wait until Mom and Dad see this," I huffed. "They’ll ground you until you’re thirty."

The threat lacked its usual bite. Mom and Dad adored Stefan, their adopted son. They’d probably just find the whole thing hilarious, another anecdote in the chronicles of the Jacques family.

As Stefan scrolled through the comments, his laughter echoing through the house, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of… fondness? Annoying as he was, Stefan was my brother. And maybe, just maybe, his shameless internet antics had taught me a valuable lesson. Sometimes, you just had to laugh at yourself, even if the whole world was watching.

But that didn’t mean I was going to let him live this down anytime soon. Revenge, as they say, is a dish best served cold… with a side of perfectly caramelized sugar plums.

"It's just not fair that only I can see your best sides," Stefan announced dramatically, flopping back onto the couch with the grace of a starfish learning to walk. "I had this great need to share it with the world~"

I rolled my eyes so hard I swear I saw the living room chandelier flicker. Leave it to Stefan to turn my mortifying dance debut into some kind of philanthropic act. "You do realize that ‘sharing with the world’ usually involves, I don’t know, asking the person you’re about to humiliate first?" I retorted, tossing a decorative pillow at his smug face. He just laughed, catching it with ease.

"Where’s the fun in that?" He grinned, holding up his phone. "Besides, you’re a natural. The internet loves you! They’re calling you the ‘Dancing Chef’ and the ‘K-Pop Cutie.’ One person even asked if you were a long-lost member of BTS!"

I groaned. This was quickly spiraling into a nightmare. The last thing I needed was to be bombarded by obsessed K-Pop fans demanding autographs and serenades; as if that would ever happen!

"Speaking of food," Mom’s voice floated in from the kitchen, effectively ending the commotion. "Dinner’s almost ready. Sacha, darling, can you set the table?"

"On it, Mom!" I called back, grateful for the escape route. As we started dinner, Mom and Dad’s gentle laughter mingles with Stefan’s booming voice as he recounted the day’s events. They probably thought it was all hilarious. I mean, it was kind of funny, in a cringe-worthy sort of way. But I wasn’t about to admit that to Stefan. Not yet, anyway.

Dinner was a lively affair, filled with the usual Jacques family chaos. Dad regaled us with anecdotes from his business deals, Mom shared gossip from her weekly brunch with her socialite friends, and Stefan, of course, couldn't resist recounting every single comment on my now-infamous TikTok video. I just ate my pasta, trying to maintain a neutral expression while internally plotting Stefan’s demise. He was lucky I loved him.

Later that night, after a dinner that felt more like a roast disguised as a family meal, I retreated to the sanctuary of my room. The scent of lavender and vanilla - Mom’s preferred combination - clung to the air, a comforting contrast to the chaos of the internet.

I’d been avoiding TikTok all day, but curiosity, that pesky little gremlin, finally got the better of me. Taking a deep breath, I unlocked my phone, scrolled through Stefan's TikTok to find the video, and braced myself for the worst. Hate comments, mocking memes, maybe even a death threat or two… the internet could be a dark and unforgiving place.

But as I scrolled through the messages, a strange warmth spread through my chest. There were a few teasing remarks from old school friends, of course – apparently, my dance moves had become the highlight of their week – but the overwhelming majority of the comments were… positive?

"You’re amazing! Don’t ever stop dancing!"
"Your energy is contagious! Made my day!"
"This is the kind of confidence we all need!"

Even my colleagues from The Grand had chimed in, their messages filled with heart emojis and words of encouragement. It was as if the awkward, flailing figure in that video wasn’t me at all, but some kind of goofy, inspiring superhero.

I reread the last message, a wave of exhaustion washing over me. It had been a long day, filled with more emotional twists and turns than an episode of my favorite K-Drama. But as I tossed my phone onto my nightstand, a strange sense of peace settled over me.

Despite the complete and utter disaster that was my dancing, I had somehow managed to make people happy. Not just with my awkward dance moves, but with the sheer, unadulterated joy that radiated from the screen. The joy that usually only Stefan got to see.

The world, it seemed, was hungry for authenticity. For people brave enough to be vulnerable, to laugh at themselves, to embrace their inner weirdo without reservation. And somehow, unintentionally, I had managed to do just that.

Maybe Stefan was right. Maybe the world did need to see this side of me. The goofy, clumsy, hopelessly devoted K-Pop fan who hid behind a facade of coolness and composure. Maybe, just maybe, by embracing my own brand of awkwardness, I could inspire others to do the same.

I realized that life was about embracing moments—both the hilarious and the awkward. Sometimes, we hold back out of fear of judgment, but what if the very things that make us vulnerable also make us relatable? Perhaps it was time to let go of the fear of being imperfect.

It was a humbling thought. I spent so much time worrying about appearances, about being perfect, about living up to everyone’s expectations, that I forgot to just… be myself. Flaws and all.

As I drifted off to sleep, a line from my favorite K-Pop song echoed in my mind: "Don’t be afraid to be yourself, because that’s when you shine the brightest."