1. MICE --- (Part 1)

The kitchen lights blazed bright against the silence, revealing a battlefield of culinary aftermath. Dirty pans, sauce-splattered pots and greasy utensils surrounded the overflowing sink. Plates were stacked in teetering piles, still decorated with remnants of last night's luxury: half a steak bleeding onto porcelain, a lonely chicken leg, a chunk of bread painted with tomato sauce, a sliver of cake clinging to its plate like a survivor. Champagne flutes stood in formation across the counter, some still half full, bubbly ghosts of someone else's celebration.

Two sets of eyes gleamed in the doorway, reflecting hunger and mischief.

"Are you sure no one's around?" Rachel whispered, tiptoeing after her partner in crime.

"Positive," said Asha, glancing at the closed office door nearby. "Chef Collins must be passed out by now. Man drinks like he's trying to pickle himself." She mimed raising a bottle, giggling.

A faint snore rumbled from behind the office door. Confirmation. The girls grinned at each other.

"Operation Midnight Feast," Asha whispered.

"Oh my God," Rachel breathed, staring at the leftovers. "All this food just wasted? Criminal." She snatched a sauce-smeared piece of bread and took a triumphant bite.

"Cheers to rich people," Asha mumbled through a mouthful of steak. "They eat like birds, and we dine like queens."

"That's all they're good for," Rachel said, slurping up a dangling strand of spaghetti. "Honestly, who doesn't finish their meatball?"

For a moment, the kitchen was filled with the sound of illicit munching and stifled laughter.

"This actually tastes amazing," Rachel said, gnawing on a chicken leg. "Do you think Chef Collins sobered up long enough to remember seasoning?"

"I was just thinking that!" Asha held out a forkful of steak. "Try this, melts in your mouth!"

Rachel nodded mid-chew, eyes wide in approval.

"Oh my God, and the champagne!" Asha whispered, grabbing a champagne flute.

"Ew, at least wipe it first!" Rachel snatched it and rubbed the rim with her jacket sleeve.

Asha passed her another glass. They toasted silently, then chugged with the fervour of women who knew this might be their last luxury for a while.

"When was the last time we had champagne this good?" Rachel sighed, already taking another.

"Never. We're too broke for bubbles," Asha giggled, nearly snorting into her drink.

"You think we can get drunk off leftovers?"

"Only one way to find out."

Their laughter echoed through the kitchen, clinking flutes and clumsy whispers filling the air, until a deep, commanding voice cut through it like a knife.

"Who the hell are you?"

Both girls froze.

Asha's champagne sprayed out in a shocked, undignified mist. Rachel dropped her glass, which shattered spectacularly across the tiles like a dramatic sound effect from a soap opera.

They both craned their necks to stare at the stranger, and instantly decided the neck-craning was absolutely worth it.

Standing in the doorway was a man.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Skin smooth as silk. Cheekbones and jaw carved like they had been chiselled by a very romantic sculptor. His dark eyes were sharp, impatient, already demanding answers, and his mouth was unfairly sensual for someone wearing a chef's jacket.

Speaking of which, the jacket was pristine. Crisp. Sleeves rolled to expose strong, veined forearms that screamed dangerously competent. Not a single hair was out of place, despite the fact he had just come off a dinner service.

He was, very clearly, not Chef Collins.

Rachel squeaked.

Asha whimpered.

"He's so tall," Asha muttered, half awed, half terrified.

"And scary," Rachel added, eyes still glued to the stranger as though she might miss something important if she blinked.

"You deal with him," Asha hissed, shoving Rachel forward while attempting to merge with the wall behind her.

"Coward," Rachel muttered, gripping her arm.

"You look innocent, I look guilty!"

The man stepped closer, his voice like dark velvet wrapped around steel. "Are you two... eating rubbish?"

Rachel froze. A chicken leg dangled accusingly from her hand. Asha had steak sauce streaked across her cheek like war paint.

"We're not-" Rachel started, then immediately regretted it.

The man's jaw tightened. "Do you work here?"

Rachel's mind raced. "No! We're, um... guests! Just missed dinner service!"

One dark eyebrow arched.

"Guests?" His tone dripped with disbelief. He thought he'd caught a glimpse of a front desk uniform beneath the duster coat. "Take off your coat, then."

Rachel blinked. "What?"

"I said, take it off."

Almost on reflex, Rachel started to obey.

"Daddy?" Asha blurted out before she could stop herself.

"What?" the man barked.

"Nothing!" Rachel yelped, elbowing her friend and dragging her towards the door.

Their laughter echoed all the way down the corridor, leaving behind only broken glass, crumbs, and a very bewildered, and slightly intrigued chef.

He ran a hand through his hair, still staring after them. Bloody hell, he thought, the corner of his mouth twitching. Who was that blonde, and why did he already want to throttle her or kiss her?

The next morning, Rachel and Asha hauled their slightly hungover, half-dead selves back to the Hotel Alderton. They were already late again, and everyone knew the HR manager, Mr Murray, hated tardiness with the kind of passion usually reserved for tax evasion and unpaid invoices.

They skidded through the staff entrance, breathless and dishevelled, just as Mr Murray stepped up to the podium.

"Good morning!" he greeted, his voice too bright for anyone with a headache, the kind of cheer that made everyone instantly despise him.

Asha and Rachel slithered their way between two bellboys, still panting like fugitives.

"All right, people," the manager barked, clapping his hands. "Quick one before service. As you all know, Chef Collins is-"

"Drunk again?" someone muttered from the back.

"On medical leave," Mr Murray snapped, giving a death glare in the direction of the voice. "So, from today, we'll have a new head chef overseeing kitchen operations. Please welcome-"

The staff turned as footsteps echoed behind the manager.

Rachel and Asha's eyes widened in unison.

Striding into the room, confident, arrogant, devastatingly handsome, and immaculate in a fresh chef's jacket, was the very man who had caught them red-handed in the kitchen the night before.

The new chef stopped beside the manager, folding his arms.

"Mr Luke Kingswell," Mr Murray announced. "He'll be taking over temporarily while senior management appoints a permanent replacement."

Rachel and Asha froze. Their brains short-circuited. Then, like two malfunctioning robots, they slowly ducked behind the bellboys they had just elbowed out of the way.

"Oh my God," Rachel hissed. "It's him."

"Do you think he'll recognise us?" Asha whispered, gripping Rachel's arm like a lifeline.

"Are we about to get sacked?!"

Luke's voice carried across the room, smooth, clipped, British, with just a hint of arrogance. "Good morning. I'm looking forward to working with all of you. I expect clarity, professionalism and cooperation across the board. When everyone does their part, excellence becomes inevitable."

Rachel's heart thudded so loudly she could barely hear him over the blood rushing in her ears.

"We can't afford to get fired," Asha whispered, far too loudly. "We're one rent payment away from homelessness!"

The people around them turned to stare.

Luke's gaze swept lazily across the crowd, methodically, controlled, until it landed on two very suspicious-looking figures crouching behind the noticeboard.

He paused.

Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile, just the faintest glimmer of recognition.

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