“You know, that guy who works for the beast came by again yesterday. I overheard Petrovich promising to find him a kitchen assistant,” our young waiter, Roman, whispers conspiratorially.
“Any of you ladies interested, huh?” he chuckles, glancing at me and Katya.
“Why don’t you go yourself if you’re so brave!” Katya snaps back.
“Hey, who knows? Maybe I will. Word is, the pay’s pretty sweet…” Roman muses aloud. “But, well… people say all sorts of weird stuff about him. What if he’s a cannibal? I heard he’s got sharp teeth and thick fur all over his body.”
“Oh, come off it!” I say, rolling my eyes. “That’s nonsense. You’re just spinning old wives’ tales. Besides, they wouldn’t take you anyway—you’ve got no skills. You can serve tables, not cook.”
“But you, Sophie, they’d snap you up in a heartbeat…” he teases with a grin. “And it’s not just stories. I heard it from a guy who used to work there as a mechanic. Saw it with his own eyes. Says the boss is downright terrifying. Mean as the devil himself.”
“Enough already! You’re just trying to scare us. Get back to work!” Katya cuts in, exasperated. She’s a waitress here at the restaurant and often has to nudge Roman along. The guy loves to chat—give him half a chance, and he’s off spinning yarns to some waitress in a corner or sneaking a hug while the work piles up. As soon as the manager steps out, Roman’s slacking off.
We split up to get back to our tasks. I head to the kitchen, while they go to the dining area to tend to the guests. No time for long breaks—if Petrovich, our head chef, catches us slacking, there’ll be hell to pay. Behind his back, we call him the ‘Lord of the Inferno.’ He’s often grumpy and demanding, obsessed with keeping the guests—and the restaurant owner—happy. As for us workers, we can just deal with it.
The kitchen is, as always, a whirlwind of activity. I jump in to help my coworker with a big steak order—everything has to be fast and flawless. But honestly, my mind keeps drifting back to Roman’s story. Come on now… I don’t buy into these tall tales about a monster, but there’s something odd about it all. The man lives such a reclusive life; hardly anyone’s seen him. The rumors about him are enough to make your hair stand on end. There’s got to be a reason. Could he really be that frightening?
But… how bad could he be to hide away like that? Does he have horns or something? Max Remin, the employee Roman mentioned, is a regular here. Seems like a decent enough guy, though he’s reserved, almost military-strict. He often comes in, sometimes with other men—word is they’re friends of the restaurant owner. And now they’re looking for a kitchen assistant. Whatever the case, I’m not interested. Even if the pay is supposedly three times what I make here. I’ve been working at this place for almost a year now, hearing all sorts of creepy stories about that rich recluse. Let someone else take the job—I’m staying put.
“Sophie! Come here for a sec,” Petrovich calls out as we’re wrapping up the shift. I wipe my hands and approach the chef, a knot forming in my stomach. When he summons you to his office, it usually means you’ve messed up somehow.
“We need to talk, kid,” he says, leading me into his office and shutting the door. “Want to earn more money?” What kind of question is that? Who doesn’t?
“Sure, is there a bonus for hard work coming my way?” I ask timidly.
“No! No bonus,” he cuts me off sharply. Adjusting the chef’s hat on his graying head, he continues:
“But… I’ve got an offer for you. Assistant to the head chef at a private estate. Not much work—cooking for about ten people. Room and board covered by the owner. And the pay? Out of this world. You wouldn’t make that much here in two months.” Is he talking about the beast’s estate? Oh no…
“Where’s this job at? Not in Thornwood, is it?” I ask cautiously.
“Exactly. You’ve heard about it? Good. I recommended you, so no need to thank me. You can show your gratitude with your first paycheck,” he jokes, but I’m not laughing. Thornwood—that’s where *he* lives. I swallow hard, my mouth opening, but no words come out. Has he already decided for me? Doesn’t my opinion matter?
“But I don’t want to… It’s not that I don’t need the extra money… It’s just… I’m used to things here. And who knows if I’d manage over there…” I stammer, grasping at the first excuse that comes to mind. I can’t exactly say I’m scared of the so-called monster.
“Don’t start with me! This isn’t child’s play. I’m offering you a serious opportunity. And you… I don’t know… You’ve got two days to think it over. No more. Let me know by Wednesday,” he says sternly, handing me a piece of paper with the job details written out. I take it, stuff it into my apron pocket, mumble a thanks, and head off to clean up. The restaurant’s closed for the night. Time to tidy up and finally drag myself home. My legs are killing me.
I practically crawl home. There’s no other way to describe it. After a full day on my feet at work, I’m not walking—I’m barely shuffling. Luckily, I live close by, because at this hour, there’s no way to get a ride. The restaurant closes at 10 p.m., and by the time we finish cleaning, it’s ridiculously late. When I started this job, I deliberately rented a tiny apartment nearby. It’s small, but it’s close to work. It’s far from my mom’s place, though. She wasn’t thrilled about me moving out on my own—she worried—but I really wanted to give it a shot. There’s something about freedom that draws me in. Don’t get me wrong, my mom’s great, never overbearing, but… being on my own is different. It’s like a test to see if I can take care of myself. So far, so good. Well, if you ignore how exhausted I am from working like a horse. But that’s no big deal.
I heat up some leftover meatballs, throw together a quick salad, and grab a slice of bread. I’m munching away in front of my laptop, watching my favorite cooking show, *MasterChef*. At some point, I realize I’m not even following the episode. My mind’s elsewhere—stuck on that mysterious estate in Thornwood. No. This won’t do. I need to sleep. Monday and Tuesday are my days off; I’ll think about it with a clear head.
I sleep in until 9 a.m., feeling like a normal human being for once. Sipping coffee and eating an omelet, I savor the luxury of not having to rush anywhere or scarf down food on the go like I usually do at work. Then my mom calls.
“Sweetie, I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“No, I’m up. How are you, Mom?”
“I’m fine, but Grandpa Ostap’s not doing well again. He was up all night in pain. I called the doctor this morning. He said Ostap needs to quit smoking and get treatment, or these episodes will be the end of him,” she says sadly.
“And what did Grandpa say? Is he planning to quit?”
“Oh, you know him… Stubborn as a mule,” she sighs. I do too.
“That’s a shame. He’s such a kind man, but he doesn’t take care of himself. If only he’d think about us! We’re all worried about him, Grandma too.”
“I know, but he just brushes it off with a joke. You know what he says—‘I’ll live until I die.’”
“Yeah, I get it. It’s sad.”
“Anyway, I’ve got to run. I’m at work. Bye, hon.”
“Bye, Mom.”
The paper Petrovich gave me turns out to be a detailed description of the job offer. The conditions aren’t bad at all. Fewer hours than I work now, room and board provided by the owner. And the kicker? The salary. It’s four times what I make here. How tempting is that? I agonize over it all day but still can’t bring myself to say yes. Live in the same house as that mysterious man? No way. Who knows what’s really going on there or why they pay so much. Maybe he’s involved in something shady and would drag me into it. They say there’s no such thing as a free lunch. This feels suspicious—paying so well for what seems like easy work. And they’re so insistent about hiring. It can’t be that simple. There’s got to be a catch. Maybe the owner’s got a terrible temper, and that’s why people don’t last. Whatever it is, I’m not interested.
On Wednesday, I tell Petrovich I can’t take the job—I want to stay here. Man, was he furious!
“What is wrong with you? I’m handing you a golden opportunity, gave them my personal recommendation, and you’re turning your nose up at it? Without me, you wouldn’t get anywhere near a job like this! I could’ve suggested Misha or Oksana, but I picked you because you’ve got more skills and you’re more responsible. I hate to let you go, but I promised to help a friend. They urgently need someone. You should be thanking me on bended knee, and this is how you repay me?” His words sting. It sounds like I’m ungrateful and foolish, someone who doesn’t appreciate the chance of a lifetime. But how do I explain that I don’t trust those promises and I’m scared?
The next few days are tense. Petrovich doesn’t miss a single chance to remind me that I’ve fallen out of favor.