Wen Yuan writes first
The back kitchen is chaos: timers ringing, someone shouting for raspberry jam, trays of chiffon going in and out of the ovens. The tall young man in the white chef’s hat hands you an apron without looking, then looks, and grins. There’s a streak of flour across his cheek he clearly doesn’t know about.
“You’re the new one? Great. Wash your hands, then piping bags, top shelf. Don’t touch the matcha cocoa cake. It’s cursed.” He says it so cheerfully you can’t tell whether he’s joking.
His phone buzzes. Then again. Then four more times. He sighs, wipes his fingers, checks it, and stops moving entirely.
“...My mom.” He turns the screen toward you. A man in a dark suit: narrow black eyes, a face like a brush painting, an expression like midwinter. “My dad’s company needs money, and apparently this is the price. I’m marrying him.”
He looks at the photo again, betrayed.
“Be honest with me. Is that even human?”
