Selection.

The insistent buzz of my alarm clock ripped me from sleep; the familiar sound was a harbinger of anxiety. I knew that Mr. Wilson, the towering billionaire, was expecting breakfast fit for a king, and my stomach churned with the pressure. Even after years in high-end kitchens, preparing for a man whose world revolved around opulence and exclusivity felt like a daunting challenge. The icy water in the shower was a temporary balm, but the knot in my chest remained. As I dressed, each crease in my shirt felt like a potential judgment, a reminder of the delicate dance of expectations I had to navigate. The scent of brewed coffee on the bus offered a fleeting comfort, but my mind wouldn't stop racing, replaying conversations, imagining preferences, and desperately hoping to impress.

"I soon find myself standing on the doorstep of the mansion, and my anxiousness rises anew. A knot of nerves twists in my stomach—*first day, first day, first day*—but a spark of excitement flickers too. With shaky hands, I rang the doorbell, and the head maid came out to allow me in. Once again, I'm standing in front of the same kitchen as yesterday, yet it still feels surreal, as if I've never seen it before. The polished stone floor feels cool under my shoes, and the air smells faintly of lemon polish and something sweet—maybe the remnants of yesterday's dessert. I step inside. Deciding to make honey pancakes, I quickly take eggs, butter, honey, sugar, salt, flour, milk, and baking powder—the familiar textures grounding me. I mix them all together, the clinking of bowls against the counter reminding me of the last time I cooked here. It went well, but this time... This time, I'm not sure. I pour the mixture into the pan and cook until it is turning brown on both sides. Then arrange them on a dish and drizzle with honey. I finished preparing and informed the head maid they may now serve. She approached and grabbed the tray from me while throwing me a sympathetic gaze. She went, and I waited in the kitchen, the silence punctuated by the ticking of the clock."

Andrew Pov.

I slipped into a crisp black shirt, its coolness a welcome contrast to the warmth of the morning sunlight filtering through my window. I lingered for a moment, admiring the way the fabric clung to my shoulders, and the way the sunlight glinted off the polished black buttons. With a sigh, I pulled on my gray jeans, their familiar comfort a grounding presence as I headed out of my room. The click of my formal footwear echoed on the wooden floor as I made my way downstairs, the scent of freshly brewed coffee already filling my nostrils. Emilia, my maid, greeted me with a warm smile, her usual cheerful energy a bright spot in the early morning calm. As the sun peeked over the horizon, painting the sky in hues of pink and gold, I took my usual seat at the dining table. Today's breakfast was a delightful surprise: a small stack of honey pancakes, the sweet aroma making my mouth water. I placed a napkin on my jeans, carefully picked up a fork and knife, and savored each bite of the fluffy, golden goodness. The warm, sweet flavor was a perfect start to my day.

"It's excellent; the honey pancakes remind me of my mother's cooking." The aroma, a comforting blend of cinnamon and vanilla, wafted around me as I savored each bite. The fluffy texture and sweet, golden hue brought back a rush of childhood memories. I finished the last bite, a bittersweet smile tugging at my lips. Turning to the maid, I asked, "Is this prepared by the new chef you mentioned?" She nodded, her eyes twinkling with a knowing smile. "Yes, sir." A surge of excitement filled me. "His food reminds me of my mother's affection." I longed to meet this talented chef. "Will you send him? I'd like to have words with him." She nodded again, her movements swift and silent as she disappeared into the kitchen.

Ryan's heart hammered in his chest as he waited. The anticipation of the interview was a heavy weight. When the maid arrived, her words, "Mr. Wilson wants to meet with you," sent a jolt of adrenaline through him. He followed her, his mind racing as he wondered if this was the chance he'd been waiting for.

"Rayn was scared about walking in front of Mr. Andrew, the country's famous businessman; his palms were sweating; his heart hammered in his chest like a trapped bird. *Just breathe,* he thought, forcing his legs to move. "Sir, you called me?" he inquired, his voice barely above a whisper.

"This is exceptional," Andrew said, his gaze lingering on Ryan. It was like being pierced by a laser beam, Rayn thought, feeling the heat of Andrew's scrutiny. "The honey pancakes bring back such vivid memories of my mother's cooking. It's been years since I've tasted something this... heartwarming." The rich aroma of maple syrup filled the air, a comforting scent that Rayn had always loved. Ryan's cheeks flushed, his hands fidgeting slightly; he felt the blood rushing to his head. "Thank you, sir," he stammered. "I've always enjoyed baking; it's a kind of passion for me. The lady in an orphanage where I grew up taught me everything I know."

Andrew's eyes softened, a flicker of warmth in his gaze. "It shows. Such talent, such dedication, it's rare to find someone who takes such pride in their craft." He leaned forward, his voice a low rumble, "Tell me, where did you learn to cook? And who are some of your culinary inspirations?"

Andrew's words hung in the air, an invitation to share, to connect. Rayn felt a surge of hope; maybe this was a chance to be more than just a baker, maybe this was a chance to be seen.

"There was no inspiration at first; I simply learned how to prepare meals to fill the stomachs of kids, thinking it's a basic human need," he said, a hint of weariness in his voice. The aroma of simmering spices filled the air, a comforting counterpoint to the routine of meal preparation. "But as those children acknowledge my food, I feel good," he continued, a warmth spreading through him. The joyful smiles and grateful whispers as they ate were a reward in themselves. "So I started preparing food more often as well as tried various different combinations," he explained, a newfound passion sparking in his eyes. The clatter of pots and pans became a symphony of creation as you experimented with new flavors and textures. "Once leaving the orphanage, I joined a restaurant, where I bake and cook; now I got an opportunity to work for you, to which I'm looking forward." He answered honestly, a sense of anticipation filling your heart. "I'm looking forward to tasting your dishes, too," Andrew replied, his warm gaze meeting his. Suddenly, his phone buzzed, a jarring interruption to the peaceful moment. He stood up, his tall, handsome frame a striking silhouette against the bright light. "Well, it seems like I had to go now; see you later." With that, he vanished, his steel gray eyes and perfect jawline disappeared towards his destination, leaving Ryan with a lingering sense of intrigue and a growing excitement for the future.