I was minutes from clocking out at the restaurant where I serve the city’s most entitled customers when Vincent — the brilliant, terrifying owner — dragged me into his office and fired me. I thought my world had ended. I had no idea what was coming next.

The upmarket restaurant where I work serves the type of customers who honestly believe they’re minor royalty.

Take Table 14 tonight: a disaster wrapped in a bad attitude.

“This pasta is an absolute insult! It’s overcooked, it’s cold, and frankly, I expect better for $50 a plate!”The man was practically shouting, making every other head in the dining room turn.

“Sir, I am terribly sorry,” I said, still smiling as I leaned in just a bit. “But to be fair, for $50, that pasta probably had a better education than my car.”

He froze.His face, red with anger moments before, cracked into a surprised, reluctant laugh. His wife smirked.

Crisis averted.

But my moment of quiet triumph quickly evaporated.

Standing just outside the kitchen’s swinging doors was Vincent, the legendary owner and head chef.

Forty-eight, handsome, and terrifying.

He wasn’t smiling. He was just watching me, his dark eyes like chips of ice.We tiptoed around him like a ticking bomb, and I had accidentally drawn his attention.

That was the moment he turned against me. I just didn’t realize it until a week later.

It was a Friday night, and the place was packed, as usual. The kitchen was screaming, and the dining room was buzzing.

I finished my last table, finally clearing the plates and smiling through the exhaustion. I grabbed my bag and was just about to clock out when Vincent came storming into the room.