Page 5

FIVE

HELENA

T he door to the restaurant banged open just ten minutes after Sol’s departure, startling Helena out of her daydream. Her fingers had been absently tracing the edges of Sol’s business card in her pocket, the thick cardstock somehow burning against her skin.

“This place better be worth what I paid for it.” A sharp voice cut through the dining room.

Helena looked up to see a tall man with slicked-back hair and a suit that probably cost more than her car. His eyes were cold, assessing everything with a calculating gaze that made her skin crawl.

“You must be who we’re waiting for,” Helena said, stepping forward with an outstretched hand. “I’m Helena Divata, executive chef and former owner.”

He shook her hand, his touch lingering a beat too long before dropping it. “Victor Sulick. And yes, I own this establishment now.” His eyes swept over her like a predator sizing up its prey.

“Let me show you around.” Helena gestured to the dining area. “As you can see, we have the main dining room with seating for sixty-five, plus the bar area that can accommodate another twenty.”

“The décor is outdated,” Victor muttered, running a finger across a table and examining it for dust. “We’ll need to modernize everything.”

Helena’s stomach clenched. The rustic, homey atmosphere was part of what made their restaurant special. “The locals really appreciate the?—“

“Locals aren’t who I’m after. I want to attract the right clientele,” Victor interrupted, snapping his fingers impatiently. “Continue.”

As they moved through the dining room, Helena found her thoughts straying back to Sol. The way his green eyes had seemed to see straight into her soul. There had been something magnetic about him, something that made her feel...seen.

“This is our bar manager, Tyanna,” Helena said as they approached the polished wooden bar.

Tyanna looked up, her dark eyes narrowing as she took in Victor. “Pleasure,” she said, the word dripping with sarcasm as she continued wiping down glasses.

Helena shot her a warning look that Tyanna pointedly ignored.

“The bar needs to be completely redone,” Victor announced without even greeting Tyanna. “Something sleeker and more upscale.”

“Our regular customers like this bar just fine,” Tyanna replied, setting a glass down with a little more force than necessary.

Victor’s mouth tightened. “Regular customers don’t spend enough.”

Helena quickly steered him toward the host stand where Paige was organizing menus. Relief flooded her when Paige stepped forward with a wide smile.

“Mr. Sulick! What an honor to meet you,” Paige gushed, practically bouncing on her toes. “I’ve read about your business ventures. Your takeover of the Meridian Hotel chain was absolutely brilliant.”

Victor seemed to thaw slightly under the praise. “An observant one. You are?”

“Paige Donovan, restaurant manager. If you have any ideas you’d like implemented, I’d be happy to?—“

“I have many ideas,” Victor cut in. “Perhaps you’ll be useful after all.”

Helena’s fingers closed around Sol’s card in her pocket. If only he had been their new owner instead of this cold, calculating man. Sol, with his warm smile and strong presence. She wondered what it would be like to see him again. The thought sent heat through her that reminded her oddly of the birthday candle incident.

People like Victor were why Helena had always kept her head down and focused on cooking. But Sol... Sol felt different. Maybe she would call him later and take him up on his dinner offer.

“Now I’d really love to see the kitchen,” Victor said, suddenly leaning closer to Helena. “I hear it’s your domain.”

Helena took an instinctive step back. Victor’s eyes had suddenly changed, the coldness replaced with something warm but calculated—like a predator mimicking friendliness.

“Of course,” Helena replied, gesturing toward the swinging doors. “This way.”

As they walked, Victor shifted from formal to familiar, his hand briefly brushing her lower back as they entered the kitchen. Helena felt her skin prickle with discomfort.

“You know, a talented chef is the heart of any restaurant,” Victor said, his voice lowered to what he likely thought was an attractive timber. “And I’ve heard extraordinary things about your... abilities.”

Helena frowned. Something in his phrasing seemed odd, almost like he meant more than her cooking skills. She led him through the prep area, deliberately taking a path that kept them away from where Marco was still enthusiastically chopping vegetables.

“We focus on seasonal ingredients,” Helena explained, feeling heat rise to her face as Victor stood too close, examining a tray of prepared herbs. “Our new menu launches next week with butternut squash risotto and?—“

“I’m more interested in how you create such magic,” Victor interrupted, his eyes not on the food but fixed on her face. He reached out and brushed a strand of her hair from her face. “Has anyone told you that your hair is the exact color of flames?”

Helena stepped sideways, disguising her retreat as reaching for a clipboard. “Our specials rotate daily.”

“And what’s special about today?” Victor asked, his voice dripping with double meaning.

Across the kitchen, Marco looked up, his knife pausing mid-chop as he observed the interaction. Helena caught his eye and subtly shook her head, willing him to stay put. Marco’s protective instincts toward her were legendary in the kitchen, and the last thing she needed was a confrontation between her sous chef and their new boss.

A strange warmth began pooling in Helena’s stomach, spreading outward through her limbs. It wasn’t desire—it felt more like irritation made physical, a simmering heat that seemed to pulse with each condescending smile Victor gave her.

“Is it hot in here?” Helena asked, fanning herself while maintaining a professional distance.

Victor smiled. “Only when you’re in it.”

The line was so cheesy that Helena almost laughed. What was happening today? First, Sol with his intense stares and genuine interest, now this new owner with his transparent attempts at flirtation while in her kitchen. Thirty years of relative invisibility to the opposite sex, and suddenly she was attracting attention like moths to a?—

Flame. The word popped into her mind unbidden, sending another wave of warmth through her body.

“The range hoods need to be cleaned more regularly,” Victor said, changing tactics when he noticed her discomfort. He rested his hand on her shoulder. “Perhaps you could show me your office later? We could discuss... improvements.”

The heat inside Helena intensified, pooling in her fingertips until they tingled. She gripped the edge of the stainless-steel table, alarmed by the sensation. It reminded her of yesterday’s candle incident, that odd kinship with fire, and that feeling of power.

Her pulse raced as Victor’s hand soon traveled down her arm. The heat building beneath her skin intensified with each passing second, her fingers tingling in a way that both frightened and exhilarated her.

“Perhaps I could demonstrate one of our signature dishes,” she suggested, desperate for any distraction from the uncomfortable proximity. “It might give you a better sense of our culinary style.”

Victor’s eyes lit up with an interest that seemed strangely disproportionate to her offer. “I’d love to see you... work with your hands.” His emphasis made her stomach clench.

“Excellent.” Helena moved toward her station, deliberately putting the prep table between them. She gathered ingredients with practiced efficiency—wild mushrooms, shallots, fresh thyme, and a bottle of aged sherry.

Victor circled the table, tracking her movements like a predator. “They say you have quite the... special touch in the kitchen.”

Helena frowned at his odd phrasing. “Cooking is about intuition and balance.” She focused on slicing the mushrooms, the rhythmic chopping grounding her as the strange heat continued pulsing through her veins.

“And passion,” Victor added, leaning against the counter uncomfortably close. “Fire.”

Her knife faltered. “Fire is just a tool.”

“Is it?” His eyes held hers in a knowing way that made her skin crawl.

Helena turned away, gathering butter and olive oil. “For this dish, we use a combination of fats to get the perfect sear on the mushrooms.”

As she reached for a pan, Victor shifted closer. “You know, Helena, I have plans for this restaurant... and potentially for you.”

The heat in her fingertips further intensified, and Helena stared at her hands in alarm. They looked normal yet felt like they might burst into flame at any moment. She flexed them nervously, then busied herself arranging ingredients.

“I need to focus on the dish,” she said, moving toward the gas stove.

Victor followed, his breath hot on her neck as he leaned in. “I’d like you to focus on our... partnership.”

Helena reached for the knob to light the gas stove, her hands shaking slightly. Victor pressed closer, his chest brushing against her back. His lips nearly touched her ear as he whispered, “I know what you are, Helena.”

The words sent a chill down her spine that contrasted sharply with the heat building in her core. What did he mean?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she managed, turning the gas knob.

Victor’s hand slid around her waist, his touch unwelcome and intrusive. “The fire inside you. I can help you understand it.” His lips grazed her neck.

Helena jerked backward instinctively, repulsed by his touch. “Don’t?—“

As she pulled away, something inside her surged—a hot, electric current that raced from her chest to her fingertips. The gas ignited, but instead of a controlled blue flame, an explosion of fire erupted from the stovetop. The blaze shot upward in a column of orange and red, touching the ceiling tiles.

Helena stumbled back, watching in horror and fascination as the flames seemed to dance and reach toward her, almost sentient in their movements. Instead of scorching heat, she felt a curious kinship with the fire—like recognizing a part of herself that had been dormant until now.

Victor stepped back, his eyes gleaming with triumphant hunger rather than fear. “Magnificent,” he breathed, staring not at the fire but at Helena. “Even more powerful than I thought.”

The kitchen staff froze in their tracks, Marco’s knife suspended in his hand, and Tyanna’s mouth opened in shock from the doorway. They all stared, transfixed by the impossible column of flame that showed no signs of diminishing despite nothing fueling it but the small gas jet.

Helena raised her arms, and to her astonishment, the flames seemed to respond, swaying toward her hands like plants bending toward sunlight.

Helena grabbed the bucket of water sitting by the prep station, her hands trembling. The flames reached for her with greater force, the bright tendrils stretching across the air like eager fingers. Her heart hammered in her chest, a strange thrumming beat that matched the pulsing of the fire.

“What’s happening inside of me?” she whispered, watching in horror as the flames grew higher when she approached closer. Instead of dying down when she threw the water on it, the flames roared louder, feeding off her panic like it was oxygen.

“Get out! Everybody out now!” Marco shouted, abandoning his station and herding the kitchen staff toward the emergency exit. “Helena, come on!”

Tyanna remained in the doorway, her eyes wide. “Holy shit, it’s spreading to the dining room now!”

The fire leaped and danced, spiraling upward in impossible patterns. Helena stood frozen for a moment, mesmerized by the way it still seemed to move in rhythm with her racing heartbeat. Every surge of fear sent the flames higher, and every moment of awe made them brighter.

“Fascinating as this is,” Victor said, backing toward the exit, his calculating eyes still fixed on Helena, “I have no intention of dying today.” He slipped through the door without another glance.

The flames curved around Helena, forming a half-circle that trapped her against the cooking station. She flung more water at the closest part of the blaze, but instead of extinguishing it, the water hissed and evaporated instantly, turning to steam that only seemed to fuel the fire further.

“Helena, please!” Tyanna screamed from the doorway. “This whole place is going up!”

“I can’t leave it!” Helena cried, grabbing the fire extinguisher from the wall. “Everything I’ve worked for is here!”

The restaurant had been her life for eight years. Every recipe perfected, every customer relationship built, every late night and early morning sacrifice—all of it was embodied in these walls. How could she just watch it burn?

“It’s not worth your life!” Marco shouted, his voice cracking with emotion before he, too, disappeared.

She aimed the extinguisher at the base of the flames, but the chemical spray merely created swirling patterns in the fire without diminishing its intensity. A sickening realization dawned on her—the fire wasn’t burning the kitchen anymore, it was burning from her.

The flames had taken on an unnatural red-gold hue, brightening to almost white where they reached toward her. Helena backed away, feeling the heat not as a threat but as a strange extension of herself.

“This isn’t possible,” she murmured, watching as the flames followed her movement like a loyal pet.

The smoke thickened around her, black and choking. Helena coughed, feeling her lungs burn with each breath. Yet even as the smoke filled the room, the flames maintained a clear path to her, as if creating a corridor only she could navigate.

The sprinkler system finally engaged, raining water down from above, but it made little difference. Whatever force was feeding these flames transcended normal physics. Helena stumbled backward, her vision blurring as the smoke intensified.

“Get... it... together,” she gasped between coughs, desperately seeking control over something—anything—in this chaos.

For a brief moment, when she focused her thoughts and tried to visualize the flames receding, they actually seemed to respond, pulling back slightly. But her concentration broke when a support beam crashed down behind her, sending sparks flying into the air.

Helena spun around, disoriented, finding herself surrounded by a circle of fire. The heat pressed in from all sides, yet strangely, her skin didn’t burn. Her clothes remained intact even as the wooden prep table nearby was reduced to charred remains.

“What am I?” Her voice was thin, barely audible over the roar of the fire.

The room spun, oxygen depleting rapidly. Helena sank to her knees, her body heavy and unresponsive. The last thing she saw before darkness claimed her was the fire above, forming what looked almost like a protective dome around her fallen form.

Then there was nothing but smoke and silence.