"Eighty-six the minestrone! I need two gallons of the chicken and wild rice on the hot line, five minutes ago!"

Clara Vance wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead with the back of her wrist, her chef’s knife a silver blur as she julienned a mountain of carrots. The subterranean kitchen of Thorne

The silence in the kitchen was suddenly deafening.

Clara kept her chin tucked so firmly against her chest she could feel the fabric of her apron chafing her neck. Her hands, resting flat against the stainless steel counter, were rigid. Beside her, the massive industrial pot of bone broth continued

The elevator ride to the eighty-ninth floor felt like a slow, agonizing ascent to the gallows.

Clara Vance stood stiffly beside the stainless-steel serving cart, her reflection staring back at her in the polished mahogany paneling of the executive lift. Her white chef’s coat was crisp, her apron t