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Inside the kitchen, the heat was already thick and suffocating.
Not just from the relentless blaze of the industrial stoves and ovens, but from the wary, narrowed eyes that turned toward Chioma and Lanre the moment they stepped in. It was a suffocating, palpable tension — like walking into a room where a fight had just ended and no one wanted to be the first to speak.
The clatter of pots slowed. Conversations paused mid-sentence. You could almost hear the unspoken question hanging in the air:
"Who the hell do they think they are?"
Lanre, for his part, seemed completely unfazed. He grabbed a kitchen towel, threw it over his shoulder, and started toward the nearest prep table like he owned the place.
"Morning, people," he called out casually, the smoothness of his voice at odds with the thick tension in the air. "Hope you're ready to work. Because today? Not your usual day."
No one responded.
Chioma could feel every pair of eyes boring into her, some curious, others hostile, and a few openly dismissive. The old Chioma might have faltered — but she wasn't that girl anymore. Not after everything Kelvin had told her. Not after how hard she'd fought for this.
Own it, Kelvin's voice echoed in her head. Walk in like you belong there, or they'll eat you alive.
She straightened her shoulders, refusing to be cowed by the undercurrent of resentment thick in the air.
"I need someone to show me your current prep schedule, cold room inventory, and stock sheet for today. Right now."
Her voice was steady, firm. It startled a few of them, the boldness of her tone cutting through the heavy silence.
For a long, weighted second, no one moved.
Then, a junior chef — a slim, soft-spoken woman named Ifeoma — broke from the group and scurried off to fetch the files. A ripple of whispers followed her, but Chioma ignored them.
Lanre smirked. "That's more like it."
When Ifeoma returned, she offered the files wordlessly, her eyes darting nervously around as if afraid to be seen taking sides. Chioma offered her a small, reassuring nod before flipping through the paperwork.
It didn't take long to spot the problems.
The cold room logs, for one, were a mess. The quantities recorded didn't match what was on the prep sheets. Some items were listed as delivered but missing from the inventory count. The prawn quantities alone made no sense. Chioma's brows knitted as she moved from page to page.
"Lanre," she murmured, tilting the sheet so he could see. "Look at this. The prawns we were supposed to have since yesterday — the numbers don't add up. Either we've got a stock theft issue, or someone's falsifying entries."
Lanre whistled low under his breath. "That's a big deal."
"I'm just getting started," Chioma said grimly.
They moved station by station. The more they saw, the worse it got. At the meat station, cuts of beef and chicken were mixed together carelessly — some fresh, others visibly spoiled. Expired labels half peeled off, sauces in the fridge without dates or names, and a waste bin overflowing with discarded, untouched portions of high-value cuts.
Chioma felt a slow, sick twist in her stomach.
This wasn't neglect. It was sabotage. Or worse — it was people who'd stopped caring.
She scribbled notes furiously, mentally building a list of infractions.
In one corner, a young commis chef tried to keep his head down. Chioma spotted him hovering near a station, pretending to wipe down a counter that was already spotless. His hands shook slightly.
She walked over, lowering her voice. "What's your name?"
The young man hesitated before mumbling, "Osaze."
"Osaze," she said gently. "How long has this been going on?" She gestured subtly to the waste, the spoiled meat, the general disarray.
He looked around nervously, then back at her. His throat worked as he swallowed.
"You won't get in trouble," she promised. "But I need to know."
Osaze hesitated another beat, then sighed, defeat written all over his face. "Months now. Ever since the manager cut off our salary by 30%," he admitted quietly. "People just… gave up. Everyone here works to survive now, not for pride or the restaurant."
Chioma's stomach twisted again, this time in anger.
"Not only that," Osaze continued, glancing over his shoulder before leaning in. "The manager buys rotten and old stuff. Tells us to manage it, saying the company's having financial issues, and his own pay was cut too. He hardly shows up anymore. Leaves everything for us to figure out. And… some of the senior staff take advantage. They pocket stuff. Sell ingredients out the back. It's been like this for months."
Lanre appeared beside them, having overheard the last part. His expression hardened. "Kelvin suspected as much."
"Thank you," Chioma told Osaze quietly. "You did the right thing."
The young chef nodded, a weight lifting from his shoulders.
"We need to tell Kelvin," Lanre muttered.
"Not yet," Chioma said, steel in her voice. "I want to see the cold room myself first."
Lanre's brows lifted. "Bold move."
Without waiting, Chioma headed for the cold room, Lanre right behind her. The kitchen's staff watched them go, a fresh round of murmurs rising in their wake.
Inside, the cold hit them like a wall of ice. But it was the stench that made Chioma gag — a mix of decaying produce, soured dairy, and spoiled seafood.
She forced herself to push deeper inside, surveying the shelves.
Rotten vegetables shoved to the back. Containers without dates or labels. Boxes of seafood leaking pungent liquid. The disorganization was staggering, and more importantly, dangerous.
"Jesus," Lanre cursed. "This is a crime scene."
Chioma didn't waste a second. She pulled out her phone and began snapping pictures of everything — the rot, the undated containers, the leaking boxes. Evidence.
"This place is a health hazard," she muttered.
A sudden sound made her glance up — one of the kitchen staff was watching them through the glass window of the cold room. His face pale, lips tight, eyes wide with fear.
He knew they'd uncovered it.
Chioma felt a surge of confidence. This wasn't about being a rookie chef anymore. This was about integrity. About protecting the restaurant Kelvin had trusted her with.
"Let's go," she said.
They made their way through the kitchen, ignoring the hostile stares and muttered insults. Chioma felt every eye on her — some burning with hatred, others with grudging respect.
When they reached the conference room upstairs, Kelvin was already deep in conversation with Emeka, Miriam, and Uche. Papers were scattered across the table, and the tension in the room was a different kind — sharp, dangerous.
Kelvin looked up as they entered. His gaze sharpened immediately, zeroing in on their faces.
"Well?"
Chioma stepped forward. "We have a stock discrepancy issue, sir. Falsified logs, missing inventory, waste mismanagement. Staff pocketing ingredients and selling them out the back door."
Kelvin's expression darkened. His fingers drummed slowly on the tabletop.
"Proof?"
Without hesitation, she handed him the photos and notes. Lanre added his observations.
Kelvin studied the evidence in grim silence, a muscle ticking in his jaw. Then, slowly, a dangerous smile spread across his face — the kind of expression that promised hell was coming.
"Good work," he said quietly. "You didn't crack. I like that."
He turned to Emeka. "I want a full audit. Right now. No one leaves this building until it's done. I also want the police liaison here. If we catch anyone in the act, we press charges."
"Yes, sir."
Kelvin's gaze lingered on Chioma. There was something in his eyes — pride, approval, and something more dangerous beneath.
"You did good," he said again.
Chioma felt a strange warmth bloom in her chest. For the first time since arriving in Lagos, she felt like she belonged.
And maybe, just maybe — she was exactly where she belonged.