Gemotions

The morning sun, streaming through the kitchen window, felt like a warm embrace. Chef Antoine hummed a jaunty tune as he chopped vegetables, his knife a blur of controlled motion. A light sweat beaded on his forehead, but he barely noticed; the clatter of pots and pans, the sizzle of onions in butter, were all a symphony to his ears. This was how it was supposed to be. Perfect.

He didn't check the online reviews. He wouldn't. Not today. He had that feeling in his gut, the one that meant the duck confit would be the best anyone had ever tasted.

Then, the chef's phone buzzed. He knew instantly. He could feel his stomach twist. This time, he looked.

The words felt like ice water dumped over him. "Overly ambitious…flavorless…utterly forgettable." He crumpled the phone, his world shrinking.