Page 2 of Billionaire Wolf Needs a Chef

I wasn't so sure about that, but I didn't have the energy to argue. After we hung up, I pulled up the agency's website and filled out the application form, my fingers trembling slightly as I typed. By the time Ifinally hit submit, my heart was racing, and I felt like I'd just jumped off a cliff without knowing if there was a net below.

The next morning, my phone buzzed, skipping across my nightstand.

"Hello," I answered, my voice still rough with sleep.

"This is Gladys at Discreet Talent Connections. Is this Ms. Ivy St. Clair?"

"That's me."

"I have gone over your resume and I must say that your qualifications are very impressive. I may have a placement for you. Would you be available for an interview this afternoon?"

I sat up and ran my hands through the tangled bird's nest that was my hair. "Oh, that's so sudden!" I cleared my throat. The knot of anxiety in my stomach tightened, but I forced myself to respond with a polite, professional message. "I mean, I would be delighted to meet with you."

"Good. Come to our office downtown at 1:00 p.m. I look forward to speaking with you, Ms. St. Clair."

The line went dead. I kicked off the covers and jumped out of bed. For the next hour, I paced my apartment, trying to decide what to wear. My wardrobe was limited, mostly casual clothes and a few chef's uniforms, but I managed to dig out a pair of black trousers and a white blouse that didn't look too wrinkled.

When I arrived at the agency's office, I nearly turned around and walked right back out. The building was sleek and modern, all glass and steel, with a lobby that looked like it belonged in a sci-fi movie. The receptionist greeted me with a polite but impersonal smile and directed me to a waiting area where I sat, clutching my portfolio like a lifeline. The chairs were incrediblyuncomfortable, and I shifted nervously, trying to ignore the way my palms were sweating.

After what felt like an eternity, a woman in her late fifties with sharp icy blue eyes and an even sharper gray pantsuit emerged from a hallway. "Ivy St. Clair?" she asked, her tone crisp and professional.

"Yes, that's me," I said, standing up too quickly and nearly knocking over my portfolio. I caught it just in time and smiled sheepishly.

"I'm Gladys Martin," she said, extending a hand. Her grip was firm, and I tried to match it, hoping I didn't come across as nervous as I felt. "Come with me."

She led me down a hallway lined with abstract art and into a small conference room with a glass table and chairs that matched the uncomfortable ones in the lobby. I sat down, trying to appear confident, but my heart was pounding so hard I was sure she could hear it.

"So, Ivy," Gladys began, opening a folder in front of her. "Your resume is impressive. A graduate of Le Cordon Bleu, experience at several Michelin-starred restaurants, and then you were head chef at L'Atelier. May I ask what happened?"

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to keep my voice steady. "A food critic wrote a less than favorable review after we had a personal disagreement, and it impacted business to the point where I had to resign."

Gladys nodded, her expression unreadable. "I see. And why are you interested in this position?"

I took a deep breath, choosing my words carefully. "I've always loved cooking, and I believe in making food accessible and enjoyable for everyone, even busy families with basic skills in the kitchen. Cam's Comfy Cuisine has a great reputation for that, and I'd love to be a part of it. And also, well, I need the work."

Gladys' lips twitched, almost like she was fighting a smile. "Honesty. I appreciate that. Mr. Fitzgerald can be challenging and demanding to work with, but he's passionate about what he does. He's looking for someone who can bring fresh ideas to the table. Someone who isn't afraid to push back and innovate."

I nodded, trying to absorb her words. "I think I could be that person. I've always believed that cooking is more than just following recipes. It's about creating something that resonates with people."

Gladys studied me for a moment, her sharp eyes assessing. "You've got passion, and from what I've seen, you've got the skills to back it up. I'll be honest, this won't be an easy job. But if you can handle it, it could be a great opportunity for you."

"I understand," I said, forcing a smile. "I'm ready for the challenge."

She leaned back in her chair, folding her arms. "Good. Here's what's going to happen. I'll speak with Mr. Fitzgerald and set up an introduction. If he's interested, you'll meet with him directly. Be prepared, he's not one for small talk."

Her words ramped up my anxiety. How bad could Cameron Fitzgerald be?

"Got it," I said, my nerves tingling with a mix of excitement and dread.

Gladys stood, signaling the end of the interview. "I'll be in touch soon. Good luck, Ivy."

"Thank you," I said, shaking her hand again before heading out.

As I stepped back into the lobby, I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the interview pressing down on me. This was it, my chance to start over, to prove myself again. But the thought of working for someone like Cameron Fitzgerald filled me with both anticipation and anxiety.

Two days later, my phone buzzed with an email from Gladys. I was to meet Cameron at his office the following morning. The knot in my stomach tightened, but I forced myself to focus. I spent the rest of the day preparing, going over my resume, researching Cam's Comfy Cuisine, and trying to anticipate what questions he might ask.

When the morning came, I dressed in my interview outfit again and took the subway to CCC's headquarters. My stomach twisted itself into knots as I stepped into the skyscraper. For a company that made its name by selling hearty homemade meal kits, the steel and glass interior which resembled a sterile laboratory was not what I expected.

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