The Benson brothers sat across the long mahogany dining table in the Benson estate.
Ryan. Donald. Dave.
Across from them, Williams Benson and his wife Katie Benson ate quietly.
Soft classical music hummed in the background.
A tray of short rib galbi, mashed potatoes, kimchi, steamed vegetables, cornbread, and chicken soup sat between them.
Silverware clinked softly.
No one spoke.
Ryan finally broke the silence.
"Father," he said slowly, spoon pausing mid-air, "you seem to be noticing Fred's exceptional skill lately. Like you're preparing him to take over." He took a quiet sip of soup.
Williams did not look up.
He carved into his short rib, voice steady and unimpressed. "Fred Thompson has generated more profit for this organization than the rest of you combined. Do not ask me irrelevant questions.".
Katie stiffened, eyes widening.
"Darling," she breathed, "are you truly going to sit there and watch a stranger take over what you built?"
Williams continued eating, expression unreadable.
Donald straightened, jaw tight but composed.
"And Gabriella?" he asked. "Is she returning?"
Williams wiped his mouth calmly."In the week Martha Smith has sat in her chair, she has delivered faster reconciliation results, identified internal control errors Gabriella neglected, and worked overnight multiple times without complaining. She is exactly what the department needs."
Dave chuckled under his breath." You have no worries, Donald. Gabriella will still agree to sleep with you if you call her."
Silence cut through the dining hall like a blade.
Williams lifted his gaze... cold, direct."Are you sleeping with Gabriella?"
Dave burst into laughter.
"How do you think she rose so quickly? Talent and prayer?"
Donald glared. "You have no proof of that."
Dave leaned back, playful, dangerous."I considered uploading it to the family chat. But since your wife checks your phone, I thought… what if my nephews see it? Let's keep the kids innocent."
Williams' hand froze over his plate.
His eyes hardened.
"You have lost whatever chance you ever had of leading this company," he snapped.
He stood sharply and left the dining room.
Dave smirked like a man entertained by the chaos he created.
He forked a thick slice of steak, chewed, licked the sauce from his lips.
Ryan studied him with suspicion.
"Dave," he murmured, "it feels like you're only pretending to be clumsy . Like you're hiding something… playing a very different game."
Dave grinned lazily."For the first time in your life, you complimented me. I feel touched."
Donald leaned back, voice low and poisonous."I hear you've been making advances toward Martha Smith."
Dave shrugged casually."I'm planning to take her from Fred. The fastest way is to get her pregnant. So I'll do my best."
He winked, dabbed his mouth with a napkin, and rose.
"Tonight was delightful," he said cheerfully.
"We should dine together more often."
He walked out, whistling quietly.
Katie watched him go, lips curving."The bastard mistress's son is three steps ahead of you. No wonder he's suddenly working hand-in-hand with Fred."
Ryan smiled faintly.
"Fred thinks Dave is scared of being exposed. He thinks Dave's weakness is Martha. But Dave… has nothing to lose."
Donald exhaled sharply.
"He's playing his cards too well. We don't even know if he wants the chairman seat or if this is all spite."
Ryan chuckled, eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
"Dave Benson is far smarter than the fool he pretends to be."
***
The grand hall where Mrs. Thompson celebrated her birthday gleamed like a palace of light and fragrance.
Crystal chandeliers hung high above the marbled ceiling, scattering warm gold reflections across the white satin walls.
Every corner breathed luxury...from the fresh lilies arranged in glass vases to the shimmering silver ribbons adorning each chair.
The scent of vanilla-scented candles blended with soft violin music flowing from the live band in the corner.
Fred Thompson had brought Martha Smith himself... the woman he hoped his mother would finally approve of.
Martha looked breathtaking.
Her gown, a deep shade of emerald, hugged her figure elegantly.
Her hair was styled in a classic beehive, a modern twist on vintage glamour.
The diamond earrings she wore caught the sunlight streaming through the high windows and glimmered each time she turned her head.
As they walked around exchanging greetings, Martha smiled politely, greeting guests and offering her gift...a beautifully wrapped box to Mrs. Thompson's personal assistant.
Fred's voice came warm and proud.
"Mother, meet my girlfriend, Martha Smith."
Just as Martha had imagined, Mrs. Thompson looked her over through her narrow, glittering glasses...the kind that spoke of scrutiny more than admiration.
"What do you do, dear?"
Her voice rang clear and firm.
Martha smiled faintly.
"I'm the Head of the Accounting Department at Carter Organization."
Mrs. Thompson nodded slowly.
"You're very beautiful. What does your father do? Who is he?"
Before Martha could answer, Fred jumped in.
"He was a top French chef. People used to call him Smith the Great. He preferred to stay low-profile."
Martha froze, her smile stiffening.
Lies again.
She hated it.
Was his mother's approval really worth rewriting her life story?
Moments later, the party began in full swing.
Fred drifted away to welcome dignitaries while Martha sat quietly, the rhythm of laughter and music floating around her.
Her ankles throbbed...the stiletto heels Fred had bought were painfully high.
He'd insisted she wear them to "look the part."
As she glanced under the table, she noticed blood trickling from the edge of her ankle.
She winced, slipped off the heels, and sighed with relief.
Fred noticed from across the hall and rushed to her.
His eyes widened at the sight of the blood.
"What happened?"
He quickly grabbed the first aid kit from his mother's assistant, cleaned the wound, and gently bandaged it.
But before she could relax, he slid the same heels back onto her feet.
She gasped.
"Fred! You're wearing them on me again!"
"You can't go barefoot here, Martha. You'll look out of place. I don't want my wife to be looked down on. Just stay seated, alright?"
He left before she could answer.
Tears blurred her eyes.
He cared so much about appearances...but what about her pain?
She sat still, exhausted, emotionally drained.
But then a commotion broke out near the catering section.
Event coordinators whispered nervously.
Martha waved one over.
"What's happening?"
"The two cooks who were bringing the food were just involved in an accident. The food didn't make it."
Martha shot to her feet, ignoring the sting in her legs.
"Take me to the kitchen. I can help."
The coordinator blinked.
"Are you sure, ma'am? You're a guest."
"Yes. I'll be quick. We can't let the celebration be ruined."
Within minutes, she rolled up her sleeves in the large upstairs kitchen.
She saw Mrs. Thompson pacing nervously outside the hall and knew she had to act fast.
She ordered the assistants to bring everything to the counter... ingredients, pans, oils, spices.
Then, like a woman reborn, she took command.
Flames flickered under shining pots as Martha's hands moved like music.
She prepared four exquisite dishes, merging styles from different cultures.
Grilled honey-glazed chicken with mashed potatoes and roasted vegetables.
Rice with spicy peppered fish and fried plantain.
Bulgogi beef with sesame rice and kimchi salad.
Ratatouille served with garlic butter baguettes and creamy mushroom sauce.
Though she wasn't the "Smith the Great" Fred had invented, her movements were those of a true professional chef...precise, graceful, confident.
She tasted, adjusted flavors, and garnished with an artist's touch.
Her body remembered what her heart had long buried.
Within thirty minutes, the entire kitchen was filled with the warm aroma of perfection.
Waiters hurried to serve, eyes wide in admiration.
Moments later, Mrs. Thompson herself appeared at the kitchen door.
Her eyes widened at the sight of Martha in her evening gown, apron tied over it, stirring sauce on the stove.
"Martha…" she whispered, tears brimming. "You… you saved the day!"
She rushed forward, embracing her tightly.
Martha smiled shyly, her cheeks flushed from the heat.
Mrs. Thompson tasted one of the dishes and gasped.
"My God… why are you this good? This is divine!"
Martha smiled faintly.
"My father was a chef."
Mrs. Thompson pressed her hands together, overwhelmed.
"It shows! Everything shows! Please...please marry my son!"
She kissed Martha's forehead, still teary-eyed.
Martha stepped out of the hall immediately she noticed that she had missed Fred's call.
Her spirit soaring.
Eager to see him after such a moment!
But the moment she saw Fred standing by his car, that joy vanished.
He was furious.
"I already called you a cab. You can leave."
Martha frowned.
"Fred, what's wrong?"
"What's wrong? Cooking? Are you serious right now? You ruined everything I've tried to build around you!"
"Build around me? Fred, your cooks..."
"Someone else would have handled it!"
"But your mother was happy..."
"My mother? Who cares what she thinks? I'm the one who doesn't want a kitchen woman! You've made yourself look like a low-class woman in front of everyone!"
Her heart broke.
He couldn't even see that she'd saved his mother's event...that she'd saved them all from embarrassment.
She stepped back, silent.
Then she turned away, entered the cab, and shut the door softly.
Through the glass, tears rolled down her cheeks as the car pulled away.
Fred stood by his car, watching her leave...proud on the outside, but inside, a war was brewing between his image and the woman who truly loved him.