Chapter Text
Chapters 1 – The Party That Changed Everything
Kagome – Oceanfront Mansion, Malibu – Early Evening
The yuzu peel was too strong. Again.
Kagome leaned in over the pot, frowning at the steam like it had personally offended her. She adjusted the lid, turned the flame down one notch, and muttered, “If one more person calls this ‘umami’ like they invented it, I’m walking straight into the ocean.”
The kitchen was too shiny. Too sterile. The kind of place where no one actually cooked but everyone insisted on “open concept” so they could brag about their Sub-Zero fridge while ordering DoorDash. And yet, here she was, sharpening her favorite sashimi knife in the corner of a multimillion-dollar Barbie Dream Mansion, prepping miso-glazed eggplant and dashi broth for tech bros who thought “kombu” was a crypto startup.
She was only here as a favor. Some mutual connection, some sick chef, some last-minute replacement. Malibu was warm, the pay was insulting in the right way, and she needed to get out of her head. So here she stood—quietly rebuilding her reputation one perfect plate at a time while pretending she wasn’t low-key regretting leaving the feudal era.
Not that she missed the demons. Or the wars. Or the constant risk of impalement.
But at least there, people had manners.
“Kagome,” someone called, probably the event manager whose name she’d already forgotten. “Table nine has a nut allergy.”
“So does my patience,” she muttered under her breath, already adjusting the plate.
She had just finished drizzling sesame over a stack of tempura lotus root when it hit her—that ripple in the air. Like static. Like a wire being pulled just slightly too tight. Her spiritual senses twitched behind her ribs, that little pull of something’s coming.
A moment later, it walked in wearing sunglasses indoors and three buttons undone on a designer shirt.
Oh no. No no no.
She didn’t recognize the man by name, but she knew the type instantly. Loud. Expensive. Terribly charming in the way fire was beautiful—right before it burned down your house.
He was laughing at something someone said. Or maybe nothing at all. His energy spiked like champagne bubbles and smelled faintly of metal and ozone. Everyone around him tilted toward him, desperate for his attention like plants leaning toward light. But his smile didn’t reach his eyes. Not really.
She ducked her head and went back to slicing scallions.
Naturally, he ended up in her kitchen five minutes later.
“Is this where the real food is?” he asked, hands in his pockets like he owned the place. (Which he might. Who knew with billionaires.) “Because someone tried to give me a wasabi martini out there, and I’m about two sips away from violating several international treaties.”
Kagome didn’t answer. She plated grilled eggplant with a few slivers of fresh daikon and pretended he wasn’t hovering like a curious cat.
He sniffed the air and stepped closer. “That smells incredible. Can I—”
He reached toward the plate.
She stabbed a pickled radish into the middle with surgical precision. “That’s not for you.”
“Ouch.” He grinned. “You always this charming, or is it just me?”
“You’re standing between me and a very hot fryer. Move.”
Most people would’ve walked away. He pulled up a stool.
“I’m Tony, by the way.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“I’m persistent.”
“I have knives.”
He laughed—really laughed. And then, without asking again, he picked up a slice of eggplant from the cooling tray and popped it into his mouth.
Kagome waited for the flippant comment. The food blogger critique. Instead, he went very still.
He chewed. Swallowed.
Then blinked.
“That… wasn’t supposed to taste like anything. But it does. It tastes like…” He trailed off, brow furrowing slightly. “I don’t know. Like home. Which is weird because I grew up on microwave burritos and Scotch.”
Kagome resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Or blush. “It’s just eggplant.”
“No. It’s not.” He looked at her like she’d just thrown him off a cliff. “What did you do to it?”
“I cooked it properly.”
“Can you cook me properly? Because I think something in me just realigned.”
She turned back to her prep station, done with the conversation. “Go back to your party, Stark.”
He stilled behind her. “You do know who I am.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Well, now I’m flattered.”
She didn’t turn around. “You shouldn’t be.”
There was a pause. Then he chuckled—lower this time. Less performative. “I’ll get out of your way. Thanks for the bite, mystery chef.”
She listened to his footsteps retreat. She didn’t look up until she heard the front doors close behind him.
The kitchen was too quiet all of a sudden.
Kagome leaned on the counter, hand curled around the handle of her knife, and sighed.
“Don’t get curious,” she muttered to herself. “That man is fire. You don’t feed fire.”
She stood there for a moment, staring at the empty tray where the eggplant had been. As if it had absorbed some strange energy just from being eaten by that man. No—that menace.
Someone dropped a tray behind her.
She didn’t flinch. She turned.
“Is that the tempura for table twelve?” she asked sweetly.
The sous-chef nodded, deer-in-headlights expression firmly in place.
“It’s soggy.”
The poor man blinked. “I—what?”
“You heard me.” She untied her apron, then re-tied it with a sharp yank. “Oil’s not hot enough. And if I find one more limp asparagus on these trays, I will personally haunt your family.”
People snapped into motion like she’d fired a starting pistol. The line snapped back into focus. Pots clanged. Fryers hissed. Orders flowed again. No one spoke unless they had to.
Peace. Finally.
Kagome ladled out the last portion of broth, slid it down the pass, and whispered a soft purification charm under her breath—just to be safe. She could still feel the echo of Tony Stark’s energy in the room like heat that hadn’t finished fading.
By the time the party wound down and the guests began to stumble out, she was already packed and halfway to the door. Her knives were cleaned. Her spirit was… not. But she’d live.
Outside, the ocean murmured in the distance like it had something to say. Probably something rude.
Kagome tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, locked the kitchen door behind her, and sighed through her nose.
“Okay,” she said to the night. “No more celebrity gigs. No more billionaires. No more ‘oh, just one night, it pays well’ nonsense.”
She slung her bag over her shoulder, pulled on her hoodie, and muttered:
“Next time I work a party like this, someone better stab me. And not metaphorically.”
The wind off the ocean whispered against her cheek.
Somewhere far behind her, someone was still talking about the broth.
“ Oh my god it’s so umami“
Kagome’s eye twitched. She hears the ocean was lovely this time of year. =