#hells kitchen

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

The dining room of Hell’s Kitchen was packed to capacity, buzzing with noise, laughter, conversation, and that electric, high-energy atmosphere that always filled the room on dinner service nights. The lights were dimmed low, warm and inviting, the tables set with crisp white linen, polished cutlery, and shining glassware, while from behind the double swinging doors at the far end, you could hear the constant, rhythmic clatter of pans, the hiss of grills, the shouts of orders, and the unmistakable, booming voice of Gordon Ramsay cutting through everything like a knife.

You were sitting right in the center of the room, at a prime table near the kitchen pass, the best seat in the house — exactly where you always sat when you came to visit. You looked beautiful, glowing, radiant, your hair styled softly, wearing a pretty dress that flowed comfortably over your growing bump. You were six months pregnant now, round and happy, every movement a gentle reminder of the little life growing safely inside you, the baby you and Gordon had been waiting for, dreaming about, talking about every single night. Your hand rested naturally over your stomach, your fingers stroking lightly over the fabric, a soft, permanent smile on your face as you looked around the room.

Everyone knew exactly who you were. Everyone knew you were Gordon’s wife. Everyone knew you were the most important person in the whole building, the only person who could make that terrifying, shouting, strict chef soften instantly just by walking into the room. The guests around you kept glancing over, smiling, nodding, saying hello, excited to see you there, excited to see the famous Gordon Ramsay’s partner, the woman who had his heart completely and utterly.

And behind the pass, Gordon was working harder, sharper, and more focused than he had worked all season.

He stood tall, broad-shouldered, his chef’s whites pristine, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his blue eyes scanning every single plate that came up, missing absolutely nothing, his expression intense and serious. But every few seconds, his gaze would flick away from the food, from the chefs, from the tickets, and land straight on you. And every single time he looked at you, that hard, sharp face of his would soften completely. His eyes would warm, his lips would twitch up into a small, proud smile, and he would stand a little taller, a little prouder, just knowing you were there, just knowing you were watching him.

You were his world. You were everything to him. And now, carrying his child, you were more precious, more sacred, more important to him than air itself. He would burn the whole building to the ground before he let anything happen to you.

“Let’s go! Come on, move it, move it, we have tables waiting, get the food out, hot, fresh, perfect, or don’t send it at all!” Gordon shouted, his voice booming loud and clear across the kitchen, sharp and commanding, exactly like everyone knew him. “Standards! We have standards here! I don’t care how busy it is, I don’t care how tired you are — perfection or nothing! Now let’s GO!”

The chefs ran back and forth, sweating, stressed, rushing, shouting back “Yes, Chef!” at the top of their lungs, plates flying up to the pass, orders stacking up, the heat rising, the pressure cranked up to the absolute maximum. It was chaos, beautiful, controlled chaos, exactly how Gordon liked it, exactly how he ran his kitchen.

You watched him work, your heart swelling with love and pride. You knew exactly how hard he worked, exactly how much he cared, exactly how much he wanted every single person here to succeed, to learn, to be better. You knew that behind every scream, every curse, every harsh word, was a man who cared more about food, about quality, and about people than almost anyone else in the world.

A waiter approached your table, smiling politely, carrying a large, heavy plate covered with a silver cloche. “For you, Madam. From the kitchen.”

You smiled back, sitting up a little straighter, your hand still resting protectively over your bump. “Thank you.”

He set the plate down gently in front of you, then lifted the cloche with a flourish, revealing the dish underneath: a beautiful presentation of herb-crusted rack of lamb, roasted vegetables, rich red wine jus, everything arranged perfectly, colorful, appetizing, looking absolutely stunning.

It looked incredible. It looked exactly like the kind of food Gordon would be proud of. It looked exactly like something you would love.

You didn’t hesitate. You were hungry — pregnancy made you hungry all the time — and you trusted the kitchen. You trusted Gordon. You knew he would never let anything bad reach your table, or anyone’s table. You picked up your knife and fork, cut straight through the thickest part of the meat, lifted the piece to your mouth, took a big bite, chewed once, twice, swallowed it down happily, and smiled, ready to take another bite.

And then… you froze.

Your smile faded instantly. Your hand stopped halfway to your mouth. Your eyes went wide, confused, then shocked, then horrified.

The texture. The taste. The coldness.

It wasn’t cooked.

It was completely, totally, utterly raw.

The meat was cold, bloody, soft, slimy, pink all the way through, no sear, no heat, no cooking whatsoever. You had just eaten raw lamb. You had just swallowed it down. You could still feel it in your throat, in your stomach, heavy, wrong, dangerous. You pressed a hand hard over your mouth, your eyes filling instantly with tears, your heart starting to race fast and hard against your ribs.

Raw food. Raw meat. You were pregnant. You couldn’t eat raw meat. It was dangerous. It could make you sick. It could hurt the baby. It could cause infections, bacteria, illness, things that could harm you and the little one growing inside you.

Panic shot through you like ice. You sat there, frozen, terrified, your face draining of every drop of color, your hand shaking as you lowered your fork back onto the plate with a loud, sharp clatter.

From behind the pass, Gordon saw everything.

He saw you smile. He saw you take the bite. He saw you swallow. He saw you stop. He saw the color drain from your face. He saw the way you grabbed your stomach, the way your eyes filled with fear, the way you looked down at the plate in absolute horror.

And then his eyes dropped to the plate in front of you.

From where he stood, he could see it perfectly. He could see the meat. He could see the way it glistened wet and cold. He could see the blood running onto the vegetables. He could see exactly what it was.

“No.”

The word came out quiet at first, breathless, disbelieving. Then it exploded.

“NO! FUCK NO! WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!”

Gordon roared so loud the windows rattled. He slammed both hands down onto the pass so hard every plate jumped, every knife clattered, every single person in the kitchen and the dining room jumped out of their skin. His face turned bright red, then purple, his eyes blazing like blue fire, his whole body shaking with absolute, uncontrollable rage. He vaulted over the pass — vaulted over it, like it was nothing, like a man possessed — and stormed straight across the dining room floor, boots thundering hard against the wood, making the whole room shake, every step faster, heavier, more terrifying than the last.

He stopped right at your table, leaned over, stared down at the plate, stared at the raw meat, stared at the bite mark you had taken, stared at your pale, frightened face, and then he turned, slowly, deadly, terrifyingly, toward the kitchen doors, and screamed so loud, so raw, so full of fury that it echoed off every wall, every ceiling, every surface in the whole building.

“WHO THE FUCK SENT THIS OUT?! WHOEVER COOKED THIS, GET YOUR FUCKING ARSE OUT HERE RIGHT NOW! RIGHT FUCKING NOW! BEFORE I TEAR THIS WHOLE PLACE APART!”

The double doors swung open fast, and a young chef came running out, white as a sheet, shaking, terrified, eyes wide with fear, knowing already exactly what he had done wrong, knowing already that his life was over. He stopped in front of Gordon, head bowed, shoulders hunched, trembling from head to toe.

Gordon didn’t even give him a second to breathe. He stepped right into his face, close enough that their noses almost touched, pointing a shaking, furious finger straight at the plate in front of you, his voice roaring, screaming, every word loud, sharp, and full of pure rage.

“LOOK AT THIS! LOOK AT THIS FUCKING ABOMINATION YOU CALL FOOD! YOU CALL THIS COOKED?! YOU CALL THIS DONE?! IT’S RAW! IT’S FUCKING RAW! IT’S COLD! IT’S BLOODY! IT’S DISGUSTING! IT’S UNFIT FOR ANIMALS LET ALONE HUMAN BEINGS! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?! ARE YOU BLIND?! ARE YOU STUPID?! DO YOU HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHAT YOU’RE DOING?!”

He grabbed the plate, lifted it high, pointed the raw meat right in the chef’s face, shaking it so hard the juices ran down his arm.

“YOU SENT THIS OUT! YOU SENT THIS OUT TO A TABLE! YOU SENT THIS OUT TO HER! LOOK AT HER! LOOK AT WHO YOU JUST SERVED THIS FUCKING RUBBISH TO!”

He slammed the plate back down onto the table so hard sauce splattered everywhere, then leaned even closer, his voice rising to a deafening, ear-splitting scream that everyone would remember forever.

“THATS MY WIFE! YOU GIVE HER RAW FOOD YOU FUCKING ARSE, AND WHAT’S WORSE SHE’S PREGNANT!”

The whole room went dead silent. Not a breath, not a sound, not a single movement. Everyone froze. Everyone stared. The guests, the cameras, the other chefs, the waiters — all of them stood still, terrified, shocked, watching Gordon absolutely lose his mind, watching the most protective, furious, terrifying display of anger they had ever seen.

Gordon was shaking, his chest heaving, his face bright red, sweat pouring down his face, tears of rage pricking at his eyes, every muscle in his body tight and hard with fury. He pointed at you again, at your bump, at your pale, frightened face, his voice cracking with how loud and angry he was.

“SHE IS CARRYING MY CHILD! MY BABY! OUR FUTURE! AND YOU SEND HER RAW MEAT?! YOU SEND HER SOMETHING THAT IS FULL OF BACTERIA, FULL OF GERMS, FULL OF EVERYTHING THAT COULD MAKE HER SICK, HURT HER, HURT MY CHILD?! ARE YOU FUCKING INSANE?! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW DANGEROUS THIS IS?! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU HAVE JUST DONE?!”

He stepped forward, shoving the chef back hard, making him stumble, his voice roaring even louder, wild and unhinged.

“SHE ATE IT! SHE TOOK A BITE! SHE SWALLOWED IT! BECAUSE SHE TRUSTED YOU! BECAUSE SHE TRUSTED THIS KITCHEN! BECAUSE SHE TRUSTED ME TO MAKE SURE NOTHING LIKE THIS EVER HAPPENS! AND YOU FAILED! YOU FAILED COMPLETELY! YOU ARE USELESS! YOU ARE PATHETIC! YOU ARE A FUCKING DISGRACE TO THIS PROFESSION!”

He turned around, screaming at the rest of the kitchen staff who were now all lined up in the doorway, terrified to even look at him, his voice booming across the whole room.

“AND THE REST OF YOU! WHERE THE FUCK WERE YOU?! HOW DID THIS GET PAST ANYONE?! HOW DID NONE OF YOU NOTICE IT WAS FUCKING RAW?! ARE YOU ALL AS USELESS AS THIS IDIOT?! DO YOU ALL HAVE YOUR HEADS STUCK SO FAR UP YOUR OWN ARSES YOU CAN’T SEE WHAT’S RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOUR FACES?! DO YOU NOT CARE?! DO YOU NOT GIVE A SHIT ABOUT QUALITY?! ABOUT SAFETY?! ABOUT THE PEOPLE EATING YOUR FOOD?!”

He spun back to the terrified chef, leaning right down into his face, eyes blazing, spitting with anger, every word sharp and cutting like a knife.

“YOU THINK COOKING IS JUST THROWING THINGS IN A PAN AND SENDING IT OUT?! YOU THINK IT DOESN’T MATTER IF IT’S COOKED OR NOT?! YOU THINK YOU CAN HALF-ARSE IT, LAZING ABOUT, DOING NOTHING, AND GET AWAY WITH IT?! YOU THINK THIS IS A JOKE?! YOU THINK THIS IS A FUCKING GAME?! IT’S NOT! IT’S A RESPONSIBILITY! IT’S A DUTY! IT’S SOMETHING YOU TAKE PRIDE IN! AND YOU HAVE SHOWN ME TODAY YOU HAVE ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!”

He slammed his fist onto the table, making the cutlery jump, making you flinch, his voice raw and desperate, full of fear as well as anger.

“MY WIFE! MY UNBORN CHILD! YOU PUT THEM IN DANGER! YOU PUT THEIR HEALTH, THEIR LIVES, EVERYTHING I LOVE AND CARE ABOUT AT RISK BECAUSE YOU ARE TOO FUCKING STUPID AND LAZY TO CHECK IF MEAT IS COOKED! HOW DARE YOU! HOW FUCKING DARE YOU! I COULD THROW YOU OUT ON THE STREET RIGHT NOW! I COULD BAN YOU FROM EVERY KITCHEN IN THE COUNTRY! I COULD RUIN YOU! AND YOU WOULD DESERVE EVERY SECOND OF IT!”

He stopped for just one second, breathing hard, running a shaking hand through his hair, sweat dripping down his neck, his eyes wild and terrified as he looked back at you. The anger was still there, hot and burning, but underneath it was pure, blinding fear. Fear for you. Fear for the baby. Fear that something bad might happen, fear that you were hurt, fear that he hadn’t protected you enough.

He turned away from the chef instantly, rushed around the table, dropped to his knees right beside your chair, grabbed your hands in his, holding them tight, his face softening completely, all the rage vanishing in a heartbeat, replaced by pure love, pure worry, pure tenderness.

“Love… baby… look at me, look at me, please,” he whispered, his voice shaking, thick with emotion, his thumbs brushing frantically over your knuckles, his eyes searching yours, terrified. “Are you okay? Are you feeling alright? Tell me you’re okay, please God tell me you’re okay… did you swallow it all? Do you feel sick? Do you have any pain? Tell me everything, tell me right now, please…”

You were still pale, still shaken, your heart still racing, but you squeezed his hands back tight, tears spilling over and rolling fast down your cheeks, nodding quickly.

“I’m okay, Gordon… I think I’m okay… just scared… just shocked… it was so raw… I didn’t know…”

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead hard against your bump, closing his eyes, breathing shakily, whispering quiet prayers, his hands moving gently, carefully, over your stomach, checking, feeling, waiting, desperate to feel any movement, desperate to know the baby was safe.

“I’m so sorry… I’m so fucking sorry, my love… I can’t believe this happened… I should have been faster… I should have checked… I should have known… I never, ever wanted you to go through this… never wanted you or our baby to be put at risk… I’m so sorry…”

He kissed your bump over and over, soft, desperate kisses, then stood up, wrapped his arms tight around you, pulling you right against his chest, holding you so close, so safe, like he was trying to shield you from everything bad in the whole world, his hand stroking the back of your head, his voice low and fierce in your ear.

“I promise you… I swear to you… nothing like this will ever happen again. Not to you. Not to our child. Not while I’m alive. I will tear this place apart before I let anyone ever hurt you again. You are safe. You are my whole world. And I will protect you with everything I have.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, brushing tears away from your cheeks with gentle fingers, his blue eyes full of love and absolute devotion.

“I’m calling the doctor right now. We’re going straight to the hospital. We’re getting you checked over, everything checked, making sure you and the baby are 100% perfect. I don’t care about the service, I don’t care about the show, I don’t care about anything except you two. You come first. Always.”

He turned back to the kitchen, and the anger was back, cold, sharp, deadly, even worse than before. He pointed straight at the chef, his voice low, dangerous, terrifyingly calm.

“You. You are gone. You are fired. You are out of this kitchen, out of this building, and you will never work in this industry again as long as I am alive. You have no place here. You have no talent. You have no respect. And you almost hurt the only two things that matter to me in this whole world. Get out. Before I do something I regret. GET OUT!”

The chef didn’t argue. He didn’t say a word. He just turned and ran, fleeing through the doors, gone forever.

Gordon turned to the rest of the team, his voice ringing loud and clear, every word a warning, every word a promise.

“LISTEN TO ME! AND LISTEN GOOD! FROM THIS SECOND ON, EVERY SINGLE PLATE THAT LEAVES THIS KITCHEN IS CHECKED BY ME! EVERY PIECE OF MEAT, EVERY VEGETABLE, EVERY SAUCE — I SEE IT, I TOUCH IT, I TASTE IT, BEFORE IT GOES ANYWHERE NEAR A CUSTOMER! IF IT IS NOT PERFECT, IT GOES IN THE BIN! IF YOU ARE NOT SURE, YOU ASK ME! IF YOU CAN’T DO THE JOB RIGHT, YOU LEAVE! I DON’T CARE WHO YOU ARE, I DON’T CARE HOW LONG YOU’VE BEEN HERE! SAFETY COMES FIRST! QUALITY COMES FIRST! AND MY FAMILY COMES BEFORE EVERYTHING ELSE! DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?!”

“YES, CHEF!” everyone shouted back in unison, terrified, determined, never wanting to see him like this again.

Gordon didn’t wait another second. He turned back to you, wrapped his arm firmly around your waist, supporting you, guiding you gently up out of your chair, holding your hand tight in his, never letting go, never looking away.

“Come on, love. Let’s get you out of here. Let’s get you safe. Let’s get you home.”

He led you slowly, carefully, all the way out of the dining room, past all the staring guests, past the cameras, past the chaos, his body positioned always between you and everyone else, shielding you, protecting you, his hand never leaving yours, his eyes never leaving your face.

Outside, the fresh night air hit you, cool and clean, and you breathed it in deeply, leaning back against his chest, feeling safe again, feeling calm again. Gordon wrapped his arms all the way around you, holding you close, resting his chin on top of your head, his hands resting protectively over your bump, swaying you gently back and forth in the quiet dark.

“I meant every word,” he whispered, soft and serious, his voice vibrating through his chest into yours. “Every single word. You are my life. That baby is my life. I would burn down every kitchen in the world, shout until I lost my voice, fight anyone, do anything, if it means keeping you safe. You are mine to protect. Always.”

You turned in his arms, wrapped yours around his neck, looked up into those bright blue eyes that held every bit of love and fury and passion in the world, and smiled softly, finally truly relaxed, finally truly okay.

“I know,” you whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “I know. And I love you. Even when you’re screaming at the whole restaurant.”

Gordon laughed, a rough, breathless, relieved laugh, leaning down to kiss you deeply, properly, pouring every bit of love and fear and devotion into it, his hands holding you tight, like he never wanted to let go.

“I’d scream louder,” he murmured against your lips, grinning that famous, wicked, loving grin. “I’d scream until the whole world heard me. If anyone ever even thinks about hurting you or our child… I’ll make sure they regret it. You and this baby are the best things that ever happened to me. And nothing, absolutely nothing, will ever change that.”

He pulled back just enough to press his hand gently over your bump, his expression softening completely, full of wonder and love.

“Now come on. Hospital first. Make sure everything is perfect. Then I’m cooking you dinner myself. Nothing but the best. Nothing but perfectly cooked, delicious, safe food. And I’ll stand right there the whole time, watching every single second, just to be sure.”

You laughed, leaning into him as he guided you toward the car, opening the door, helping you in, buckling your seatbelt carefully, checking everything three times over before closing the door and rushing around to the driver’s side.

As he started the engine, he reached over immediately, took your hand in his, brought it up to his lips, and kissed your knuckles gently, his eyes soft and full of love.

“Never again,” he promised quietly. “I swear. Never again.”

And inside Hell’s Kitchen, the team worked harder, faster, and more carefully than they had ever worked in their lives. Every plate was checked twice, three times, four times. Every temperature was checked. Every piece of meat was cut open to see inside. No one made a mistake. No one dared. Because everyone knew one thing, clear as day, written into the walls, written into the rules, written into Gordon Ramsay’s very soul: