Damien povThe noise of the event buzzes around me, but I’m focused on one thing, or rather, one person. I ignore Chris’s latest remark—something about her “cleaned up nicely.” or “how she got everyone under a spell“. He can talk himself hoarse for all I care. I need a moment, a drink, and I spot a waiter passing by, his tray loaded with glasses of champagne. I grab two, handing one to a nearby acquaintance before slipping the other into my own hand.My gaze cuts through the crowd, and I find her immediately—Evelyn. She’s smiling, her confidence radiating like a beacon. She stands there, surrounded by chefs and industry elites, but she doesn’t seem like she belongs to either group. There’s an energy about her—alive, dangerous, the kind you can’t look away from. Her eyes dance with sharp intelligence, and the way she handles herself among them? Effortless. It’s almost too easy for her.I don’t wait long. I take a sip of champagne, feeling the bubbles tingle against my tongue, and then I
Evelyn povThe evening stretches on, the air thick with the scent of roasted herbs and aged wine. I step outside onto the balcony, hoping to steal a moment of fresh air away from the crowded room. The cool breeze brushes against my skin, offering a fleeting sense of relief—until I catch the faint glow of a cigarette ember in the shadows.Damian Blackstone leans against the railing, half-hidden by the dim light, smoke curling lazily from between his fingers. I freeze, not realizing anyone else was out here.“Sorry… I didn’t know—”He glances at me, one brow lifting in that effortlessly arrogant way of his. “You don’t have to apologize. Balcony’s big enough for both of us.”I hesitate. The polite thing to do would be to leave—but something about the way he’s watching me makes my feet stay rooted. Still, I force myself to turn back toward the door. My hand grips the handle, ready to disappear—but it doesn’t budge.Locked.A low chuckle rumbles behind me. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a
The taxi weaved through Manhattan’s endless motion, the city alive with flashing billboards, honking horns, and pedestrians moving with purpose. Skyscrapers stretched toward the sky, their glass surfaces reflecting the golden hues of the morning sun. I exhaled slowly, my fingers tightening around my bag strap.Damian’s penthouse was in one of the most exclusive high-rises, and as the taxi pulled up to the entrance, I took a steadying breath before stepping out. Inside, the lobby was all marble and glass, the kind of place where money wasn’t just spent—it was displayed.The front desk receptionist, a blonde woman with sharp eyes, barely spared me a glance before giving me a once-over, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Can I help you?” she asked, skepticism lacing her tone.“I’m here for Damian Blackstone,” I said evenly.Her brows lifted. “And you are?”“Evelyn Carter. His private chef.”She didn’t bother hiding her doubt, eyes flicking to my simple black blouse and jeans. I sighed,
The early morning light spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Damian Blackstone’s penthouse, casting a soft glow over the sleek, modern kitchen. I roll up the sleeves of my crisp white chef’s jacket, inhaling the stillness of the morning before the inevitable chaos that will come with working for a man like him. The marble counter tops gleam, untouched, the high-end appliances silent. It’s a kitchen built for show, not for use, and it’s clear that no one has bothered to cook in here before me.I step toward the massive double-door refrigerator and pull it open, taking stock of the groceries delivered yesterday. Everything remains exactly where I left it—pristine vegetables still wrapped in their packaging, farm-fresh eggs untouched, smoked salmon sealed in its sleek black casing. My fingers brush over a loaf of sourdough bread, its golden crust slightly crisp to the touch. Good. At least I won’t have to deal with stale bread this morning.Grabbing what I need, I set the ingre
The door clicked shut behind me, the sound echoing in the silence. My bag slid from my shoulder, landing with a soft thud on the floor. I stood there, just for a moment, letting the weight of the day sink in. My feet ached. My head throbbed. Every muscle felt stretched too thin, like a wire about to snap.I moved toward the kitchen, each step heavier than the last. The apartment was dark, quiet. A stark contrast to the glossy, oversize penthouse I’d spent the day in. I reached for the glass on the counter, filled it from the tap, and took a long drink. The water was cool, grounding. I leaned against the counter, staring at the blank wall.My mind wouldn’t stop. I could still hear the low hum of Damien Blackstone’s voice, smooth and taunting, wrapping around me like smoke. His smirk. The way his eyes flicked toward me, catching every stumble, every awkward breath I took. I squeezed my eyes shut.The flashback hit hard.The kitchen at the penthouse was pristine, every surface gleaming u
Damien Blackstone wasn’t himself that evening. I knew it the moment he stepped through the grand oak doors of Blackstone Manor, his presence lacking the usual energy that filled the house when he arrived. The soft click of his shoes against the marble floor echoed through the quiet entryway, each step measured and heavy. There was no laughter tonight, no playful hum under his breath, and most noticeably, no woman clinging to his arm, eyes wide with wonder at the house and the man who owned it.I was in the kitchen, carefully slicing herbs for the evening’s meal when I heard the door. As usual, I wiped my hands on my apron and made my way to greet him. Damien was a man of routine — and part of that routine was exchanging a few teasing words with me before retreating to his quarters or entertaining his guests. But tonight felt different.When I saw him, I almost didn’t recognize him. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, as if he’d run his hands through it one too many times. His norma
The sun slipped through the massive windows, bathing the penthouse in a golden haze. The sizzle of bacon filled the silence, a steady rhythm against the quiet morning. I cracked an egg into the bowl, the yolk breaking cleanly as I whisked, the motion methodical. The place felt too still. Peaceful. I should’ve known it wouldn’t last.Damien sauntered in, barefoot and half-dressed, with that insufferable smirk plastered across his face. His shirt hung open at the collar, dark hair tousled like he’d just rolled out of bed — which he probably had. The Damien from Saturday night, the one who’d shown a flicker of vulnerability, had vanished. Now, he was back to his usual self: playful, careless, and maddeningly charming.“Morning, Chef. Miss me?” His voice slid over the words like honey.I didn’t bother looking up. “Like a migraine.”Damien chuckled and poured himself a coffee, leaning against the counter to watch me. I could feel his gaze on me, heavy and expectant, but I kept my focus on
The kitchen was a disaster zone. Flour dusted the countertops, mixing bowls were piled in the sink, and the faint smell of burnt sugar lingered in the air. I stood in the middle of it all, phone in hand, heart pounding as I stared at the empty flour container. Of course. Of course, I’d run out of the one thing I needed most.I scrolled through my usual delivery apps, but everything was closed. Midnight baking experiments had their risks, and tonight I’d lost the gamble. I let out a frustrated sigh, slamming the cupboard shut harder than necessary. “I decided to bake some cookies since Damien seems to love them so much. Apparently, he has quite the sweet tooth.“Problem?” Damian’s voice drifted in from the living room.I turned to see him leaning in the doorway, cigarette dangling from his lips, one brow arched in amusement. He wore that usual air of casual disinterest, like nothing ever really got to him.“Delivery mishap. I’m out of ingredients.” I rubbed my temples, trying to will a
Damien povThe soft hum of the private jet was the only sound that filled the space as we descended into New York. Outside the window, the skyline came into view—a cold, familiar silhouette against the night sky. I leaned back in my seat, eyes fixed ahead, my jaw tight, arms crossed. Evelyn sat beside me, her hands clasped together in her lap. She kept stealing glances at me, but I didn’t turn to meet her eyes. I couldn’t. Not yet.The landing was smooth. The kind of landing that made you forget you were ever up in the air, but I was far from grounded.The ride to the penthouse was a quiet one. The black SUV glided through Manhattan traffic with ease. Streetlights flickered across my face as I stared out the window. My reflection in the glass looked just like I felt—tense, distant, unreadable. Evelyn finally broke the silence.“Are you okay?”Her voice was soft, almost hesitant.“Yeah,” I said, too quickly. My voice didn’t carry the weight of truth, but I didn’t have the energy to pre
Damien povI hate the smell of this room—the heavy scent of jasmine and the stale air that seems to hang like a fog. I can’t escape it, not here, not with her. My mother. She’s sitting there, on that damned velvet chair, with a glass of wine in hand, her eyes narrowed like she’s studying me from across the room. Everything about her exudes control, dominance, like she owns the space. I used to care about it. I used to be afraid of it. But not anymore.“Damien,” she says, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “We need to talk about the engagement.”I take a breath, steadying myself. Here it comes.“ Mother, Evelyn and I aren’t getting engaged.” I say it as calmly as I can, but I know the tension in my voice betrays me.Her lips curl into a thin, almost disdainful smile. “You’re being stubborn, just like your father. He never listened to reason either.”I can’t stop the flash of irritation that sparks in me. “Don’t bring my father into this.”“Oh, I’ll bring him up if I wa
The air was thick with humidity as we stepped outside, the garden lush with tropical flowers and towering palm trees swaying gently in the breeze. The morning sun cast a golden glow on the table set with fine china, as if everything about this moment was meant to impress, to look perfect.Damien’s hand brushed against mine, his fingers warm, but there was no comfort in his touch. It was a fleeting connection, barely enough to soothe the unease that had settled in my chest since last night.I followed him to the table, my steps slow, measured. Morgan, Damien’s mother, as usual sat at the head, her expression unreadable, like she the queen presiding over some royal council. Beside her was his Uncle Anthony, loud and boisterous, already cracking jokes that didn’t quite land. His cousin Miranda sat across from him, her eyes narrowed, calculating—always on guard. Aunt Claire sat silently, as if waiting for the storm to hit, her gaze darting between the two of us, sharp but quiet.They were
Back in my room, I shut the door quietly. Not slammed. Not dramatic.Just… closed. Controlled.Because if I’ve learned anything since entering the Blackstone orbit, it’s that you never show your cards. Not around people like Morgan.My hands were trembling. I stared down at them, willing them still, as if control over my body could somehow tether the storm brewing inside my chest.I started to paced.Hands clenched. Chest tight. Mind racing.Engagement?We’ll announce it tomorrow, Morgan had said. Like it was already signed, sealed, and delivered.I pressed my palms into my eyes, as if blocking out the world would stop it from spinning so fast. So violently.What the fuck did I get myself into?This was not the deal. No goddamn way.The contract was clear. I was to play the part—smile, nod, show up to events, wear the right dress, drink the right wine, say the right things. For six months. No more. I wasn’t supposed to become collateral in some twisted inheritance war. I wasn’t suppos
Dinner ended in a blur of too-perfect smiles and sharp-edged compliments, and I could’ve sworn my cheekbones were sore from all the fake smiling. I made it through the battlefield with only minor emotional wounds, which honestly felt like a win.After the last wine glass clinked and the staff cleared the final course, Damien and I retreated from the terrace. Neither of us said a word until we were halfway through the resort’s private garden path, surrounded by manicured hedges and soft lantern lights that lined the walkway like fireflies.The air was warm but soft, carrying that faint Miami breeze that whispered luxury and secrets.“You did good back there,” Damien said eventually, his voice low and unreadable.I exhaled, folding my arms across my chest. “Good? I felt like I was on trial.”“You were,” he said with a dry smile. “You just didn’t realize the jury was drunk and playing favorites.”I laughed—just a little. It felt like the tension cracked a bit, enough for me to breathe ag
As soon as we stepped into the air-conditioned lobby, Morgan waved one of the staff members over like she was conducting an orchestra.“Take their things to the Oceanview Suite,” she said smoothly. “And please ensure everything is prepared for tonight’s dinner. We’ll keep things light today—the real fun begins tomorrow.”Oceanview Suite. Singular.I blinked. Wait—Suite? Not suites?Damien didn’t even flinch.My eyes cut to him instinctively, but he avoided my gaze with impressive skill, like he’d suddenly discovered something incredibly fascinating about the marble floors.Right. Fake dating. Shared rooms. Intimacy for show.I’d forgotten about that little detail in the emotional whiplash of being back around Morgan and Miranda and the rest of Damien’s walking headache of a family.I forced a gracious smile and nodded. “Sounds lovely.”Morgan smiled back, the kind of smile that said, I’m watching you. Then she turned her attention to Miranda, whispering something I couldn’t hear—but d
Sitting at the kitchen table, I flipped through my notebook, tapping my pen against the page as I scribbled down thoughts. My mind kept circling back to my encounter with Eric and Emma. Seeing them again stirred something in me—not anger, not sadness, just a strange hollowness. Eric had frozen, saying nothing, while Emma—my ex-best friend—had done all the talking. Her words were laced with that same condescension she always used when trying to get under my skin.I had spent so much of my relationship with Eric feeling dismissed, like my feelings didn’t matter. He never outright hurt me, but he made me feel small, like I was always reaching for something that would never come. And yesterday had only confirmed it—when faced with me again, he had nothing to say. Not even an acknowledgment.The sound of footsteps pulled me from my thoughts, and I looked up to see Damien stepping out of his room. His broad shoulders were slumped slightly, his usual air of confidence replaced with something
The city was finally beginning to feel like home. It was strange how familiarity crept in—slowly at first, then all at once. The streets that once seemed too loud, too crowded, too impersonal, now carried a sense of routine. The bakery on the corner who bakes my favorite kind of cake and bread. The barista at my favorite cafe smiled at me like we shared an inside joke every time i get out of the penthouse and last but not the least the corner store where Damien buys me ice cream when we go out for a walk, it has starts to look like a routine for the both of us . The loneliness that once pressed against my ribs was easing, even if it wasn’t completely gone. But even in the midst of my quiet victories, there were moments when the past clawed its way back in, uninvited and unrelenting.Eric and Emma. Their names had lost the sting they once carried, but every now and then, a memory would resurface, raw and vivid. Betrayal had a way of branding itself into a person’s bones, and no amount
After my walk with Damian last night, something in me shifted. Lighter. Freer. As if the weight of pretending, of balancing the tightrope between what was real and what wasn’t, had finally eased just enough for me to breathe.For the first time since stepping into his world, I felt ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.That morning, as I moved around the penthouse kitchen, my phone buzzed with an email notification. I wiped my hands on a kitchen towel before picking it up, expecting another mundane message. But as soon as I saw the sender’s name, my breath hitched.From: Chef Alain DufortSubject: Private Catering RequestDear Miss Evelyn,I hope this email finds you well. I had the pleasure of watching you few months back at Cooking Contest, and your passion for food was truly inspiring. I am hosting a private birthday dinner for my daughter this Saturday and would love for you to handle the catering. It will be an intimate gathering of about twenty guests, and I trust your e