Damian’s POV – The morning light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office, casting long shadows across the sleek, polished desk. I leaned back in my leather chair, the unopened letter resting on the surface in front of me like a loaded gun. I had barely slept. My mother’s words had carved their way into my mind, stirring memories I preferred buried.A sharp knock interrupted my thoughts.“Come in,” I called, straightening as Chris walked in.He looked like he had just downed a gallon of coffee—sharp suit, tired eyes. “What was so urgent that you dragged me in this early?” He dropped into the chair across from me, one brow raised. “Don’t tell me it’s about last night. You and Evelyn put on a good show.”I exhaled slowly, reaching for the letter and tossing it onto the desk. “Read it.”Chris picked it up, unfolding the expensive stationery. His expression shifted from mild curiosity to sharp focus as he scanned the words.“Damn,” he muttered under his breath. He lower
Evelyn POVDamian’s world is nothing like mine.I realize this the first moment I step into the kitchen—our kitchen, technically, since I live here now. A penthouse too grand, too extravagant for someone like me. Stainless steel appliances gleam under warm, recessed lighting. A marble island stretches across the center, as if it were made for casual morning coffee and whispered confessions. Every tool, every spice jar, every delicate crystal glass has a place. Everything is intentional. Thoughtful. Perfect.Unlike my life. Unlike me.I tighten my grip on the handle of my knife, grounding myself in the familiarity of the blade’s weight. Cooking has always been my solace, my anchor. No matter how chaotic things get, the act of preparing food—the slicing, the seasoning, the slow transformation of raw ingredients into something nourishing—keeps me steady. It keeps my heart from drifting toward dangerous waters.Because that’s what this is. Dangerous.I exhale slowly, pushing aside the uns
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
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
one year agoI’ve always had faith in love’s capacity for life. Growing up in a small town where hope did not often reach the horizon, I thought that love could solve everything. And for several years, I believe it has worked out.My fiance was my compass and phonograph in a busy world. We had met in high school where the saying ‘opposites attract’ came to life: I was a timid girl whose fantasies were entirely consumed by becoming a chef, while he was a goal-oriented teenage boy infused with technology and looking far outside the locality.Eric has been my anchor through life’s most turbulent storms. He held me when my grandma died, comforting me as I drowned in grief. He stayed by my side when my parents lost our home and I sank into depression, unable to afford college and settling instead for a small culinary school. Through it all, Eric was there, always saying reassuring words: “Don’t worry… everything will be fine. I’m here for you.”As I snap out of my thoughts, my gaze drops t
present dayI stood silently in front of the full-length mirror, my eyes fixed on the faint scar etched across my abdomen. The pale line, a constant reminder of the accident that forever altered my life, glinted softly in the morning light. My fingertips hovered over it, tracing its length as unbidden memories surged to the surface.It’s been a year since that fateful day—since the screech of tires and the violent crash catapulted me into a nightmare I can’t escape. Waking up in the sterile whiteness of the hospital room, disoriented and in pain, was only the beginning. The doctors’ words had shattered my already fragile world.“The injuries were severe,” one of them explained gently, though his voice echoed with finality. “I’m so sorry, but the damage to your womb was extensive. You won’t be able to have children.”I barely registered the words at first, numb to their weight until later—when the sterile quiet of the hospital room was replaced by the suffocating silence of my thoughts
The days seemed to fly by, and before I knew it, a month had passed since I told my parents about moving to New York. Now, I had just arrived a day before the competition.The city buzzed around me, alive with the sounds of car horns, chatter, and the rhythmic click of heels on the pavement. My new apartment was a far cry from the sprawling familiarity of my hometown, but it felt right. The space was small, a single room with a kitchenette tucked into one corner and a bed that folded out from the wall, but it was mine. The peeling wallpaper and creaky floorboards didn’t bother me. They were marks of character, not flaws. The night before my move, my parents had insisted on helping me pack. As we folded clothes and boxed up my life, the living room filled with a mix of nervous energy and bittersweet smiles.“Are you sure about this?” my mom asked, her hands pausing mid-fold over one of my sweaters. Her eyes were soft, concerned.“I have to do this, Mom,” I said, my voice steady but tin
I woke up early in the morning, my heart pounding with a mix of excitement and nerves. Today was the big day—the cooking competition that could change my life. I had been preparing for weeks, perfecting my dishes and honing my skills. This was more than just a contest; it was an opportunity to prove myself.Organized by three prominent hotel industry leaders which is stonehaven hotel and onyx resturants and resort , including the renowned Blackstone Grand Hotel & Resort as powerful and influential as its owner and CEO, Damien Blackstone , the competition was designed to scout talent and give underprivileged aspiring chefs a chance to shine. The ultimate prize? A position at one of Damien Hotel's prestigious kitchens, working under some of the finest chefs in the industry. Their goal was to scout talents and give opportunities to those who didn’t have the means to break into the culinary world. There was no discrimination—anyone with skill and passion was welcome.Arriving at the gran
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
Evelyn POVDamian’s world is nothing like mine.I realize this the first moment I step into the kitchen—our kitchen, technically, since I live here now. A penthouse too grand, too extravagant for someone like me. Stainless steel appliances gleam under warm, recessed lighting. A marble island stretches across the center, as if it were made for casual morning coffee and whispered confessions. Every tool, every spice jar, every delicate crystal glass has a place. Everything is intentional. Thoughtful. Perfect.Unlike my life. Unlike me.I tighten my grip on the handle of my knife, grounding myself in the familiarity of the blade’s weight. Cooking has always been my solace, my anchor. No matter how chaotic things get, the act of preparing food—the slicing, the seasoning, the slow transformation of raw ingredients into something nourishing—keeps me steady. It keeps my heart from drifting toward dangerous waters.Because that’s what this is. Dangerous.I exhale slowly, pushing aside the uns
Damian’s POV – The morning light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office, casting long shadows across the sleek, polished desk. I leaned back in my leather chair, the unopened letter resting on the surface in front of me like a loaded gun. I had barely slept. My mother’s words had carved their way into my mind, stirring memories I preferred buried.A sharp knock interrupted my thoughts.“Come in,” I called, straightening as Chris walked in.He looked like he had just downed a gallon of coffee—sharp suit, tired eyes. “What was so urgent that you dragged me in this early?” He dropped into the chair across from me, one brow raised. “Don’t tell me it’s about last night. You and Evelyn put on a good show.”I exhaled slowly, reaching for the letter and tossing it onto the desk. “Read it.”Chris picked it up, unfolding the expensive stationery. His expression shifted from mild curiosity to sharp focus as he scanned the words.“Damn,” he muttered under his breath. He lower
The next morning, I woke up alone in my room, the distant hum of the city filtering through the penthouse windows. Damian’s presence was nowhere to be felt—not that it ever was. We had separate rooms, separate lives, even if we were bound by this arrangement. Still, a faint trace of his cologne lingered in the air from when he had passed by my door last night. He was long gone. Again.Over the next week, a pattern emerged. Damian left early and returned late, his face drawn with exhaustion. He barely had time to eat, let alone talk. When he did speak, his words were brief, the sharpness of his usual charm dulled by whatever weight he was carrying.One evening, I was curled up on the couch when he finally came home, his tie loose, his sleeves rolled up. He looked exhausted, but still unfairly good. He sighed heavily as he dropped onto the couch beside me.“Long day?” I asked softly, studying him.He rubbed a hand down his face before leaning back against the cushions. “You could say th
The grand dining hall of Damian’s mother’s estate was as imposing as the woman herself. Crystal chandeliers cast an almost blinding glow over the long mahogany table, which was set with fine china and polished silverware. I smoothed down my white satin dress, feigning composure while internally bracing myself for the battle ahead.Damian’s mother sat at the head of the table, a perfect picture of cold elegance. Her eyes flickered to me, sharp and assessing, as if she were dissecting my very existence. I forced a polite smile, knowing she could see right through it.“So, Evelyn,” she began, her voice silky but laced with an unmistakable edge. “Tell me, where are you from?”“Cold Spring,” I replied evenly, keeping my tone polite but distant.Her perfectly arched brow lifted slightly. “Cold Spring? And your family? What do they do?”“Just regular civilians,” I said, holding my posture firm. “Nothing extravagant.”She hummed, taking a slow sip of her wine. “Interesting.” Her gaze lingered
Evelyn povThe scent of garlic and rosemary filled the kitchen as I stirred the pot, the warm aroma wrapping around me like a familiar embrace. The rhythmic chop of my knife against the cutting board echoed in the quiet space, a soothing sound after a long day of writing recipes and buy groceries.I glanced at the small folded note resting against the spice rack, the one Damien had left for me this morning. Just a simple, lazy scrawl of” heading to work “. Don’t burn the kitchen down while I’m gone. - D.” . A smile tugged at my lips before I shook my head, tucking the note into the pages of my recipe book.The front door creaked open, followed by the sound of keys dropping onto the console table. Heavy footsteps. A sigh.Damien.I kept my focus on the cutting board, but my ears picked up every small movement—the rustle of fabric as he loosened his tie, the low exhale of exhaustion. The air in the room shifted slightly, like it always did when he entered.“What’s for dinner?” His voice
Damien povI slipped into my car, the engine rumbling to life as I pulled out onto the main-slicked road. The meeting with the board of directors had ended over an hour ago, but their words still echoed in my head. The weight of the discussions pressed against my mind, but it wasn’t what made my chest tighten. That honor belonged to my mother. Her call had been cold and clipped, each syllable sharp as glass. She was back from France — when the hell had that happened? Of course, she didn’t bother to tell me. She never does. Everything with her is calculated. Controlled. Just like that house. Cold. Silent. Full of secrets.The drive to the family mansion stretched longer than I remembered. It stood like a ghost against the darkened sky, perched on its remote estate where the elite of New York hid behind their wealth. As the wrought iron gates creaked open tall and imposing, my tires crunched over the gravel driveway. I hadn’t set foot here since my father’s funeral.The mansion looms in
Damien povThe first rays of dawn barely painted the sky when my eyes snapped open. The penthouse was silent, save for the faint hum of the city below. For the first time in a long while, the weight of responsibility tugged me out of bed. After a year of avoiding everything, I was finally going back to work.The cold water hit my face like a slap, jolting me fully awake. I stared at my reflection, watching droplets slide down my face, catching on the faint scar on my temple — a souvenir from the accident. I barely recognized myself. Shaving, dressing, each motion felt mechanical. The tailored suit clung to my frame, the crispness of the fabric unfamiliar after months of living in loungewear. Still, the weight of it settled something in me. Damien Blackstone was back.As I sipped my coffee, I pulled out my phone and dialed Chris.“Well, well, look who finally remembered how to use a phone,” Chris teased.I smirked. “Don’t start. I need backup today. You in?”Chris sighed. “You sure you