All Chapters of The chef and The charmer: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

I returned to my station just in time for the competition to officially begin. The tension from the confrontation with Damian still lingered under my skin, but I pushed it aside, locking it away where it couldn’t distract me. I had bigger things to focus on.The competition floor buzzed with nervous energy—chefs chopping, flames flickering, the rhythmic clatter of knives against cutting boards. This was my element. Here, I could drown out the world and lose myself in the precision of my craft.I kept my head down, meticulously slicing herbs, measuring ingredients, keeping every movement controlled and methodical. If I focused hard enough, I could almost convince myself that the weight pressing on my chest was just the pressure of the contest—not the ghost of Damian’s voice still rattling around in my head.By the time I plated my first dish and sent it off to the judges, the knot in my stomach had started to ease. I could breathe again. This—this was where I belonged. Not locked in so

“Evelyn, baby… how are you holding up?” Her voice was warm, familiar—like a soothing balm on an open wound.Tears welled up before I could stop them. I let out a shaky breath, the disappointment crashing over me all at once. “I should’ve done better, Mama. Third place… it’s not enough. What if… what if I’m not good enough? What if I never make it?”There was a pause, then her soft chuckle. “Oh, sweetheart… you’ve come too far to give up now. You’re a fighter. You always have been. This is just one chapter—not the whole story. Remember how you used to sneak into the kitchen late at night, trying to perfect that lemon tart? You burned it three times before you got it right. But you never stopped trying.”A small smile tugged at my lips through the tears. “I almost set the curtains on fire that night.”She laughed, the sound wrapping around me like a warm hug. “Exactly. And look at you now. You made it to the finals. Not everyone can say that. Third place or not, you’re still one of the

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

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 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