All Chapters of The chef and The charmer: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

I’ve always found comfort in creating. Whether it was through the careful stir of a simmering pot or scribbling quick notes in the margins of a food-stained notebook, cooking had always been more than just nourishment to me. It was storytelling.So when Damien casually mentioned again over coffee one morning that I should share my recipes online, I hesitated. “You think people would actually want to follow me for that?” I’d asked, sipping slowly.He’d smirked at me from across the kitchen counter, one brow raised. “Eve, come on. You’re basically a walking Pinterest board. If you don’t post those recipes, someone else will—and then I’ll be forced to pretend I like someone else’s food.”I rolled my eyes, but his teasing tone was oddly encouraging. His belief in me—real or not—had a way of sinking in, settling beneath my skin. Later that day, I found myself arranging a flat-lay of my brunch, jotting down the recipe, and uploading it to a new Instagram account called Eats with Evelyn.To

Damien povThe past few days had dragged me through the mud—emotionally, politically, and now, publicly.Since Lawrence aired his grievances on national television, accusing me of manipulating my way into the CEO seat, my world had become a media circus. The name Blackstone was trending for all the wrong reasons. Not for our legacy in luxury hospitality, or our latest expansion into eco-retreats—but because of a bitter half-brother with a microphone and an agenda.The moment the interview aired, my phone didn’t stop ringing. Clients. Investors. Journalists. Even former flames who suddenly remembered my number. But the call that hit the hardest came from my mother.She never begged. That wasn’t her style. My mother was a woman who led with iron and ice, and I’d long accepted that her love came dressed in expectations. But that night, after Lawrence’s tirade, during our phone called she repeated herself again this time with her voice trembling.“Don’t step down, Damien,” she had said,al

It was Monday morning, and the warm sunlight spilled into the room through sheer curtains, gently coaxing me out of sleep. For a second, I didn’t want to move. My body ached in that lazy, pleasant way that follows a day spent walking, laughing, and feeling like the world wasn’t such a complicated place. Yesterday with Damien had been… nice. Too nice, maybe. It had felt real. Too real for something that was supposed to be fake.I stretched beneath the covers, staring at the ceiling with a soft smile tugging at my lips. The way Damien looked at me when I wasn’t paying attention, the little gestures—opening doors, taking my hand when we walked along the shoreline, and the way he let me ramble about the best beach snacks—played like a movie montage in my head.We’d gone to the beach. One of his beaches, apparently. He owned it. That still hadn’t quite sunk in. Who just owns a beach? Damien, apparently. And yet, despite how surreal that should’ve felt, it had been peaceful. Calm. Just the

If I’d ever doubted Damien’s ability to perform under pressure, that doubt evaporated the moment he extended the bouquet toward my mom.“For the most beautiful woman in the room,” he said with a megawatt smile that could sell toothpaste to a shark.My mom blinked. Then blinked again. Then did the thing where she tilted her head slightly and raised her eyebrows in that “okay, I’m listening” kind of way.“You’re charming,” she said, eyeing the bouquet before taking it. “Dangerously so.”“I try,” Damien replied smoothly, removing his suit jacket like he’d done it a hundred times in this very hallway—which, knowing him, maybe he had. He was that kind of guy. Effortless.I gave him a warning glance over my shoulder as I walked back to the kitchen. “Don’t lay it on too thick.”He winked. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”Dinner was already filling the penthouse with the comforting scent of garlic, herbs, and butter. My mom placed the flowers in a vase—because yes, apparently this place had vases just

Later that evening, the weight of the message still hung heavy in my chest.“E.”It was just a single letter, but it had shaken something loose inside me—a distant memory, a flicker of something unresolved. I kept trying to brush it off, tell myself it was nothing, maybe a prank or an old contact resurfacing with the worst timing imaginable. But deep down, I knew better.Still, I needed a moment to breathe. A break from pretending. From questions. From my spinning thoughts.So, I pushed the message out of my mind, tucked it into the mental box labeled ‘Do Not Open Unless Necessary’, and did what I should’ve done weeks ago—I called my dad.The phone rang twice before I heard his voice, gruff but familiar. “Evelyn?”“Hi, Dad,” I said, the word catching slightly in my throat. “It’s me.”There was a pause, long enough for guilt to twist inside my stomach. Then a heavy sigh came through the line. “Took you long enough.”“I know,” I whispered. “I’m sorry. I’ve been… all over the place latel