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• The chef and The charmer   chapter 119

  Evelyn’s POVIt started with a photograph.I’d been cleaning out the drawer beside the bed when I found it—creased at the corners, stuck to the bottom of a journal I hadn’t opened in months. A photo Damian had snapped one lazy Sunday long before everything unraveled.I was in the kitchen, hair messy, apron dusted with flour, laughing at something he’d said. A smear of raspberry jam stained the corner of my mouth.We weren’t even trying, back then.Just living.But I stared at that picture for a long time.Long enough to remember that somewhere in me, the dream of family hadn’t died.It had just gone quiet.The next morning, I placed the photo face-down on the counter, poured two mugs of coffee, and waited for Damian to shuffle into the kitchen like the half-asleep oracle he always was before 9 a.m.He blinked at me, smiled, and sipped.“You’re too awake. What did I miss?”“I was thinking about adoption.”He paused, mid-sip.I watched him. Studied every subtle shift in his expression.

• The chef and The charmer   chapter 118

  Evelyn’s POVThe kitchen smelled like citrus and nerves.Not fear—no, not exactly. But that metallic edge where adrenaline lived, sharp and bracing. A kind of buzzing under the skin. My prep station was spotless. Chopping boards aligned like disciplined soldiers. Every towel folded with ritualistic precision. Every knife sharpened to a familiar hum, their handles worn in the same places my fingers used to call home.But my hands?They were shaking.This kitchen was foreign and familiar all at once. I hadn’t stood in a professional kitchen in months. Not since the hospital. Not since Lawrence. Not since everything shattered and Damian and I gathered the pieces in silence, rebuilding ourselves with the glue of shared pain and private love.Tonight wasn’t about critics or press or Michelin stars. It wasn’t about ego. Or redemption.It was about me.My return. My risk. One night only.A pop-up dinner at a reclaimed warehouse-turned-restaurant. The kind of space that was all the rage—expo

• The chef and The charmer   chapter 117

  Evelyn’s POVChris looked ridiculous the moment he stepped out of the hospital.Not because of the crutch tucked awkwardly under one arm or the paper bag of discharge meds clutched like a lifeline in the other.But because he wore the most absurdly large sunglasses I’d ever seen—big, round, tinted like a disco ball from the 70s, completely at odds with the hospital wristband still dangling from his wrist.“Really?” I asked, trying not to laugh as I opened the passenger door and helped him in gently.“They’re vintage,” he said solemnly, like he was discussing something sacred. “And emotionally protective.”Damian snorted from behind me, grabbing the paper bag and tossing it into the backseat. “You’re a menace.”Chris settled into the leather seat like a king returning from war, his whole body sighing into the cushions. “You say that, but you love me.”We both did.That’s why we were bringing him home. That’s why Damian cleared his schedule since he sometimes receives work emails, and I

• The chef and The charmer   chapter 116

  Evelyn’s PoVThe air in the city always smells a little more like electricity and nerves after you’ve tasted mountain silence.Yesterday, we returned from our retreat. The drive back felt longer than it should have, probably because neither of us wanted to leave that strange, beautiful stillness behind. A part of me was half-convinced that if we turned back, the cabin might already be gone—as if it had only existed for us in that exact moment of our lives, like some pocket in time.When we got home, we unpacked almost nothing. Damian dropped our bags by the door, and I didn’t even bother to sort laundry or check the mail. We slept in too late, ordered Thai food that came lukewarm, and watched reruns of that ridiculous cooking competition I swore I’d never admit to liking. The one with the overdramatic host and the sabotages mid-dish. Still didn’t finish a full episode. We both fell asleep halfway through, tangled under a blanket on the couch.But it wasn’t the restless sleep I’d grown

• The chef and The charmer   chapter 115

  Damian’s POV I hate the silence.Dr. Samuels’s office is all muted greens and filtered light. The kind of neutral calm that screams “safe space” to the initiated. To me, it feels like waiting for judgment dressed up as serenity.I sit on the leather couch. It creaks under my weight—too loud in a room that makes even breathing feel like a violation. She offers tea. I shake my head once. No thank you.She doesn’t fill the silence. Smart move. It stretches until I’m itching. But I’ve learned to sit with discomfort. Discomfort is familiar.“Your files were extensive,” she says finally, voice smooth but direct. “But that’s paper. Let’s start with something not in the reports.”I glance at the bookshelf behind her, pretending I’m studying the titles. What I’m really doing is calculating—deciding what truth costs the least to hand over.“I used to count knives,” I say. “In kitchens. Boardrooms. Airports. Anywhere.”Her expression doesn’t change.“After the kidnapping, I’d walk into a room an

• The chef and The charmer   chapter 114

  Evelyn’s Point of ViewIt’s not the oven that scares me anymore. It’s the knife.Not because I think I’ll hurt myself.But because of what it represents: precision, mastery, confidence—all things I used to have in abundance. The things Lawrence almost stole from me.Lina smiles gently as she lays out a tray of vegetables—red peppers, zucchini, carrots—and places a chef’s knife beside it. “We won’t slice today unless you’re ready,” she says. “Let your hands touch the weight first.”I breathe. Nod.My fingers close around the handle. Muscle memory flickers in my wrists like old embers trying to catch flame.But my shoulders go stiff. My breath shortens.“I can’t—” I whisper. “I used to be able to do this blindfolded.”“You will again. But not by forcing it,” Lina says.She gives me a plastic butter knife instead. “Try cutting something soft. Banana, maybe?”I want to laugh at the ridiculousness of it—but instead, I take it. I cut the banana slowly, silently, each slice landing with a wet