THE HEAVY BAKER'S DIRTY CONTRACT

Harper Evans wiped the sweat pouring down her temples with the back of her forearm. Her white chef’s jacket had long since gone limp, clinging tightly to her plus-size, full-curved body. Her black chef’s trousers stretched taut around her solid thighs and wide hips. Yet, Harper never let her body size slow her down. With fingers that were plump yet remarkably agile, she continued to whisk cream batter in a large stainless-steel bowl, ignoring the ache beginning to radiate through her back.

For Harper, this maiden voyage was both an escape and her last hope. The salary from this world-class luxury cruise ship was the only way to pay off her aunt’s mounting medical debts back on land. She had promised herself to keep her head down, ignore the cynical glares, and bake the best cakes her fingers could create.

However, that professional composure soon shattered.

"Evans! Stop daydreaming like a fat pig in front of the oven! You’re making my kitchen look even smaller!" A shrill voice with a thick French accent cut through the hiss of the stoves and the clatter of pots.

Chef Armand approached with an arrogant stride. The gaunt man in the towering chef’s hat looked Harper up and down with the same demeaning gaze that had become a daily occurrence since the ship set sail two days ago. As a pretentious, Michelin-certified head chef, Armand had always considered Harper’s presence in his kitchen an insult to high culinary aesthetics.

"Look at you. Sweating like a laborer," Armand sneered, intentionally raising his voice for the rest of the kitchen staff to hear. Several sous-chefs in the corner stifled laughter, while Mateo, the kind-hearted sous-chef, could only stare at Harper with sympathy suppressed by fear. "No wonder your cakes always taste too dense. You must be putting all your body fat into the batter, huh?"

Harper clenched her fists behind the marble counter. She took a deep breath, causing her full chest to heave defiantly beneath her tight jacket.

"I’m so sorry to see that you won The Blind Test—such a stupid competition! Our management is famous for producing celebrity chefs with elegant bodies, not someone like a pig!" Armand added. His anger was actually fueled by annoyance that his niece, a well-known influencer chef, had failed that very test.

"Is there anything I can help you with, Chef Armand?" Harper asked.

Armand snorted, then threw an empty silver tray onto the table directly in front of Harper, creating a deafening clang.

"The ship’s owners just landed on the penthouse deck in their private helicopter. They missed dinner, and now they are demanding a spectacular midnight dessert in their suite. Something that can impress them in a single bite."

Harper furrowed her thick eyebrows. "And? Why don't you prepare it yourself, Chef?"

"Because I want you to make it," Armand replied quickly, his wicked smile widening. "Make a classic Soufflé au Chocolat according to my standard recipe. Remember, classic! Don’t you dare include any of your cheap street-food experiments. And listen well, Evans—if the three billionaires upstairs aren't satisfied with your work tonight, I will personally ensure you are thrown off this ship when we dock at the next port. You’ll be fired without severance, and your reputation in the culinary world will be utterly destroyed."

Armand turned on his heel and walked away with a chuckle, feeling certain he had just handed down a death sentence for Harper’s career.

Harper glared at the man’s back with her jaw tightly clenched. Since the first day she stepped foot on this ship, the 'Head Pastry' title written in her contract had been unilaterally seized by Armand, demoted to standard staff with a severely slashed salary. Armand had even given that position to another amateur cook just to push her out.

Tense silence blanketed Harper’s workspace after the head chef’s departure. Mateo walked over, his face anxious. "Harper, let me help. The night air is too humid; that soufflé will collapse before it even reaches the penthouse. The men up there are monsters who can ruin our lives with a snap of their fingers."

"No need, Mateo," Harper replied.

Harper’s eyes fixed on Armand’s traditional French recipe sheet lying on the table. A classic soufflé? Boring. Harper was tired of dictating her life based on the rules of people who hated her body shape and underestimated her talent. If tonight was her last night working on The Leviathan, she would leave behind a mark that would never be forgotten.

With a determined movement, Harper crumpled Armand’s recipe paper and tossed it into the trash. She turned toward the premium ingredients storage cabinet. Her plump hands reached for the highest-quality Belgian dark chocolate bars with 75 percent cacao.

Harper placed the chocolate on a wooden cutting board. Her large knife began to move with rapid, precise rhythm. The sound of the blade hitting the board echoed through the kitchen, sounding like a war drum she was beating herself. She melted the dark chocolate with thick butter in a heated bowl. A thick, glossy black liquid began to form, emitting a bittersweet aroma so rich, strong, and sensual that it filled the air around her. Harper stirred the batter slowly, closing her eyes for a moment, enjoying the warmth of the chocolate steam hitting her sweat-drenched face.

Harper grabbed a box of plump, ripe, juicy fresh black cherries. Quickly, she pitted them, then crushed the fruit in a small pan with pure cane sugar and a splash of premium liqueur. As the sweet aroma of the cherries began to simmer and bubble, Harper reached for a secret ingredient that a French chef as rigid as Armand would never dare touch: red bird's-eye chili, dried and ground into a sharp, aromatic powder.

She sprinkled the chili powder into the bubbling cherry sauce. Chili-cherry reduction. It was an extreme combination.

Harper poured the rich chocolate batter into ramekins that had been thickly buttered and dusted with pure cocoa powder. Into the center of the soft batter, she injected the core of her spicy cherry sauce. She then slid the molds into the glowing oven.

For the ten minutes of the baking process, Harper stood still in front of the oven. Her thoughts drifted to Armand’s insults, to the eyes of people who considered her plus-size body a weakness.

Ding!

The oven door opened, releasing a blast of heat that hit Harper’s skin. Using protective mitts, Harper removed the cakes. Their surfaces looked firm, perfectly cooked with an exotic dark chocolate color. Carefully and with reverence, she inverted the molds onto elegant white porcelain plates.

The cake stood gracefully in the center of the plate. Harper then took a small sieve, dusting a fine layer of powdered sugar over the surface like the first layer of snow. As a final touch, she took a spoon and drizzled the remaining dark red cherry sauce around the plate in a dramatic, abstract movement. The dark red liquid flowed over the white porcelain, looking contrasting and sexy.

Harper placed the porcelain plate on a large silver tray. Under the glow of the kitchen lights, the dish didn't just look like a dessert; it was a work of art that teased the senses.

"Send this to the penthouse deck now," Harper ordered the personal waiter who had been waiting anxiously.

The waiter swallowed hard, seeing a cake that was absolutely not the soufflé Chef Armand had ordered, but the aroma wafting from the tray was so magical that he couldn't refuse. The waiter turned and stepped toward the private lift leading to the top of the ship.

Harper stood leaning against the marble counter, her chest rising and falling as she tried to regulate her racing breath. Sweat still dampened her neck and cleavage, but a faint, mysteriously triumphant smile curved her lips.

"At least it’s the best dessert before I leave this place," Harper muttered.