Chapter six: Drama

Jace’s POV

I had barely tied the last string of the apron around my waist when the man himself appeared. Lucian Romano.

He stood by the doorway, behind him were two big men that had sunglasses on. His sharp eyes cutting across the kitchen straight to me.

 I froze with the wooden spoon in my hand, caught red-handed in the middle of pretending I knew what the hell I was doing.

“What,” he drawled, voice low and dangerous, “are you doing in my house?” He looked very much surprised to see me. His reaction was just how i had pictured it.

For a moment, I considered giving him a sarcastic reply but that would ruin everything I already had planned out. I dropped the spoon and wiped my hands clean on the apron.

“I’m the new cook,” I said, as casually as I could manage, showing him the pot on fire.

Lucian’s brows arched. A faint smirk tugged at his lips like I’d just told the funniest joke in the world. “Out of all the houses in this city,” he said slowly, “you decided to get a job in mine?”

Feigning innocence, I widened my eyes and shrugged. “I had no idea this place belonged to you. Just lucky coincidence, I guess.” I shrugged.

"You work at the club, why in the hell would you decide to take up a cooking job?"

"Way too many attention on me." I replied. "I need a more subtle job."

His gaze lingered on me, searching, weighing me like a man that was trying to find out all my secrets. I kept my face blank, calm, while inside, my pulse raced.

Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving the faint scent of cologne and power hanging in the air. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding and muttered, “Well, that went better than expected.”

I busied myself with chopping onions, grateful for the moment of quiet, but peace in this house never lasted long. Off course it was the Moreau house, what was i expecting?

The kitchen door slammed open, and one of Lucian’s bulky bodyguards swaggered in. His boots thudded against the tiles as he approached the counter, his smirk already getting on my nerves.

“Cook,” he barked, “make me something. Steak. Eggs. Hell, I don’t care. Just make it fast.” he rubbed his stomach.

I didn’t bother looking up. “You’ve got two hands and a perfectly functional gas cooker right there. Knock yourself out.”

The room went still. Then the click of metal filled the silence.

I glanced up, finding the cold barrel of a gun pressed against my forehead. His grin widened, sharp and ugly. “Say that again and I'll blow your brains out.”

 I’d faced worse threats in my life than some oversized thug with a pistol. I met his gaze, voice flat. “You want food? Cook it yourself.”

For a second, I thought he might actually pull the trigger. Then, like a saving angel—or maybe a devil in heels.

Rosaline swept into the room, and then her sharp voice cut through the tension. “Are you out of your mind?” she snapped at the bodyguard. “Why the hell do you have the new cook at gunpoint?”

The man instantly lowered the weapon, shaking under her glare. “I—I was just—”

“Apologize,” she demanded.

He stammered something that barely sounded like an apology before retreating, tail between his legs.

Rosaline turned her attention to me then, and her eyes— cold and dangerous—assessed me from head to toe. “You,” she said. “Make me a dish. Something… exotic.”

I blinked. “Exotic?”

“Yes. Intercontinental. That’s what your résumé said, isn’t it?”

Shit! I slapped myself mentally. Right. The résumé I’d forged. I could cook, sure, but intercontinental? That had been a stretch. I forced another easy smile. “Of course ma'am ," I slightly bowed. "Consider it done.”

When she left, I sagged against the counter, muttering under my breath. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I typed faster than I ever had in my life: Easy intercontinental dishes to impress a spoiled mafia queen.

Videos popped up, and I scrambled to follow along, burning my fingers more than once but somehow managing to pull together something that looked halfway decent. The aroma wasn’t bad either.

Balancing the plate carefully, I made my way upstairs. I hesitated at the grand double doors of her suite, then pushed them open.

Turned out to be the biggest mistake I'd ever made.

“What the hell!” Rosaline’s voice cracked through the room like a whip. She stood near her vanity, glaring daggers at me. “You don’t enter my room without knocking!”

“Noted,” I said flatly, setting the dish on the table. "I'm sorry ma'am."

Her curiosity got the better of her, though, and she crossed over, eyeing the food. With a skeptical raise of her brow, she lifted a fork, took a bite—then immediately spat it back out.

“Are you trying to kill me?” she snapped. “This is too salty!”

I blinked at her, incredulous. “I tasted it. It’s fine. Sweet, even.”

Her eyes widened at my audacity. Before I could blink, she slapped me hard  across my face. 

“You dare talk back to me?” she hissed. "You Insolent pig."

I gritted my teeth, forcing myself not to react. But then she raised the plate, fury blazing in her expression. “Maybe I should smash this over your head and see if you’ll still be so bold.”

The air thickened with tension, her arm still raised, when the door creaked open again.

“Enough.” Lucian said. He stepped into the room, his presence commanding silence. His eyes, cold and unreadable, locked on his mother. “Put it down.”

For a heartbeat, Rosaline looked ready to defy him. But under his stare, she lowered the plate slowly, muttering something under her breath.

Lucian’s gaze flicked to me. He looked very calm Yet behind his eyes, I could see the question burning—why was I really here?

I straightened, refusing to cower. Whatever game I’d just stumbled into, it was only beginning.