All Chapters of The chef and The charmer: Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

Evelyn povThe sky outside my window was gunmetal gray. Clouds rolled in slow and low, like the prelude to a storm that had long been promised but never dared to arrive.I should have been used to chaos by now—used to the unraveling, the headlines, the shifting dynamics of this family I’d become tethered to. But today felt different. The air carried weight. My body knew it before I did.I sipped lukewarm coffee and sat in the quiet of Damian’s penthouse kitchen. Chris paced a few feet away, phone in hand, barking into it about security leaks and shutting down rumors. We’d been holding our breath since the news broke—since Lawrence’s scorched-earth expose took the internet by storm.Damian’s half-brother hadn’t held back. In a single, brutal interview, he’d set fire to Morgan Blackstone’s carefully manicured empire.I opened my phone and scrolled, almost afraid to look—but curiosity always overpowered caution.“Blackstone Family Legacy Shattered: Lawrence Reveals Truth About Damian’s F

Evelyn povi sat beside him, tucking my legs under the velvet couch. i didn’t look at him right away. If i did, it might soften—lose the edge. And this wasn’t a moment for softness.“He said that if I want the truth, I should be ready to lose everything,” i said. “Because Morgan won’t go down without a war. And he’ll be damned if he lets you replace him.”Damian didn’t move. His hands stilled around the glass, but the silence was thick with meaning.pressing on. “He made it clear, Damian. Lawrence doesn’t want to protect the truth—he wants your place in the family. He wants what you have. Maybe he always has.”A muscle jumped in Damian’s jaw. “He’s not even subtle anymore.”“He doesn’t have to be. Not after exposing Morgan like that. He wanted to drag you both into the mud.”He finally looked at her, and i saw it again—that rawness from the night before. Not rage. Not bitterness. Just an ache that had nowhere else to go.“I don’t even know what I’m fighting for anymore,” he said. “My

Evelyn povThe afternoon was unusually quiet.For once, the world outside our penthouse didn’t feel like it was clawing at us. There was no inbox full of media demands, no texts from Chris about suspicious leaks, no calls from publicists trying to spin damage control. Just me, Damian, and the calm hum of city life far beneath our windows.I sat on the edge of the sofa, a cup of chamomile tea in my hands, while Damian sat opposite me, flipping through the pages of a legal brief, his brows furrowed but calm. The sharp lines of his face softened in the golden light spilling through the windows. He hadn’t shaved in days. There was a new heaviness to him, a quiet that didn’t feel like peace, but like something biding its time.I didn’t know whether to interrupt it.“Should we go out today?” I asked gently. “Just you and me. No headlines. No war rooms.”He looked up, blinking slowly like I’d pulled him from the deepest cave of thought. “Out?”“A bookstore. A walk. Parisian pastry theft from

third person povFor Morgan Blackstone, that scent began in childhood. She was born into power, not warmth. Raised in a home where silence was currency and affection was seen as a liability. Her mother, Lillian, ruled the house with the sharp precision of a scalpel—cold, calculated, and unapologetically cruel. Morgan could remember the echo of her own breath as a child more clearly than any lullaby. She remembered how the marble floors punished her feet when she wasn’t quick enough to follow commands, how a single misstep—cracked china, a crooked curtsy—could earn her days of biting silence or worse, swift physical discipline hidden behind velvet drapes.“Emotions are for the weak,” her mother once said while adjusting Morgan’s posture with two fingers beneath her chin. “You are not here to feel. You are here to rule.”From her father, Morgan learned silence—not the peaceful kind, but the sort bred from passivity and powerlessness. A man of old wealth and even older trauma, he rarely s

Damian’s POVThe cemetery was almost empty that morning. A soft mist hung in the air like breath caught between grief and memory. I hadn’t planned this visit. I wasn’t even sure what I expected to find. Maybe answers. Maybe closure. But as I stood at the edge of Alexander Blackstone’s grave, all I felt was a hollow ache carving itself deeper into my chest.The name etched in granite read:Alexander Reed BlackstoneBeloved Husband, Devoted Father, Visionary LeaderFather.The word felt like ash in my mouth.I shoved my hands into the pockets of my coat, my eyes locked on the polished stone. The world was quiet out here, unnaturally so—like even the wind knew not to speak. For a long while, I just stood there. No words. No movement. Only silence. And in that silence, everything I’d buried clawed its way up.I remembered how he used to sit in his study, drinking scotch from that crystal tumbler like it was wisdom in a glass. How he’d nod in silent approval when I got top grades or landed