Lahat ng Kabanata ng The chef and The charmer: Kabanata 121 - Kabanata 130

Evelyn’s POVI stared at the unsigned TV contract for the fifth time that morning.Something in me ached—not from fear, not from lack of opportunity. But because I knew this wasn’t the time. Not for me.Not yet.I picked up my phone and called Chris.He answered on the third ring, cheerful and chaotic as always. “Yo! Chef-turned-TV-star, what’s the—”“I’m not signing it.”Silence.Then: “Okay. Talk to me.”I sat down at the edge of the kitchen table, the light filtering through the window dancing on my fingertips.“I thought I wanted it. Maybe part of me still does. But I’m not ready—not for the camera, not for the pressure. Not for people picking me apart before I’ve even put myself back together.”Chris didn’t speak for a long time.Finally: “I’ll call the producer. Don’t worry about it.”“Are you mad?”He snorted. “Mad? Evelyn, I respect the hell out of you for knowing your limit. The deal will still be there when you are ready—if you ever want it. And if not, there are other kitch

Evelyn’s POVIt started with an email. Simple. Unassuming.Subject: “Local Food Program Needs Guest Chef for Youth Series”It was from an old culinary colleague—Nina Ramsey—someone I hadn’t heard from in years. We’d trained together at Le Cordon Bleu back in cold spring, pulling all-nighters and swapping recipes like secrets. After school, we took different paths. I went straight into restaurants, then a cooking contest, while she stayed grounded, doing nonprofit work, building community gardens, organizing local food drives.Her message was short:“Hey Evelyn, I’m helping a youth center downtown with a cooking series. We need someone to teach a few classes—basic stuff, but we want someone the kids can relate to. Someone who cares. I know your calendar’s probably insane, but… would love to have you, even just once. Let me know.”I stared at the email for a long time.Part of me instinctively reached for an excuse—TV interviews, press obligations, an ongoing chaos. But the truth wa

Evelyn’s POVWe didn’t make a grand post or dramatic reveal.No sweeping declarations on social media. No press releases or curated couple photoshoots. No one-liner PR statements from Damian’s office or gossip blogs hinting at an engagement.Instead, we kept it quiet—intimate.We invited everyone—Chris, Morgan, Damian’s extended family including uncle Anthony Miranda and her mother aunt Claire, and a few close friends—to the penthouse under the pretense of a dinner celebration for the mentorship launch. No one questioned it. The timing was perfect: I had just finished presenting my mentorship program, Something of My Own, at a charity gala last weekend, and the buzz was still fresh. If people assumed this dinner was just a wrap-up event to celebrate, that was fine.The penthouse buzzed with warmth. Champagne flutes clinked, the scent of rosemary lamb lingered in the air, and soft jazz curled through the room like perfume. The glass wall gave us a panoramic view of the city—lights twink

Evelyn’s POVThe name came through late that morning.Celeste Wren.I stared at the email like it had been typed in acid.We’d never heard of her.“She’s not in any Blackstone records,” our lawyer said, his voice clipped, professional, and suspiciously too calm. “But she claims to be Lawrence’s daughter.”The words echoed off the walls of Damian’s study. The air seemed to still. I blinked, slowly, as if the syllables would rearrange themselves into something less absurd.“A daughter?” I repeated, half-choking on my coffee.“Allegedly,” the lawyer confirmed. “She’s petitioning the court for access to a share of his estate—and any trusts connected to Blackstone holdings.”The timing. The confidence. The audacity.It reeked of manipulation.Damian’s jaw flexed in quiet fury. He stood by the window, watching the vineyards shimmer under the late morning sun. From the outside, he looked tranquil—linen shirt loose, coffee cup untouched—but I knew the storm behind his eyes. A storm named lega

Evelyn’s POVI woke up before the sun.The vineyard was still sleeping, wrapped in dew and birdsong. For a moment, I sat in bed, staring at the folds of the silk canopy above me and listening to the gentle ticking of the clock on the wall. Outside, the sky held its breath, painted in the soft grays and lavenders of an awakening world. The faint scent of wildflowers and distant soil wafted through the open window.This was it.Today, I would become Evelyn Blackstone.Not just the private chef who once served panna cotta to New York’s most elusive billionaire.Not just the woman who agreed to a fake engagement for a man who wanted to fool his family.But now am the real fiancée. The real bride.And—maybe, impossibly—the real love of his life.I slid my feet onto the cool wooden floor and stood, spine tall, heart steady. There was a sense of gravity in the room, like the walls themselves knew something monumental was about to unfold. I padded across the room to the dressing chamber, wher