All Chapters of The chef and The charmer: Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

damien POVThe press conference was only hours away, and the weight of the situation was beginning to settle in. The weight of Evelyn’s decision was sinking deep into my chest, pulling at my insides. She had made up her mind; the world would know the truth. She would no longer hide behind their lies.Sitting in the car with her on the way to the venue, I couldn’t help but watch her. The way her fingers gripped the edge of her seat, the way her jaw clenched. I wanted to reach out and pull her into my arms, to protect her from everything that was coming, but I knew that wasn’t what she needed. She needed to stand on her own, to reclaim her voice.She turned her face toward me, her lips curving into a small, tight smile. “You know, I used to be terrified of these moments—being in front of people, having my life dissected for the world to see.”I glanced at her, taking in the steadiness in her voice, the calm in her eyes. “I know.”Her gaze softened as she let out a deep breath. “But now,

Evelyn POVThe flicker of candlelight danced across Damian’s cheekbones, softening the sharp edges of his otherwise guarded face. A low jazz tune hummed in the background, mixing with the sound of rain tapping gently against the windows. We sat across from each other at the dinner table, the meal between us mostly untouched—not out of disinterest, but comfort. There was no rush. No tension. Just a quiet understanding: we had made it through the latest wave.I held my glass of wine between two fingers, feeling the warmth of it spread through my chest. His hand reached for mine, fingers brushing in that familiar, grounding way he did when he needed to say something deeper than words would allow.“To new beginnings,” he said, voice low, tender.My lips curled into a smile, a real one—no cameras, no pretending. Just us. “To us.”As our glasses clinked, I allowed myself to believe it: maybe we had survived the worst. Maybe the rumors, the headlines, Morgan’s icy disdain, the whispers in bo

Evelyn povThe days following the press conference were a blur. Even after stepping off the podium and exiting the ballroom, I felt the lingering weight of eyes, questions, and speculation pressing in from all sides. I thought the storm would pass now that the truth was out in the open, but I had underestimated the staying power of public curiosity—and the depth of some people’s obsession.For a while, I thought the worst was over. I had survived the humiliation, the whispers, and the side-eyes. I had survived Eric’s threats and the suffocating feeling that the world was laughing at me. But just as the dust began to settle, something darker took its place.and it started again,the messages began arriving two days after the conference. Anonymous notes, always typed, and always signed with a single letter: “E.” Sometimes they came tucked beneath the wipers of my car. Other times, slipped under the door of the penthouse i still don't know how he has accesed to this building. They were cry

Evelyn POVThe universe has a twisted sense of humor.Just when I started finding my footing again — carving out a place for myself in Marcellus’s kitchen, rebuilding confidence with every sear and slice — life dropped another choice at my feet.A crossroads disguised as an opportunity.It started with an email. Subject line: “International Culinary Summit – Featured Chef Invitation.”At first, I thought it was spam. One of those clickbait scams to get desperate cooks to buy overpriced tickets to irrelevant conferences.But it wasn’t.It was real. Verified. And the sender was Genevieve Calmet, the head curator of the summit — a legend in her own right.The email said I’d been recommended by Chef Marcellus himself.He didn’t tell me. Of course he didn’t. He let the opportunity speak for itself.One of the feature spots had opened. They wanted me.A masterclass. Live demonstration. Global exposure.All expenses paid. Two weeks in Paris.It should’ve felt like a dream.But all I could th

Evelyn POVI never thought war would start with silence.Not screaming. Not gunfire. Not even slander this time.Just a heavy, humming quiet that settled in Damian’s penthouse like fog. Chris and I were still adjusting to it—this unspoken shift. The air was different now. Thicker. Sharper. We were no longer reacting to drama—we were planning.I looked across the room. Damian was at the window again, his arms folded, jaw tight, lost in the skyline like it held the answers his birth certificate didn’t. The sun was dying behind the glass, orange and gold streaking the sky like bruises healing too slow.Chris leaned back on the couch beside me, tossing a file onto the coffee table with a sigh. “That’s everything we could trace. Bank records, name drops, and hush money payouts—Morgan’s been quietly manipulating corporate holdings for years.”Damian didn’t turn around. “Anything on who else knew?”Chris shrugged. “Her assistant probably. Maybe her estate lawyer. They’re loyal, but not invin