*CHAPTER ONE – THE HOUSE OF SECRETS* The rain had followed her from the city, soaking her jeans and matting strands of her dark hair to her cheeks. Jessica stood at the gates of Dorian Blackwell’s estate—massive iron bars coiled with ivy, guarding a home that looked more like a forgotten castle than a place to live. She hesitated. This was supposed to be temporary. Just until things calmed down. Just until her mother sorted out whatever mess had made her vanish from Jessica’s life without explanation two weeks ago. Now, Jessica was standing in front of the man her mother had married only six months ago. A man Jessica had only met once, briefly—and never forgot. The gates creaked open on their own. Jessica blinked. "Okay... creepy," she muttered, but walked through anyway, her suitcase wheels clacking against the cobblestone path. The house was even more intimidating up close—dark gray stone, steep rooftops, and windows that reflected no light. A faint glow came from the front door, which opened before she could knock. He stood there. Tall. Dark. Unapologetically intense. Dorian Blackwell looked exactly how she remembered—impeccably dressed, older by at least 15 years, with cold gray eyes that studied her as if she were a puzzle missing too many pieces.“Jessica,” he said, voice low and smooth. “You’re early.” Her throat felt tight, but she forced a casual shrug. “Rain hates me. Cabs hate me. Life hates me.” A slight smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, then vanished. He stepped aside. “Come in.” *** Inside, the air was warm and smelled like cedarwood and something faintly spiced—like old magic, Jessica thought. The house was... alive in its silence. Thick rugs, high ceilings, portraits that watched you as you moved. She followed him through the grand hall, trying not to stare at the muscles shifting under his shirt or the way his voice sent something curling low in her belly when he said her name. “So,” she said, dropping her suitcase by the stairs. “No staff?” “No one stays long,” he replied. “They get... uncomfortable.” She raised a brow. “Because of your sparkling personality?” That smirk again. “Exactly.” He turned to face her fully. For a moment, neither of them said anything. “You look older than I expected,” she said before she could stop herself. “Not in a bad way. Just... different.” “And you look nothing like a girl anymore.” The silence stretched again—thick, charged. She looked away first. ***Later, in the guest room that looked more like a gothic library than a place to sleep, Jessica unpacked slowly, her fingers brushing over the folded shirts and jeans like she was grounding herself in something real. She felt his presence before she heard him. “You left your coat downstairs,” Dorian said, leaning against the doorframe. “Thanks,” she said softly, turning to take it. Their hands brushed—her skin instantly warmed. He didn’t pull back. His eyes dropped to her lips for half a second. Jessica's heart thudded. Loud. Too loud. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he said, stepping back. But his gaze lingered one heartbeat too long before he turned and disappeared down the hall. Jessica sat on the bed, her pulse still racing. This was going to be a problem. A very dangerous one. --- Jessica stared out the window of the old mansion, the rain tracing patterns down the glass. It was another gloomy day, fitting for the storm brewing inside her heart. Ever since her mother had passed, the silence in the house had become unbearable. And now, with her stepfather, Damian, back from a long business trip, everything felt… different. Damian wasn’t just any stepfather. There was a dangerous charm about him — a magnetic pull Jessica couldn’t ignore, no matter how hard she tried. She hated herself for feeling it, but there it was, simmering beneath the surface. “Jessica, dinner’s ready,” Damian’s voice echoed from the kitchen downstairs. She took a deep breath, steadying the rapid beat of her heart. The game had begun, and neither of them knew where it would end.Jessica smoothed the front of her blouse, trying to shake off the nerves crawling up her spine. She descended the grand staircase, the polished wood creaking softly beneath her feet. In the dining room, Damian stood by the window, his silhouette framed by the flickering candlelight. His dark eyes caught hers, and a slow smile curved his lips—a she handle it? --- smile that made her pulse quicken in spite of herself. “Dinner smells amazing,” she said, forcing a casual tone. He nodded, pulling out a chair for her with an elegance that felt almost deliberate. “I hope you like it. I wanted tonight to be special.” Her fingers trembled slightly as she sat, the air thick with something unspoken. For a moment, the world narrowed down to just the two of them—their shared history, the secrets, and the flame burning quietly between them. “Jessica,” Damian’s voice softened, “there’s something we need to talk about.” Her b

--- *CHAPTER ONE – JUST ANOTHER DAY IN THE KITCHEN* The kitchen of Grand Royal Hotel was chaos wrapped in the smell of garlic, oil, and deadlines. “Imelda, the pasta’s overcooked!” “That’s not my station!” Imelda shouted back as she stirred the creamy mushroom sauce. “And I told you—watch the timer!” Her white chef coat was slightly stained near the collar, her ponytail was falling apart, and her eyes stung from the steam. But she moved like clockwork—flipping, stirring, tasting—an orchestra of flavor at her fingertips. Despite the heat, the stress, and the nonstop yelling, this was where she thrived. “Duck confit is ready,” she called out, garnishing the plate with a delicate swirl of plum glaze. A junior chef leaned in. “Do you ever get tired?” Imelda smiled. “Only when I stop moving.”She had been working in kitchens since she was sixteen. Now, at twenty-six, she could outcook half the staff with one hand behind her back. She wasn’t head chef yet, but her skills were undeniable. The sous-chef often said Imelda was “a miracle in an apron.” She just needed one big break. And today might be it. The royal family was holding a private banquet at the hotel. Word had it that Lady Grace—the king’s cousin and a major figure in the culinary world—would be attending. Imelda had never met her, but she’d read about her in magazines: regal, elegant, with a taste for exotic cuisine. If Lady Grace tasted her food and liked it... who knew what could happen? “Focus,” she told herself. *** The day rushed by in a blur of sizzling pans and sharp orders. The team was on edge. Even the head chef was unusually quiet, his brow furrowed as he checked every plate twice. By 7:00 PM, the guests had started arriving. Black cars with tinted windows pulled up to the hotel gates. Men in royal blue suits and women in glittering gowns stepped out, escorted by security. Imelda wasn’t allowed in the banquet hall, of course. Her place was in the kitchen—but she found a moment to peek through the staff hallway that led to the service area. Her breath caught.It looked like something from a fairy tale. Crystal chandeliers, golden curtains, and live music playing softly in the background. People were laughing, sipping wine, and taking photos. Her stomach twisted—not with jealousy, but with wonder. That world was so far from hers. She lived in a small apartment with cracked tiles and a noisy neighbor who argued with his cat. She couldn’t imagine sitting in a hall like that, wearing diamonds and being served. She shook her head and turned back. No time for fantasies. *** By 8:15 PM, Imelda’s signature dish was ready: roasted duck breast with a caramelized onion glaze and herb-infused mashed potatoes. She placed it on the silver tray and handed it off. Her hands were trembling. What if Lady Grace hated it? What if she didn’t even taste it? “Stop overthinking,” she muttered. Suddenly, the lights flickered. Then a loud crack—like a thunderclap—echoed through the kitchen. “What the hell—?” The floor vibrated beneath her feet. A pulse of energy filled the air, humming through the metal counters and silver trays. For a second, it felt like time itself paused. Then— *BOOM.* A burst of white light exploded around her. She heard someone scream. And then... nothing. Darkness. *** Imelda’s eyes fluttered open.The light hurt. She squinted. She wasn’t on the kitchen floor. She wasn’t in the hotel. She was lying in a massive bed with velvet sheets, high curtains, and golden candle holders. A fireplace burned quietly across the room, casting shadows on the elegant furniture. The ceiling was painted with clouds and angels. “What... is this?” she whispered. She sat up slowly. Her chef coat was gone. She was wearing a silk nightdress, embroidered with tiny golden leaves. Her hair was perfectly brushed and tied in a soft ribbon. “Where am I?” The door creaked open. Two women in maid uniforms entered, carrying towels and water. When they saw her awake, they gasped. “Your Majesty!” one cried, nearly dropping the bowl. Imelda blinked. “Majesty?” They rushed to her side, bowing deeply. “Oh thank the stars! You’re awake!” “Please, lie back. You’ve been unconscious since the accident.” “What accident? What are you talking about?” They exchanged a look. “You don’t remember?” “I don’t even know where I *am*!” “Y-You’re in the royal palace,” the other maid said gently. “You’re Queen Imelda of Karador.” “Excuse me, *what?*” Imelda sat up straighter. “Queen who?” “You,” the maid said carefully, “are the queen of this kingdom.” Imelda stared at them. They weren’t joking.The room wasn’t a set. The clothes weren’t costumes. This was real. Or... it *felt* real. Was she dreaming? Dead? Hallucinating? “Look, I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” she said slowly. “I’m not a queen. I’m just a cook. From Lagos. I work in a hotel.” “You must still be confused,” the first maid said. “You hit your head when the ceiling collaps

it's about a young girl and a boy who she's older than when their love started in high school