Chapter 1
Shen Zhiwei tightened her apron strings with trembling fingers. The staff cafeteria smelled of greasy takeout again, and her stomach gave a loud, humiliating growl.
It was past midnight, long after the restaurant had closed. All the chefs had left, leaving behind only scraps, rejected cuts of meat, and a mountain of dirty dishes. For most people, it was garbage. For her, it was dinner.
Once, she had dined on crystal plates and imported caviar. She had worn couture gowns and attended charity galas with her fiancé on her arm. Now, her father was bankrupt, her fiancé had abandoned her for another woman, and Shen Zhiwei was nobody. Just a broke girl scrubbing pots to pay rent.
Her eyes burned as she fished out half a pork knuckle from the waste bin. The meat was a little dry, but still edible. She rinsed it quickly, sliced it thin, and threw it into a pan with leftover rice. A splash of soy sauce. A handful of wilted greens. Cheap, humble, yet fragrant.
The aroma hit her nose and, for a moment, she smiled. At least I can still cook.
The door creaked.
Her body froze.
A tall man stepped inside, his presence sucking the air out of the room. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, yet every waiter and junior cook who spotted him instantly straightened their backs. His black suit was tailored to perfection, his shoes gleamed, and his expression was carved from ice.
Gu Chenghan.
Even the whisper of his name made people tremble. He was the Gu family’s youngest heir, the man who had taken over one of the city’s most powerful financial empires before the age of thirty. Cold-blooded. Ruthless. Untouchable.
And, as rumor had it, the silent investor behind this very restaurant.
“What is that smell?” His deep, magnetic voice sliced through the silence.
Shen Zhiwei’s heart stopped.
He was looking at her pan. At her pathetic bowl of improvised roasted pork rice.
Her lips moved soundlessly. “I—I…”
He took two steps forward. Each one echoed like a hammer in her ears. Then he reached out, plucked a piece of pork with his silver chopsticks, and tasted it.
The room seemed to freeze. His eyes, dark and unfathomable, betrayed nothing. For one agonizing second, Shen Zhiwei thought he might spit it out and order her fired on the spot.
Instead, his gaze sharpened.
“Who cooked this?”
Her throat went dry. “I did.”
His lips curved, not in a smile but in something colder. “Interesting.”
Before she could process what that meant, he pulled a leather folder from his coat pocket, opened it, and let a contract fall onto the counter in front of her.
“Sign.”
Her eyes widened. “Excuse me?”
“My private chef contract,” he said, voice like steel wrapped in silk. “From this moment on, you will cook for me. Three meals a day. No excuses.”
Shen Zhiwei stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “What? I—I can’t. I’m just a part-time waitress! You should hire one of the actual chefs—”
“You think you can refuse me?” His tone lowered, dangerously soft, yet the weight of command was undeniable. “Your father’s lawsuits. Your family’s debts. The bills you can’t pay. All of it can disappear, with one signature from me.”
Her heart dropped into her stomach. How did he know?
She had hidden her identity, never telling anyone at the restaurant who she really was. Yet this man had peeled back her mask with terrifying ease.
“I don’t belong to anyone,” she whispered, clenching her fists.
He leaned closer, his breath brushing against her ear, his voice deep enough to shatter her resistance.
“Then watch your world crumble, piece by piece. I will crush every opportunity you cling to. Or…” He tapped the contract. “Sign this. Work for me. Your hands, your recipes, your time—belong to me alone.”
Her breath caught. The golden cage stood open before her, gleaming and suffocating at once.
She imagined her mother’s tired face, the stack of unpaid hospital bills, the landlord’s threats. She thought of the last dinner she’d had as a rich girl, before the world fell apart.
She had nothing left.
Her fingers trembled as she reached for the pen.
The moment the ink touched paper, Gu Chenghan’s eyes darkened—not with victory, but with something more dangerous.
Possession.
“Good,” he murmured, folding the contract with a snap. “From now on, Shen Zhiwei, you are mine.”
