Chapter 4 The First Meal
733 Words
The kitchen of the Gu mansion was larger than any restaurant Shen Zhiwei had ever worked in. Gleaming marble counters stretched for meters, walls lined with imported spices and utensils worth more than her entire old apartment.
But luxury didn’t make the room warm.
The other chefs watched her with narrowed eyes, their whispers like knives.
“Look at her. Some nobody, dragged in overnight.”“Private chef? Please. She’s just his new toy.”“She’ll be gone in a week.”
Their laughter burned her ears, but Shen Zhiwei ignored them. She had grown up in silk and crystal, and she had fallen to scrubbing dishes in grease and filth. She had heard worse.
What mattered now was survival.
And survival meant cooking.
She opened the refrigerator. Inside were the finest ingredients in the world: wagyu beef marbled like art, lobsters still twitching, truffles wrapped in silk, wines older than her grandfather.
Her hands hovered, then drew back.
If she cooked like them, she would lose. She couldn’t compete with trained French chefs on their battlefield.
But she didn’t need to.
She reached instead for a whole chicken, some ginger, and a handful of rice.
The chefs scoffed aloud. “Seriously? Congee? For him?”
Her lips curved faintly. “Wait and see.”
Hours later, the dining hall glowed under crystal chandeliers.
Gu Chenghan sat at the head of the table, black suit immaculate, every movement radiating power. His sharp gaze flicked to the bowl she carried—a simple white porcelain filled with steaming chicken congee.
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “This is what you dare to serve me?”
Her hands trembled, but her voice was steady. “You told me to surprise you. This is my surprise.”
The air grew heavy. Even the maids shifted nervously, waiting for his anger to explode.
Instead, he lifted the spoon.
One taste.
Warmth spread across his tongue—subtle, comforting, unpretentious. It wasn’t the extravagance of caviar or foie gras, but something deeper. A reminder of nights long past, of a warmth he had buried so far beneath his armor that he almost didn’t recognize it.
He swallowed. Slowly.
Then his gaze snapped back to her. “Where did you learn this?”
She blinked. “It’s just congee. Anyone can—”
“Not like this.” His voice was sharp, accusing. “This tastes like…” He stopped himself, eyes flashing with something unreadable.
She tilted her head. “Like what?”
“Like weakness,” he growled, shoving the spoon back into the bowl. “Don’t ever serve me something like this again.”
Her chest tightened. She had poured everything into that bowl, her memories, her hunger, her pain. And he called it weakness?
Fury flared. “Then starve,” she snapped. “Find someone else to cook your perfect wagyu and truffles. I’m not here to feed your pride.”
Gasps echoed from the corners of the room. No one had ever dared speak to him like that.
Gu Chenghan’s eyes narrowed, dark and dangerous. He rose, his chair scraping against the marble with a sound like thunder. In three strides he was before her, towering over her trembling form.
His hand shot out, gripping her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.
“You dare to defy me?”
Her heart pounded, but she glared back. “I dare to be human. Can you say the same?”
For a heartbeat, silence reigned. His grip tightened, then loosened. He leaned closer, his breath brushing her lips, so close she could taste the bitterness of his coffee.
“Careful, Shen Zhiwei,” he whispered. “If you keep tempting me, I might not let you go at all.”
Her pulse skipped. She jerked away, clutching the empty bowl to her chest like a shield.
He straightened, cold mask slipping back into place. “Tomorrow,” he said, voice clipped. “Something else. Something that won’t make me remember things I swore to forget.”
And with that, he left, the echo of his footsteps lingering long after his shadow was gone.
Shen Zhiwei stood alone in the vast dining hall, knees weak, heart thundering.
She hated him. She feared him.
But worst of all—somewhere deep inside, a part of her longed for him to taste her food again.
- Writer
