Sugar on His Lips

Chapter 3: The Contract

Lila Reyes didn’t sleep for 38 hours.

She spent the first twelve googling anaphylaxis death timeline. The next eight on how to tell if you accidentally tried to murder a billionaire. The last eighteen in the hospital chapel, because Lola Fe said all the good deals with God happened there.

It didn’t work. God didn’t show. But Callum Wolfe did.

He found her at 6:04 a.m., asleep in a plastic chair outside the ICU, cheek pressed to her apron because she hadn’t changed in two days. She’d been dreaming of cake. Not eating it. Autopsying it. Cutting into a sans rival and finding his EpiPen inside, like a plastic strawberry.

“Lila.”

She jerked awake. He was standing over her. Suit, no tie, eyes like wet cement. He looked like he hadn’t slept either. There was a coffee cup in his hand. Black. No sugar. Of course.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said. Her voice was gravel. “Visiting hours—”

“I own 12% of this hospital,” he said. Flat. “I’m always here.”

Lila stood. Too fast. The room tilted. He didn’t reach for her. Smart man.

“I know,” she said.

He stilled. “Know what?”

“About the allergy.” She watched his face. Nothing. Quarry-grey, no cracks. “Sugar. Anaphylaxis. EpiPens in every jacket. Your mom.”

The last one hit. His jaw twitched. Just once.

“Who told you?”

“Reddit,” Lila said. “And your face. When you ran. You looked like I’d handed you a bomb, not bread.”

Silence. The ICU hummed behind them. A nurse walked by, saw Callum, and suddenly remembered an urgent patient elsewhere.

“You should have told me,” Lila said. Her hands were shaking. “At the gala. Before I—before you—”

“Would it have changed anything?” he asked. “Would you have not offered it?”

“Yes!”

“Why? It was safe. No sugar.”

“Because you ran*” She stepped closer. Too close. She could smell cedar and exhaustion. “You licked it off your thumb and then looked at me like I’d killed you. Do you know what that does to a person?”

“It was a crumb,” he said.

“It was my fault,” she snapped. “If you’d died—”

“I didn’t.”

“But you could have!”

“I know.”

That shut her up.

He ran a hand through his hair. It was the first un-calculated movement she’d ever seen him make. It made him look 31 instead of 100.

“I don’t tell people,” he said. “Ever. For three reasons. One: it’s a liability. Two: it’s leverage. Three: if the wrong person knows, they can kill me with a milkshake.”

Lila’s stomach dropped. She hadn’t thought of that.

“You told me,” she said.

“I didn’t. You found out.”

“Same thing.”

“No,” he said. “It’s not.”

He set the coffee on the chair. Didn’t drink it.

“Lola’s surgery is tomorrow,” he said. “Angioplasty. The bonus covered it. And the new fridge. And the wall.”

Lila flinched. “I didn’t ask you for—”

“I know.” He looked past her, down the hall. “The loan on your building. ₱1.2M. Due in 84 days.”

Her blood went cold. “You investigated me.”

“Yes.”

“Get out.”

“No.”

He reached into his jacket. Pulled out a folded document. Not thick. Three pages. He held it out to her.

“What is that?”

“A contract.”

Lila didn’t take it. “For what?”

“Private chef. Three months. My penthouse. You cook. I eat. No one dies.”

She laughed. It sounded hysterical. “Are you insane?”

“Probably.”

“I’m not cooking for you.”

“You already did.”

“That was catering. This is—”

“Employment,” he said. “₱300,000 a month. Plus hazard pay. Plus your lola’s medical, covered in full, for the duration. And I buy your loan. You keep the bakery.”

The floor dropped out.

Lila stared at the paper like it was a snake. “Why?”

“Because you know,” he said. Simple. “You know about the allergy. You know what pan de sal tastes like. You didn’t flinch when I told you. Most people do. They get scared. They get careful. You got mad.”

“I was mad. I still am.”

“Good.” He stepped closer. “I need someone mad. My last chef quit because I yelled at him for using vanilla extract. It has alcohol. Alcohol has sugar. He didn’t know. I don’t trust people who don’t know.”

“So you trust me?”

“No,” he said. “But I trust that you’ll burn my house down if I lie to you. That’s better.”

Lila took the contract. Her hands shook.

PRIVATE CHEF SERVICES AGREEMENT

Party A: Callum J. Wolfe

Party B: Lila M. Reyes

Term: 90 days, commencing 10 June 2026.

Compensation: ₱300,000/month, plus full medical coverage for Felicidad Reyes, plus acquisition of outstanding loan to Davao City Rural Bank (₱1,204,300) by Party A.

Conditions:

1. No sugar, derivatives, or trace compounds. All ingredients pre-approved by Party A’s allergist.

2. No discussion of Party A’s medical condition with third parties. NDA attached.

3. No personal conversation. Meals served, kitchen vacated. Communication via written menu only.

4. No physical contact.

5. No feelings.

Lila read it twice.

“No talking?” she said.

“You talk too much.”

“No feelings?” She looked up. “You can’t contract that.”

“Watch me.”

She flipped to the last page. *Penalty for breach: Immediate termination, forfeiture of all compensation, reinstatement of loan with 20% interest.*

Blackmail.

“You’re blackmailing me,” she said.

“I’m hiring you,” he said. “The bank foreclosed in 84 days. Your lola needs another stent in six months. You’re out of flour money. I’m the only person in Davao who can fix all three by lunch.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Lila thought of Lola Fe, asking if he was handsome. *Tell Lila to feed him. He looks hungry.*

She thought of the crumb on his thumb. The fear in his eyes.

She thought of ₱1.2M.

“What if I say no?” she asked.

“Then I walk away,” he said. “Your bakery closes. Your lola…” He didn’t finish.

Cruel. True.

“And if I say yes?”

“Then you start tomorrow. 6 a.m. My kitchen. I’ll send a car.” He paused. “And Lila?”

She waited.

“Don’t feed me pan de sal again.”

He left.

**Day 1: 6:00 a.m. – Wolfe Tower, Penthouse

The kitchen was a crime scene.

All white. All chrome. All empty. No stains, no smells, no *life*. The Wolf range had never been turned on. The Sub-Zero hummed like a spaceship.

A binder waited on the island. *APPROVED INGREDIENTS*. 400 pages. Almond flour: yes. Coconut sugar: no. Vanilla bean: yes. Vanilla extract: no. Monk fruit: yes. Honey: *lethal*.

There was a sticky note on page one. Black pen. All caps.

NO TALKING.

Lila set her knife roll down.

The first rule was broken in 17 minutes.

He walked in at 6:17. Suit. No tie. Hair wet from a shower. He didn’t look at her. He opened the fridge, took out a bottle of water, and left.

No good morning. No here’s the plan.

Lila stared at the door.

“Asshole,” she said to the empty kitchen.

She made his breakfast anyway. Silken tofu scramble with turmeric and black salt. Grilled tomatoes. Mushroom bacon. All approved. All safe. All plated like it was for a king she hated.

She left it on the island with a menu card.

Breakfast: You’re welcome.

Underneath, smaller: P.S. This is talking.

------

Day 3: 11:43 p.m.

He came home late. Again.

Lila was prepping overnight oats—chia, almond milk, monk fruit, blueberries—for his morning. The kitchen was the only place that felt like hers. She’d started leaving the radio on. Low. Barangay LS 97.1. Love songs and old OPM.

She didn’t hear him come in.

“Why is there music?”

She jumped. Spatula clattered. “Jesus—!”

He stood in the doorway. Tie loose. Jacket over his shoulder. He looked at the radio like it was a bomb.

“It’s 11:43 p.m.,” he said.

“And?”

“Rule three.”

“No talking,” Lila recited. “I’m not talking. The radio is.”

He walked over. Turned it off. Silence crashed down.

Lila’s jaw ticked. “You’re welcome to fire me.”

“I’m not.”

“Then stop—”

“You’re in my house,” he said. “Past midnight. That’s not in the contract.”

“I’m prepping your approved breakfast so you don’t die,” she snapped. “Unless you want to meal prep it yourself at 5 a.m.?”

He looked at the oats. At her hands. The chia seeds stuck to her wrist.

“Why do you care?” he asked. Quiet.

Lila blinked. “Because you’re paying me ₱300,000 a month to care.”

“No. Why do you care?”

She didn’t have an answer.

He reached past her. Grabbed a blueberry from the container. Popped it in his mouth.

Lila’s brain short-circuited. “That’s not—you can’t just—”

“It’s approved,” he said. “Page 217.”

“I know it’s approved. But you don’t *eat* here. You don’t touch anything I—”

He ate another one. Chewed. Swallowed. I watched her.

“Rule four,” she whispered. “No contact.”

“I’m not touching you.”

“You’re eating my ingredients.”

“Is that contact?”

“Yes,” she said. “For you, it is.”

He considered that. Then he picked up the spoon she’d been using. Still wet with almond milk.

Lila’s heart stopped.

He dipped it in the oats. Brought it to his mouth.

Tasted.

His eyes closed. One second. Two.

When he opened them, they weren’t quarry-grey. They were alive.

“It’s sweet,” he said. Accusation. Wonder.

“Monk fruit,” Lila said. Voice hoarse. “It’s safe.”

He set the spoon down. Careful. Like it was glass.

“Go home, Lila,” he said.

“It *is* my home for 90 days.”

“Not at midnight.”

He left.

Lila stood there, heart pounding, staring at the spoon.

He’d used her spoon.

Rule four: broken.

Rule five: No feelings.

She pressed her fingers to her lips.

She was in trouble.

---

Day 7: 2:04 a.m.

He found her asleep on the kitchen floor.

She’d been testing a new recipe. Savory ensaymada with nutritional yeast and olive brine, no sugar, no carbs. She’d burned the first batch. Cried over the second. Passed out on the third.

He should have stepped over her. Called Marco. Had her removed.

Instead, he took off his suit jacket.

Draped it over her.

It smelled like cedar and him.

He was gone before she woke up.

But she woke up with it clutched to her chest.

Rule five: shattered.

End of Chapter 3