His Forbidden Chef

Chapter.7

Zara woke up at five-thirty the next morning. She had barely slept. Today she had new instructions: handle the laundry in addition to everything else. She couldn’t afford any mistakes.

She made breakfast quickly — oatmeal with fresh fruit and black coffee. Alexander appeared at exactly seven, sat down, and ate without speaking. When he finished, he stood up and gave her one command.

“The laundry from the east wing must be done by noon. Iron every shirt perfectly. No starch.”

“Yes, sir,” Zara replied, keeping her voice low and respectful.

Alexander left for his study. Zara cleared the table, then headed to the east wing with a large laundry basket. The other cleaning crew he had called for was already working in the main areas, so she was alone in this quieter part of the penthouse.

She collected the clothes from the designated hamper in the open rooms. Mostly black and white shirts, tailored pants, and a few suits. Everything smelled faintly of his cologne — clean, expensive, and cold. She carried the heavy basket to the laundry room, sorted the items, and started the first load.

While the machine ran, she began ironing the dry shirts. The ironing board was set up near the window overlooking the city. She worked carefully, pressing each collar and sleeve with precision. One wrinkle and she knew he would notice.

By ten o’clock the first batch was done. She folded them neatly and moved on to the next load. The repetitive motion helped her mind settle. She reminded herself why she was here: the forty-five thousand dollars a month. The debt that had been suffocating her for two years. The eviction notice was now gone. She would endure the strange rules, the cold stares, and the occasional woman who came and left with an envelope. She had to.

As she ironed the fourth shirt, the laundry room door opened. Alexander walked in without knocking. He was wearing a fresh black shirt, sleeves already rolled up, and he looked impatient.

Zara straightened immediately. “Sir, the first batch is ready. I’m working on the second now.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he stepped closer and picked up one of the freshly ironed shirts from the pile. He examined the collar, then the cuffs, turning it over in his hands. Zara held her breath.

“It’s acceptable,” he said finally, placing the shirt back down.

Zara nodded. “Thank you, sir. I’ll make sure the rest are the same.”

Alexander didn’t leave. He leaned against the doorframe and watched her work. His gray eyes followed the movement of the iron, then moved up to her hands, her arms, and the way her simple white shirt stretched slightly when she reached for the next garment.

Zara felt his stare. It made her skin prickle, but she kept her head down and continued ironing. She couldn’t show any discomfort. She needed this job too badly.

After a long minute, he spoke again.

“You move quickly for someone who claims to be taking online courses at night.”

Zara’s iron paused for half a second. “The courses don’t interfere with my duties, sir. I only study after everything is finished.”

He made a low sound — not quite a laugh, not quite disapproval. “Most women in your position would spend the extra time trying to get closer. Not studying business.”

Zara kept ironing. “I’m here to work, sir. That’s all.”

Alexander pushed off the doorframe and took two steps into the room. The space suddenly felt smaller. He stopped a few feet away, close enough that she could smell his cologne again.

“Look at me when you speak.”

Zara set the iron down and turned to face him, lifting her chin just enough to meet his eyes. She kept her expression neutral and humble.

“Yes, sir?”

He studied her face for a long moment. His gaze dropped briefly to the modest neckline of her shirt, then back up. “You don’t ask questions. You don’t complain. You just work. Why?”

“Because I need the money,” Zara answered honestly, her voice steady. “The salary is the only reason I’m still here.”

Alexander’s jaw tightened slightly. He didn’t like the answer, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he reached out and picked up another shirt from the pile, holding it up as if inspecting it again. His fingers brushed the fabric near where her hand had been moments earlier.

For a split second, his hand hovered close to hers. Then he pulled back sharply, as if he had touched something hot.

“Finish by noon,” he said, voice colder than before. He turned and walked out of the laundry room without another word.

Zara stood still for a moment, heart beating fast. She picked up the iron again and continued working, but her mind was racing. Why did he come in here? Why did he watch her so closely if he clearly wanted nothing to do with her?

She finished the last load by eleven-forty. She folded everything perfectly and carried the stacks back to the east wing, placing them in the designated closet. As she arranged the shirts, one of the hangers slipped. When she bent down to pick it up, her eyes caught something she hadn’t noticed before.

Behind the row of suits, tucked in the corner of the closet, was a small black box. It was unlocked, the lid slightly ajar.

Zara hesitated. Every instinct told her to walk away. But the same curiosity that had made her open the drawer yesterday pulled at her again. She glanced toward the door. No one there.

She lifted the lid just enough to see inside.

The box contained a stack of old letters tied with a black ribbon, a silver watch that looked expensive but scratched, and another photograph. This one was different — it showed the same woman from yesterday, but younger, laughing in what looked like a kitchen. She was holding a wooden spoon, wearing an apron, and the background had the same warm lighting as the coconut rice memory Zara had mentioned in her interview.

Zara’s breath caught. She closed the box quickly and stood up, smoothing her shirt. She couldn’t stay here any longer.

She left the east wing and returned to the kitchen to start preparing lunch. Her hands were shaking again as she chopped vegetables. She told herself it was nothing. Just old things from his past. It had nothing to do with her.

But the image of that second photograph stayed with her. The woman in the kitchen. The spoon. The apron.

Alexander appeared for lunch at one o’clock. He sat down and waited. Zara served the meal — grilled vegetables, rice, and chicken. She stepped back as usual.

He ate a few bites, then looked up at her.

“You seem distracted today, Miss Hale.”

Zara’s stomach tightened. “I’m sorry, sir. It won’t repeat itself.”

He stared at her for a long moment, his gray eyes unreadable. “See that it doesn’t.”

He finished his meal in silence and left the table. As he walked away, he paused at the doorway and spoke without turning around.

“Tomorrow you will cook something new. No repeats.”

“Yes, sir,” Zara replied.

Alone again, she cleared the table and started cleaning the kitchen. The penthouse felt heavier today. The secrets in the east wing were pulling at her, even though she tried to ignore them.

And Alexander Voss was making sure she stayed exactly where he wanted her.