Signed away by my step father

CHAPTER 13

The next four weeks passed in a blur of bruising exhaustion, burns, and blistering heat. My life was stripped down to two things: surviving high school during the day with Daisy by my side, and standing over the fires of the Vance Estate kitchen until midnight.

Monsieur Dupont did not hold back. He threw me into the deep end, forcing me to master the complex chemistry of molecular gastronomy, the delicate timing of soufflés, and the brutal physical toll of butchering whole sides of venison. My hands, once soft from working a cash register, were now decorated with tiny, fading calluses and light pink grill scars.

But I didn’t care. For the first time in my life, the pain belonged to me. It wasn't given to me by Helen or Richard; it was the price of my own growth.

Every single night, right around 11:00 PM, the frosted glass doors would swing open. Valerian would step inside, loosen his tie, and sit silently at the edge of the quartz island. He never said much. He would simply watch me plate whatever complex dish Dupont had assigned me, take a single, elegant bite, and give me a brief, sharp nod before disappearing back into his study. Those silent evaluations became the anchor of my days. I found myself pushing harder, refining my plating, and balancing acids perfectly, just to see that faint, fleeting flash of approval in his silver-gray eyes.

Then, the night of the Vance Group Hospitality Gala arrived.

The grand ballroom of the Omni Luxury Hotel was a sea of shimmering crystal chandeliers, white orchids, and two hundred of the most cutthroat, old-money elites in the city. This gala was Valerian’s crown jewel—a showcase to launch his new global luxury restaurant syndicate. And the centerpiece of the five-course menu was a dish assigned entirely to me: a modern, elevated take on a classical French duck confit with a sour cherry gastrique and smoked juniper foam.

"Three minutes to service, Sylvia!" Dupont roared across the stainless-steel line of the hotel’s massive banquet kitchen. Thirty line chefs were moving in perfect, frantic synchronization around us. "If the duck skin is soft, I will personally throw you into the dish pit! Vite! Vite!"

"The skin is glassy, Chef!" I yelled back, my fingers moving like lightning as I used tweezers to place microscopic sprigs of micro-sorrel over a perfectly crisped duck breast.

My heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs, sweat pooling beneath my heavy chef’s whites. This was it. There were no room for errors. A single cold plate could ruin the Vance Group’s entire launch.

"Plate up! Row one, move!"

The heavy service doors kicked open, and a small army of waiters in white gloves began carrying the dishes out into the ballroom. For the next two hours, the kitchen was an absolute battleground of smoke, screaming, and adrenaline. I lost track of time, my hands moving on pure muscle memory, executing the precise temperature balances I had memorized in my worn leather notebook.

By 10:30 PM, the final dessert plates cleared the line. The kitchen suddenly fell into a heavy, ringing silence, the exhaustion hitting my limbs like lead.

"Not bad, little girl," Dupont grunted, wiping his brow with a towel before offering me a rare, genuine smile. "They didn't send a single plate back."

Before I could even let out a sigh of relief, Mr. Jennings stepped into the kitchen. He wasn't looking at Dupont; his eyes were fixed directly on me.

"Miss Sylvia," the butler said, his voice carrying an unusual undertone of gravity. "Mr. Vance is requesting your presence in the ballroom. Immediately."

My stomach dropped into an icy pit. "Like this? Mr. Jennings, I’m covered in duck grease and charcoal smoke."

"He was very specific, Miss Sylvia. Follow me."

I didn't even have time to untie my apron. I followed Mr. Jennings down the service corridor and through the heavy velvet curtains leading into the main ballroom. The bright lights and the loud, overlapping chatter of the wealthy crowd instantly made my head spin.

At the center of the room, surrounded by a tight circle of city council members, foreign investors, and media cameras, stood Valerian. He looked effortlessly magnificent in a bespoke black tuxedo, his pale marble features illuminated by the flashbulbs.

As I stepped onto the polished ballroom floor, the crowd near the edge began to notice my stained chef's jacket. The whispers started instantly—sharp, judgmental murmurs from women in diamond necklaces and men in tailored suits.

"Who is that?"

"Is that the girl Richard Bristo sold to clear his debt?"

"Why is a kitchen servant in the main room?"

I froze, the familiar, suffocating weight of shame creeping up my throat. I instinctively lowered my head, my fingers clutching the hem of my apron, wanting nothing more than for the floor to open up and swallow me whole.

Then, Valerian’s silver-gray eyes locked onto me across the crowded room.

He didn't wait for his investors to finish talking. He stepped away from the circle of billionaires, his long, powerful strides cutting right through the crowd until he was standing directly in front of me. The entire ballroom fell into a sudden, breathless silence.

Valerian didn't look disgusted by my grease-stained jacket or my messy bun. Instead, he reached out, his long, elegant fingers gently catching my chin. With a slow, deliberate pressure, he forced my head up, making me look directly into his piercing, unyielding eyes.

"Hold your head up, Sylvia," Valerian murmured, his low, velvety voice vibrating through the quiet space, loud enough for the nearest tables to hear perfectly. "You just fed the most powerful people in this city, and they scraped their plates clean. You do not bow your head to anyone in this room."

He lowered his hand, turning his body to face the elite crowd, his arm wrapping firmly around my waist to pull me tight against his side in a dominant, intensely possessive gesture.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Valerian announced, his cold, commanding voice echoing through the massive ballroom. "Allow me to introduce the future executive chef of the Vance Luxury Syn

dicate. My wife, Sylvia Vance."