Signed away by my step father

CHAPTER 10

My heart leaped into my throat, hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs as I instinctively took a step back, my spine pressing against the edge of the cool quartz island. I felt small, caught red-handed in a space I clearly didn't belong in.

"I-I'm sorry, Mr. Vance," I stammered, my voice barely a whisper as I gestured vaguely at the plate behind me. "I overslept... I missed lunch, and I didn't want to bother Mr. Jennings or the staff. I thought I could just step in and make something quick. I'll clean everything up right now, I promise."

Valerian didn't answer right away. He stood entirely still, his silver-gray eyes tracking the nervous tremor in my hands before moving down to the golden, steam-rising plate on the counter. He took a few slow, deliberate strides into the room, his presence instantly shrinking the massive, high-tech kitchen.

He didn't look angry; he looked intensely analytical. He stopped at the edge of the island, picking up the silver fork I had dropped and turning it over in his long, elegant fingers.

"You made this?" he asked, his low voice carrying a strange, quiet cadence.

"Yes, sir," I nodded quickly, keeping my eyes fixed on the rolled-up sleeves of his crisp white shirt. "Just a basic omelet."

"A French omelet," Valerian corrected smoothly, his eyes narrowing slightly as he inspected the dish. "Perfect cylinder shape. Zero browning on the exterior. Curds uniform throughout. It requires exact temperature control and a very specific flick of the wrist. Richard's Bistro is a low-end Italian American establishment that boils its pasta sauce in plastic bags. Where did you learn classical French technique, Sylvia?"

I swallowed hard, a flush of heat creeping up my neck. "I... I read about it. In cookbooks. I memorized the ratios and the physics of the heat transfer. My stepfather never allowed me near the burners, so I just practiced the movements in my head while I was working the register."

Valerian looked at me for a long, heavy beat, as if he were trying to solve a complex puzzle. The silence in the kitchen stretched, thick and heavy. Then, without a word, he dipped the edge of the fork into the center of the omelet, cutting a small piece away. The interior was perfectly soft and creamy, the grated white cheddar melting beautifully into the duck eggs.

He brought the fork to his lips and took a bite.

I held my breath, my lungs burning as I watched his expression. For a split second, the cold, unyielding mask he wore seemed to flicker. His silver eyes widened by a fraction of a millimeter, his jaw relaxing as the flavors hit his palate—the rich, gamey depth of the duck eggs, the sharp bite of the aged cheddar, and the bright, clean crunch of the fresh chives.

He chewed slowly, deliberately, savoring the bite before swallowing.

"The salt ratio is mathematically precise," Valerian murmured, setting the fork down on the counter with a soft clink. He looked back up at me, his gaze suddenly sharp, assessing, and entirely focused. "Most high-end chefs burn the butter or rush the curl, resulting in a rubbery texture. Yours is flawless. You have a palate, Sylvia."

A rush of intense, unfamiliar pride bloomed in my chest. Flawless. Nobody had ever used that word to describe anything I did. Richard called me useless; Helen called me a burden. But this ruthless, untouchable tycoon had just validated the secret passion I had guarded in the dark for years.

"Thank you," I whispered, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through my anxiety.

"Do not thank me yet," Valerian said, his tone instantly shifting back to that cold, business-like finality. He straightened his posture, pulling his phone from his pocket and typing a quick message. "Your stepfather claimed you had no skills. He traded you as administrative and manual labor. Clearly, he is as blind in business as he is in his finances."

He locked his phone and slid it away, stepping closer until the clean scent of cedarwood and citrus enveloped me once again.

"As of tomorrow, your routine changes," Valerian commanded, his silver eyes locking onto mine with an intense, unyielding grip. "You will still attend your high school classes with your friend Daisy. But in the evenings, you will no longer sit idle in the east wing. You will train under my executive chef, Monsieur Dupont. If your talent is real, you will be useful to the Vance Group's hospitality expansion. If you fail, you go back to the desk."

He turned on his heel, walking toward the frosted glass doors of the kitchen, his white shirt catching the afternoon sun. He stopped just before exiting, looking back over his sharp shoulder.

"Eat your breakfast, Sylvia. Tomorrow, your real work begins."