Bidding for My Chef's Heart

Chapter 6 A Million-Dollar Photo

Gordon Hayworth stepped into the apartment, immediately struck by its minimalist yet surprisingly spacious vibe. His eyes landed on a dedicated wall covered with polished awards, embroidered banners, and certificates—all bearing Tracy Page's name.

First-place ribbons from prestigious cooking contests dominated the display, but what truly caught his attention were the framed photos capturing Tracy's philanthropic work—each snapshot showing her serving meals at orphanages or volunteering at charity events. This was a side of her he hadn't seen before. Not bad at all. Exactly what he'd expect from the woman who'd caught his eye.

Tracy ignored her uninvited guest entirely, marching straight to the kitchen with grocery bags in hand. Fresh vegetables and premium cuts of meat soon met their destiny under her skilled fingers. Within what felt like a cooking marathon, she'd transformed ingredients into masterpieces—plating them on sterilized tableware with the precision of a Michelin chef. The whole scene left Gordon blinking. Why was she even bothering?

Meanwhile, the CEO lounged on her sofa like a luxury ad come to life—one long leg casually draped over the other, his chiseled profile propped up by a hand. The afternoon light sculpted him into something out of a Renaissance painting.

"Mr. Hayworth," Tracy announced as she set down the dishes, "this isn't a soup kitchen. One-time exception only. Eat and leave." She said flatly.

He rose with predatory grace, each step radiating authority that made the air thicken. The spread before him was a symphony of colors and aromas—vibrant greens alongside rich red sauces, artful garnishes putting his usual five-star takeout to shame. Right then, Gordon decided: he'd have this woman as his personal chef if it was the last thing he did.

A smirk curled his lips as he pulled a check from his slacks. "Top billing for any chef," he purred, tapping the million-dollar check on the table. The way his mouth quirked at the edges was downright devilish.

Tracy glanced at the sum. Grandeur Group could probably buy small countries with their petty cash, and here was its heir throwing around pocket change. "That's it?" She snatched the check with a scoff.

His eyes darkened. Did she just dismiss him?

But then—anticipation flickered. He relaxed into the chair, amusement softening his features as he picked up chopsticks. "We've got all the time in the world," Gordon murmured, letting the words hang between them.

Tracy clenched the check, praying this was goodbye for good. "A long future ahead"? What a nightmare. If this became a daily routine, she'd be checking into the loony bin. She flung her apron aside and marched to the study—done entertaining Gordon's ridiculous antics.

Her schedule wasn't about to clear itself.

Tracy could turn pennies into fortunes, yet her personal account had never seen a balance over $9,999. Every cent went to the welfare home's orphans and elders. This windfall meant new beds, medicine, winter coats—everything they'd gone without.

As Gordon took his first bite of each dish, his usually stern expression melted into something almost... human. This wasn't cooking—this was sorcery. He'd sampled every delicacy from Paris to Tokyo, yet only Tracy's food captivated him. Today proved it: he was hooked. Completely, irrevocably hooked.

Contentment warmed his chest after the meal. Yet that infuriating woman had ignored him. Even the damn air deserved more attention than she'd given him.

He studied the mirror. Years in the gym had carved him into perfection—eight-pack abs, shoulders that filled doorways. His face? The kind that launched a thousand i********: thirst traps. And this woman acted like he carried the plague?

Wherever he went, swooning socialites and dropped champagne flutes followed. Only Tracy bolted like he was the tax collector. A wicked grin spread across his face as he plucked her photo from the wall, slipping it into his breast pocket—a trophy.

From his jacket came a blank check and pen. In his precise, slightly slanted script (so like the man himself—all arrogant angles), he wrote:

"A million for this photo. Consider it sold."

He left the note glaring on the table—a little something to remember her by. His first visit to a woman's home deserved souvenirs.

When Tracy returned for water: empty room. Seriously? He came, he ate, he vanished? How utterly privileged she was—having Grandeur's CEO stage a home invasion... for leftovers.

Rolling her eyes so hard they nearly stuck, she gathered the dishes. Back to work.

Staring at the sticky note and another million-dollar check, Tracy's lips twitched. A million for a photo? What's the deal with that?

But money was money. She pocketed the checks—both millions would be donated to the Angel's Eye Foundation under Gordon's name, bringing light to blind children.

"Thank you," she murmured, grateful for his unexpected generosity. It came at the perfect time.

After tidying up, Tracy's phone buzzed with a video call from Elliot.

"Mommy, bedtime now. Goodnight!"

Warmth flooded her as she saw her son’s face. "Sleep tight, sweetheart. I’ll get you after school tomorrow. Love you." Her voice overflowed with tenderness.

"Love you more! Don’t work too late!" Elliot reluctantly ended the call, knowing she was probably hustling behind his back.

Determined to pull his own weight, the boy had quietly started a streaming channel to help. His master plan? Taking over new dish promotions at Taste Titans with his handpicked team—something he'd been preparing for months.

With his natural tech savvy and sharp eye for trends, Elliot had built a skilled crew despite his age. Once launched, this operation could solve half of Tracy's headaches.

He could hardly contain his excitement.

Meanwhile, a Bugatti Veyron cruised through the night, Gordon's hands firm on the wheel. Eyes on the road, he spoke into his headset: "I want the engagement moved up to this Sunday."

Not month-end—now. His cravings couldn't wait till month-end.

Morris nearly choked. "Y-yes, sir. I'll handle the arrangements—"

"Let the Pages decide everything. Keep it simple—just close friends on our side. No big production."

The butler was stunned. For a man who obsessed over details, handing over control was unheard of. This wasn't just an engagement—it was an unprecedented honor for the bride's family.

Ethan was riding high on excitement after receiving the news—this topped even the thrill of closing major deals. The engagement ceremony this Sunday? Exactly what he'd hoped for, the sooner the better. For days, he'd been pacing like a caged tiger, convinced this alliance with the Hayworth family felt like winning the lottery, a dream he feared would dissolve at any moment.

His fingers shook noticeably as he personally dialed Grace's number. She'd kept her phone glued to her side lately, determined not to miss her parents' calls. When Ethan's call came through, her voice was dutifully sweet. "Hello Dad? Is everything alright?"

"Grace, we're moving the engagement to this Sunday. You'll need to pause your rehearsals and come home tomorrow."

At those words, Grace clenched her fists until her knuckles whitened. Her heart tore between two dreams: One was to command the National Theater's spotlight, showcasing talents forged through twenty years of sweat-drenched rehearsals—all to become a woman worthy of Gordon. The other? To become Mrs. Hayworth. And now, this Sunday, that dream would be sealed with a ring.