Bidding for My Chef's Heart

Gordon Hayworth unwrapped the exquisitely packaged box, his finely tapered fingers retrieving the lunch inside. For an entire week, his legendarily picky stomach had accepted meals from this place without complaint. Each dish was plated with artistic precision—visually stunning and aromatic before delighting the taste buds. After devouring every last morsel, Gordon pressed the intercom. Cyrus Yeats, his chief secretary, strode into the CEO's office the moment the summons came. "The recent meals have been... agreeable. Which five-star establishment provides them?" Cyrus felt his scalp prickle at the question. His boss was a living legend in the business world, a man who spun ventures into gold like a modern Midas. Every project under his command yielded astronomical profits. Admired and envied wherever he went, Gordon wasn't just blessed with elite pedigree and a sculpted physique—his face looked god-carved. Yet for the past year, his food standards had grown unreasonably demanding. Chefs came and went faster than revolving doors until fate led them to Crimson Kitchen. Somehow, this place's offerings had satisfied his unpredictable cravings, bringing seven blissfully complaint-free days. There was just one catch—the establishment wasn't remotely five-star. Not that it mattered. Crimson Kitchen ruled food review sites as the crowd favorite, a humble eatery with aristocratic flair. "Actually, sir," Cyrus ducked his head guiltily, "your recent lunches were personally prepared by Crimson Kitchen's head chef." After cycling through every elite chef in Alenville—sometimes multiple per day—what five-star chefs were left? This admission took all of Cyrus's courage to make. Yet Crimson Kitchen's head chef possessed skills surpassing many seasoned five-star veterans. For seven straight days, their culinary magic had kept the CEO's unpredictable appetite happily captive. At "Crimson Kitchen," Gordon's emerald eyes narrowed slightly behind thick lashes. The name rang strangely unfamiliar. "It's... an unconventional discovery," Cyrus quickly added. "The place doesn't hold a candle to five-star establishments, but their chef's technique is extraordinary." Gordon sprang up from the plush ebony leather throne, his movements fluid yet commanding. With effortless grace, he undid the buttons of his tailored suit jacket, revealing a crisp white shirt beneath—the picture of rakish charm. "Set up a meeting with them," he ordered, his smoky baritone voice dropping as he closed the distance to Cyrus. A firm pat on the assistant's shoulder followed—a gesture that somehow felt more intimidating than reassuring. Cyrus stiffened. Was this... approval? No reprimand for the restaurant's non-five-star status? The boss's taste buds must've been thoroughly conquered. Yet as Gordon turned to leave, the faint smirk playing on his lips sent an involuntary shiver down Cyrus's spine. Dawn broke with Tracy's ride-hailing car pulling up to Grandeur International Hotel—ten minutes behind schedule. She briskly entered the lobby, her ponytail swinging with purpose. Cyrus spotted her instantly. After scrutinizing her profile yesterday, he'd expected some seasoned chef—not this young woman whose photo barely captured her radiant presence. Up close, she carried herself with a standout confidence that drew the eye. "Miss Page," he greeted, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. Even as he relaxed at her arrival, Tracy offered an apologetic wince. "My apologies for the delay. Family matters," she said, hands clasped. Cyrus's gaze flickered to those slender fingers—surprisingly well-kept for someone who wielded knives daily. "The CEO's waiting inside," he said, gesturing forward. Tracy's brows knitted. CEO? Her confusion mounted as Cyrus ushered her into a VIP suite where minimalist elegance reigned supreme. There, lounging with predatory ease across a jet-black Chesterfield sofa, sat a man who exuded commanding presence. His chiseled features looked like they were sculpted by the gods themselves, with black sunglasses resting on his aristocratic nose. His perfectly proportioned lips were full and rosy, while his long legs, clad in smoke-gray trousers, were casually crossed. The gleaming black Oxfords caught the sunlight streaming through the windows, bathing his entire figure in a golden glow that screamed wealth and power. The deliberate tick-tock of his slender fingers against the mahogany desk filled the room, the oppressive atmosphere making Tracy's fingers unconsciously twist into her shirt hem. "Hello, I'm the head chef of Red Kitchen," she said, shattering the tense silence when he didn't respond. Gordon removed his sunglasses with practiced elegance, those piercing eyes dropping to the diamond-encrusted Rolex on his left wrist. "Fifteen minutes late," he remarked, his voice frosty and dripping with annoyance. "My apologies for being late. I would've been on time if not for a family emergency," Tracy replied, chewing her lip as she lowered her gaze in sincere apology. "Do you have any concept of how valuable my time is?" She met his devilishly handsome face - completely unreadable, like a marble statue. "Since your schedule is so tight, let's discuss the gala desserts immediately." In one fluid motion, she pulled the dessert catalog from her backpack. "These are our signature creations. Please take a look." She thrust the menu book at him. Gordon stared dumbfounded. Desserts? When had this become about desserts? "Become my private chef and we'll forget this delay," he cut in, ignoring the offered catalog. Tracy awkwardly withdrew the book, searching his stone-cold expression. Private chef? What's that about? she thought. So this wasn't a business meeting at all? He just wanted to poach her? "Sir, there seems to be some confusion here. I came to discuss dessert catering with Mr.Yeats. If you're looking for a private chef, we're not even in the same book." Just as Tracy turned to leave, Gordon grabbed her wrist firmly. The sudden grip made her freeze mid-step. She spun around, throwing him a puzzled look. Gordon hesitated—his action had been pure instinct, an impulsive urge to stop her from walking away. He hadn't even realized what he was doing. When their eyes met, hers were clear as a mountain spring, mirroring his own striking features. "Let me repeat myself," his voice low. "Be my private chef." "That hurts! You're hurting me," Tracy wrenched her arm free with a sharp twist. "And no—I'm a chef, not a personal one. It's all there on our website if you don't believe me." Irritated, she put a solid three feet between them. Typical CEO arrogance. To Gordon, her retreat felt like a deliberate slight. For the first time ever, someone had outright refused him. It took a full second to sink in. Not that he lacked charm—this woman just had nerves of steel. Who'd have thought her cooking would be the one thing his stomach didn't rebel against? Fine. He'd compromise. "Name your price," he said with absolute confidence. The offer was too good to refuse.