POV: Ava |
"Would Madam prefer to eat in her suite again, or dine with the Young Master?"
The chef's voice was polite, careful, formal.
But I had bigger plans.
"I'll cook," I announced, hands on hips, like this wasn't my first time in a billionaire's marble kitchen with a chandelier the size of my college dorm.
Chef Lin blinked. "Ma'am?"
"I said, I'll cook dinner tonight. For both of us."
A pause.
Then came the questions:
"Would you like assistance?"
"Shall I preheat the stove?"
"Ma'am, do you… need a knife?"
I smiled sweetly. "No need. I brought my own set."
Yes. My own set. In pink. With engraved handles and little heart-shaped measuring spoons. Grandma Chen taught me everything I know—from dumplings to desserts, from mooncakes to risottos. I may look like a soft girl who cries over broken nail polish, but the moment I step into a kitchen?
I become a force of nature.
---
Forty-five minutes later, the table was set.
Garlic butter udon noodles with seared shrimp. A side of sautéed bok choy in oyster sauce. Crispy five-spice tofu with honey glaze. Chilled strawberry matcha pudding.
And the banana bread. Because tradition.
I changed into a soft cherry-red satin dress, tied my hair in a loose ribbon, and touched up my lip gloss. I looked like a girl in love. A little silly. A little dreamy. A lot married.
And then I waited.
Enter: Alex Ren.
Dark slacks. Rolled sleeves. Jawline so sharp it could cut my confidence in half. His eyes scanned the table, then landed on me.
I waited for the sarcasm. The eye-roll. The "what is this?" energy he did so well.
But instead?
He sat.
Picked up his chopsticks.
Took a bite.
Paused.
Another bite.
Another.
Then—softly, under his breath—"What the hell…"
I leaned forward, chin in palm. "You like it?"
He looked up at me like he couldn't figure me out. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"
"My grandma," I said proudly. "I used to spend every weekend in her kitchen. She told me food makes people feel at home."
Alex didn't answer.
But he kept eating. Silently. Almost… hungrily.
I bit my lip to keep from grinning. This was so much better than I imagined. My cold, quiet, mysterious husband—the one I used to watch from behind my locker door in middle school—was sitting at our dinner table, eating my food, in our house.
And maybe—just maybe—he didn't hate it.
He cleared his plate. Reached for seconds.
I didn't say anything. Just poured him tea and sat across from him, watching the candlelight flicker in his eyes.
And for the first time since I walked into this mansion, I didn't feel like just the girl who had a crush.
I felt like his wife.