Lydia Hart had survived galas, boardrooms, and private reprimands—but today, she decided to challenge fate in a completely new arena: the kitchen.
It had seemed like a brilliant idea at the time. She wanted to prove to Alexander Vale—and herself—that she could handle responsibility, independence, and perhaps even earn a hint of respect. How hard could cooking be?
She had spent thirty minutes watching tutorials on her phone, memorizing instructions for what the internet claimed was "a foolproof gourmet meal." She was armed with ingredients, optimism, and a deep-seated hope that Alexander wouldn't appear mid-disaster.
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By the time she entered the penthouse kitchen, Lydia's nerves were already frayed. The countertops gleamed like glass, stainless steel appliances reflected her every anxious movement, and the faint scent of sophistication filled the room. She took a deep breath. You've got this. How hard can it be to fry an egg?
Famous last words.
The first disaster struck immediately. She reached for the olive oil and, in her panic, knocked the salt container into the air. It toppled, spilling across the counter, landing in the flour, and creating a cloud of white dust that coated her hair, face, and part of the marble floor.
"Perfect," she muttered, trying to brush it off. Her reflection in the oven's glass looked like a snowstorm had exploded. Gourmet chef vibes? Not yet.
Then came the fire.
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The recipe had instructed her to sauté onions and garlic over medium heat. Lydia, trying to multitask while cleaning up the salt-flour chaos, accidentally turned the stove to high. Within seconds, smoke began to curl upward like ghostly fingers. Alarm bells shrieked as the smoke detector blared its warning.
"Excellent," Lydia whispered, panic rising. At least I'm consistent in disasters.
Just as she waved at the smoke, flapping a towel ineffectively, the kitchen door opened.
Alexander Vale.
He stepped inside silently, as if he had been observing from a hidden camera the entire time. His eyes swept the kitchen, and for a split second, Lydia thought he might explode.
Instead, he raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow and said in his usual flat, deadly calm tone:
"Miss Hart. What is happening here?"
"I—I'm cooking!" she stammered. "It's supposed to be… gourmet!"
He crossed the room in three long strides, stopping behind her. Smoke curled around his shoulders, making him look even more imposing.
"This," he said, voice flat as ice, "is a disaster. You are not to burn the kitchen. Or yourself. Or anything of value in this apartment."
"I—I didn't mean to! I was… trying…"
He turned, hands clasped behind his back. "Trying is irrelevant. Compliance is required. Efficiency, precision, and caution are required. The contract covers damages. Do not forget."
Lydia groaned. Of course it does. Of course it does.
The next half hour was a blur. Alexander stood silently, observing her fumbling attempts at cooking. Every slip, every burnt onion, every spill—he cataloged. Lydia's hands shook as she attempted to stir sauces and sauté vegetables, each movement more chaotic than the last.
At one point, she dropped a knife. Alexander's reaction was subtle—a single, sharp glance that sent shivers down her spine. "Miss Hart," he said calmly, "pick it up. Carefully."
"Yes… sir," she muttered, trembling. Carefully… that's a good idea.
She managed to salvage a small portion of the meal, presenting it on a plate with shaky hands.
Alexander regarded it silently, his expression unreadable.
"You call this gourmet?" His voice was flat, measured. Lydia's stomach sank.
"It… it's edible?" she offered, voice quivering.
"Barely," he replied. "This will not do. And if it were served to guests or clients, the consequences would be severe. Remember the penalty clause."
Her cheeks burned. Penalty clause… again?
After the "lesson" in culinary incompetence, Alexander finally left the kitchen, leaving Lydia to clean the chaos she had created. Flour-coated counters, blackened onions, spilled olive oil, and a smoke-stained stove were her legacy. She collapsed onto a chair, exhausted, defeated, and slightly terrified of the next day.
As she scrubbed, her phone buzzed. A notification appeared: another social media post, this time mocking the "Vale family's new bride" and speculating about what she was doing in Alexander's penthouse. Comments ranged from sarcastic to cruel.
Her chest tightened. The contract, the CEO's rules, the scrutiny—it was relentless. And yet, amidst the chaos, Lydia realized she was learning something important: she could survive, even under pressure.
She just had to survive.
Late that night, as Lydia attempted to rest, Alexander appeared silently in the doorway.
"You attempted to cook," he said flatly, arms crossed. "Explain."
"I… I wanted to prove I can handle responsibility," Lydia said, voice trembling but defiant. "I wanted to show I'm capable of… contributing in some way."
His gaze swept over the kitchen, noting the evidence of failure. Smoke stains, spilled oil, scorched vegetables. And yet, there was something in his observation—calculating, cold, but not entirely dismissive.
"You are fortunate," he said finally. "No injury occurred. No permanent damage. Consider this a warning. Next time, the consequences will be enforced fully. Do you understand?"
"Yes… sir," Lydia whispered, her throat tight. Next time?
Alexander turned, leaving the kitchen in silence. The apartment felt colder, emptier, and yet more dangerous than ever. Lydia slumped against the counter, feeling both terrified and strangely exhilarated.
This contract was a battlefield, and she was learning the rules—slowly, painfully, but she was learning.
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Cliffhanger: As Lydia collapsed onto her bed, exhausted and defeated, she heard a soft ping from her phone. A new message from an unknown number flashed on the screen:
"Careful, Miss Hart. Not everyone in the family wants you here… and some are already planning your downfall."
Somewhere in the Vale empire, danger was brewing. And Lydia realized that survival would require more than just cooking skills—it would require strategy, wit, and nerves of steel.