The next few days passed in quiet rhythm. Amara cooked, cleaned, and stayed out of trouble — or at least, she tried to. Every time Luca entered the kitchen or passed through the dining hall, the air seemed to change. Conversations stopped, movements slowed, and even the sound of boiling water seemed to hush itself.
But Amara wasn't easily intimidated. She kept doing her job, greeting him with the same calm smile each morning. And slowly, she started to notice things others might have missed — the way he always paused before tasting her food, the subtle nod of approval when a dish impressed him, and the rare moments when his hard expression softened ever so slightly.
It was a Friday afternoon when everything changed.
Amara had just finished organizing the pantry when Maria walked in, holding a sleek black envelope.
"Miss Cole, this just came from Mr. Moretti's assistant," she said.
"For me?" Amara asked, wiping her hands on her apron.
Maria nodded, her expression unreadable.
Amara opened it carefully. Inside was a simple card with elegant handwriting that read:
Dinner for two. Tonight. 8 p.m. Private dining room. —L. Moretti
Her heart skipped. Dinner for two? Private?
She looked up at Maria, who gave her a half-smile. "It seems Mr. Moretti has taken a liking to your cooking."
"Or he's planning to fire me privately," Amara muttered.
Maria chuckled. "If he were firing you, he wouldn't send an invitation in an envelope that expensive."
Amara laughed softly, but her nerves refused to settle.
By seven, she was in her room, staring at her reflection. It wasn't a date. It was dinner. Just dinner. Between an employer and his chef.
Still, she couldn't bring herself to wear her usual chef's coat. Instead, she chose a simple black dress that stopped just below her knees, modest but elegant. She tied her hair into a loose bun, let a few strands fall freely, and added a faint touch of gloss to her lips.
At 7:50, she received another text.
Driver waiting outside your quarters.
She grabbed her shawl, inhaled deeply, and stepped out.
The driver led her to a smaller section of the mansion she'd never seen before. The private dining room was intimate — a single round table, soft golden lighting, and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the garden illuminated by moonlight.
Luca was already there, dressed in a dark suit with his sleeves rolled just enough to reveal a silver watch and the faint ink on his wrist. He stood when she entered.
"Miss Cole," he greeted. "You look… different tonight."
"Hopefully not in a bad way," she said lightly.
"Not at all." His voice was low, deliberate. "Please, sit."
She took a seat across from him. The table was already set with crystal glasses and white candles.
"I hope you don't mind," Luca said. "I asked the staff to prepare tonight's meal so you could join me instead of serving."
Amara blinked in surprise. "Oh. I wasn't expecting that."
"I figured you might enjoy being the guest for once," he said, pouring her a glass of red wine.
She smiled. "That's… thoughtful."
He sat back, watching her. "You've been here a week. I wanted to see what kind of person runs my kitchen now."
"I hope I've passed the test," she teased.
He tilted his head slightly. "You've exceeded it."
Her chest tightened unexpectedly at the compliment. She wasn't used to that kind of praise — especially not from someone like him.
They talked as they ate, though Luca did most of the listening. Amara spoke about her love for cooking, how she learned from her grandmother, and how she believed food had the power to comfort and connect.
"You cook like someone who's been hurt before," he said quietly at one point.
She looked up, surprised. "That's an odd observation."
"It's not meant to be." His eyes softened. "You put emotion into your dishes. People who've never known pain rarely do."
She didn't know what to say to that. Instead, she took a slow sip of her wine.
"And you," she said finally, "sound like a man who understands pain too well."
For a moment, his jaw tensed. Then he looked away. "We all have ghosts, Miss Cole. Some of us just learn to live with them."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was charged — heavy with unspoken things neither dared to say aloud.
When dessert arrived — tiramisu, her favorite — she smiled. "You remembered."
Luca's gaze held hers. "You mentioned it in your file. You wrote that making tiramisu reminds you of your mother."
Her eyes widened slightly. "You read my file?"
"I read everything," he replied simply. "Especially the parts that reveal who people really are."
Her heart gave a small, traitorous flutter.
After dinner, he stood and walked her toward the door. "Thank you for joining me tonight," he said. "I don't often… do this."
"Have dinner?" she teased.
"Have company."
Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat, the world outside ceased to exist. The pull between them was undeniable — dangerous, forbidden, and thrilling.
But before either could say another word, Luca's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, and his expression darkened instantly.
"I have to take this," he said, stepping aside. "Goodnight, Miss Cole."
She nodded, masking her disappointment. "Goodnight, Luca."
As she walked back to her room, her mind swirled with confusion. She had come here for a job, not for whatever was starting to happen between them.
And yet, somewhere deep inside, she knew the line between work and desire had already started to blur.