Serving My Legacy to Her? Watch Me Pack My Knives.

Chapter 1

"Fire table seven, and tell pastry we need the spun sugar domes in three minutes!" Sloane Mercer barked, her voice cutting through the intense, humid clamor of the kitchen.

"Yes, Chef!" the line cooks echoed in unison.

Sloane didn’t look up. Her eyes were locked on the pristine white ceramic plate in front of her. With a pair of silver plating tweezers, she meticulously placed a single, edible gold-leafed micro-orchid atop the seared venison. A drop of blackberry demi-glace sat perfectly beside it, gleaming like a dark jewel under the harsh fluorescent lights.

This was it. The final dish of the twelve-course tasting menu she had spent six agonizing, sleep-deprived months perfecting. This menu was meant to be the crown jewel of the new flagship restaurant, the masterpiece that would secure a third Michelin star.

"Wipe that rim, Marcus," Sloane ordered, stepping back and pointing a rigid finger at a nearly invisible smudge of sauce. "We don’t serve fingerprints."

"Sorry, Chef. On it, Chef." Marcus scrambled for a pristine towel.

"Sloane, it looks incredible," a deep, smooth voice echoed from the swinging double doors.

Sloane’s posture stiffened before she even turned around. Julian Vance strode into the kitchen, looking less like a chef and more like a Hollywood leading man. His tailored charcoal suit clung to his broad shoulders, his hair perfectly tousled for the cameras that constantly followed him. He was the celebrity restaurateur, the TV darling, the man whose face plastered magazine covers.

And, for the last four years, he was the man whose bed she warmed and whose menus she secretly created.

But Julian wasn't alone. Clinging to his arm was a woman who looked like she had just stepped off a high-fashion runway. She wore a backless silk slip dress that was a health code violation in a commercial kitchen, and she was already holding up her phone, the ring light attached to the case blindingly bright.

"Julian," Sloane said, her voice dropping to a low, guarded tone. "We're in the middle of a mock service. The kitchen is hot."

"Oh, relax, Sloane," Julian laughed, flashing his signature million-dollar smile. He guided the woman forward. "Everyone, cut the heat for a second! Gather round!"

The clatter of pans and the hiss of searing meat died down. The line cooks exchanged uneasy glances but stepped away from their stations, wiping their hands on their aprons.

"Sloane," Julian said, beaming as he gestured to the woman beside him. "You know Aria Sterling, right?"

Sloane stared at the food influencer. Of course she knew Aria. The woman had four million followers on social media, famous for eating caviar off mother-of-pearl spoons and mispronouncing French culinary terms.

"We've met in passing," Sloane said, her face an unreadable mask. "Julian, the venison is resting. It needs to be tasted at optimal temperature."

"Oh my god, Julian, this plating is giving *everything*," Aria squealed, ignoring Sloane completely. She shoved her phone inches from the venison. "Is that real gold? Wait,