Ding—
The familiar mechanical chime resounded in his mind, breaking the silence of the unfinished restaurant.
[Chef God System]
New Task Generated:
Recruit at least one qualified server for the restaurant before opening.
Reward: Mystery Dish Mastery — A fully mastered recipe of unknown origin (Mastery Level).
Adrian glanced at the empty dining room and arched a brow.
"A server? Looks like the system understands the priorities of running a restaurant better than I do."
Dragging over a chair, he sat down, mind swiftly calculating. To find a qualified server—someone quick, adaptable, and capable of handling all kinds of guests—wouldn't be easy. The restaurant had no reputation yet, salaries couldn't be generous, and attracting serious applicants might prove troublesome.
After a moment's thought, he pulled out his notebook and wrote a simple notice:
"Hiring Server:
Small restaurant, located by the Canal Saint-Martin.
Requirements: Presentable, good communication skills, prior experience preferred.
Pay negotiable, meals included.
—— Adrian Chen"
He taped the paper firmly to the restaurant's front door, then pulled out his phone, snapped a decent photo of the façade, and posted a digital version of the ad to his social media.
"That's everything I can do for now." Adrian stretched, rolling his shoulders, and headed upstairs.
The narrow wooden staircase creaked under his steps, its aged railing cool beneath his hand, but the structure felt unexpectedly solid.
From the outside, the building seemed unremarkable—a gray-and-white façade with plain floor-to-ceiling windows, easily overlooked among the shops lining the Canal Saint-Martin.
But inside, it was an entirely different world.
The entire building was his—a gift from his father.
With a total area of roughly 120 square meters, the first floor housed the restaurant itself—about 100 square meters, seating thirty-five to forty guests. The second and third floors served as his living space, each room spacious and airy.
In this district, even on a secondary stretch of the canal, such a property cost between seven and eight hundred thousand euros. His father had not only paid for the transfer rights and purchase but also covered the renovation costs.
While the first floor still retained the rough, half-finished look of the previous tenant, the second and third floors had already been fully renovated—minimalist black-and-white, clean lines, furniture arranged with deliberate precision—a quiet, modern Parisian elegance.
The second floor was a sprawling open kitchen seamlessly connected to a study, its shelves lined with culinary tomes and mathematics notes—a space for experimentation, inspiration, and thought.
The third floor was his bedroom with a small terrace; the floor-to-ceiling door opened to a modest balcony overlooking the canal, where the evening breeze carried the scent of water and offered a rare moment of stillness amid his restless days.
Adrian still remembered his first walkthrough of the building.
Seeing the polished living quarters above and the untouched restaurant below, he immediately understood his father's intent—providing him with a home, while leaving the dream—the kitchen—to be built by his own hands.
His father had designed a life that suited his tastes, yet left the stage for his ambitions entirely to him.
He climbed to the third floor and pushed open the door to the terrace. The night air off the canal was cool and damp, and the streetlamps cast broken reflections across the water. Leaning against the railing, he recalled his father's parting words:
"Your path should be yours to decide."
Ding—
The familiar voice echoed again:
[Chef God System]
Task in progress: Recruit at least one qualified server before opening.
Adrian rubbed his temples, laughing softly.
"All right. Looks like I'll have to get moving tomorrow."
He shut the terrace door, washed up, and collapsed onto his bed.
The night seeped in through the window, laying soft shadows across the monochrome room. He closed his eyes.
Morning.
Sunlight filtered through the blinds, slanting across the room.
Adrian stood in the bathroom on the third floor, one hand brushing his teeth, the other scrolling through his phone.
The ad he'd posted last night had exploded—more likes and comments than he'd expected, his inbox overflowing with private messages.
"So many people want to apply?"
He raised an eyebrow, skimming a few applications—only to fall silent.
The so-called applicants had written things like:
"Can I work as your personal assistant instead of a server?"
"Will the boss be in the restaurant every day? Can I get a photo with you?"
"Private cooking lessons, please! I just want to watch you cook."
Adrian sighed, setting his phone face-down on the counter.
He raised his head and met his reflection in the mirror:
a face of mixed heritage, sharp yet refined features, a tall, lean frame draped in minimalist black-and-white loungewear, as though he'd stepped out of a fashion ad.
Of course, he knew why.
Intelligent, multilingual, socially capable yet innately reserved—
In the popular vernacular, he was the quintessential "forbidden-fruit" type: the enigmatic, untouchable heartthrob.
No wonder that mere photos from university events or club gatherings had drawn tens of thousands of followers to his account.
Scrolling further, Adrian realized most "candidates" weren't seeking work at all—they were simply using the posting as an excuse to get close to him.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling.
"…This is going to be a problem."
Shaking the water from his hands, he tossed the phone back onto the nightstand.
"Forget it. Not dealing with this right now."
Breakfast first.
Heading downstairs to the open kitchen on the second floor, he opened the refrigerator.
Inside, everything was neatly arranged: yesterday's market eggs, golden French butter, a block of precisely cut ham, and a basket of freshly washed seasonal vegetables.
Adrian pulled out a few ingredients and set them on the counter.
His movements were fluid, instinctive—butter melting in the pan at the perfect temperature without scorching, eggs whisked with milk at an exact ratio, ham sliced so thin it was nearly translucent.
Even a simple breakfast of French toast and eggs felt like it belonged on the menu of an upscale bistro.
The pan hissed as oil met bread, filling the air with the rich aroma of butter.
Cooking always did this for him—brought his thoughts into focus, quieted the noise of everything else.
Whatever tasks awaited, whatever problems loomed, in these moments, he was simply a chef.
Soon, breakfast was ready.
Golden French toast stacked neatly on a white porcelain plate, its edges crisp like a caramelized wafer, dusted with powdered sugar and crushed almonds, dotted with a few fresh blueberries—simple, yet as refined as a pâtisserie display.
Beside it, a fried egg, perfectly round with a delicate, lacy edge, its yolk gleaming like liquid gold.
Adrian placed the plate on the dining table, added a cup of freshly brewed black coffee, and set his utensils.
Just as the knife touched the toast, the doorbell rang.
"Ding-dong—"
He froze, head lifting, brows furrowing.
At this hour?
The restaurant wasn't open yet. The sign hadn't even been mounted. No one should be here.
Setting down his utensils, Adrian walked toward the first floor, the bell ringing again, its tone bright and insistent.
The wooden stairs creaked under his steps.
Through the restaurant's glass door—still bare of any signage—he saw a figure.
A quietly charming face, framed by honey-blonde hair, eyes curved like crescents as she beamed a wide, unrestrained smile.
She waved enthusiastically, as if greeting an old friend.
Adrian stopped, staring for two seconds, then let out a soft laugh.
"…Interesting."
The morning, sluggish with sleep and routine, suddenly felt alive.
Stepping closer, he saw her more clearly:
long, softly wavy blonde hair catching the sunlight, falling over her shoulders; eyes as blue as the Canal Saint-Martin in midsummer, framed by long, dark lashes; a straight nose and lips curved in a perpetually playful tilt.
She wore a light knit cardigan over a denim skirt, her tall, lithe frame accented by simple white sneakers—casual, bright, brimming with life.
Her smile was disarming, wholly unguarded—like the girl next door unexpectedly appearing on a summer morning.
Adrian unlocked the electronic door; with a soft beep, the lock disengaged.
The girl, apparently waiting for that signal, pushed the door open without hesitation.
"Hello!!!" she said brightly, her voice as familiar as it was clear.
Adrian blinked at the sudden burst of energy, instinctively staring at her face again.
Those blue eyes. That smile. That irrepressible spark.
Two seconds later, realization struck. He chuckled softly.
"…What are you doing here?"
Of course. It was her.
His childhood friend from Shanghai.
Memories surged—
his parents, busy with work, left him to spend most of his time at her house;
her parents, British diplomats in Shanghai, warm and teasing: "You two should just get married when you grow up."
They had been inseparable, two children sharing a world of their own.
Then, abruptly, he moved to France. So suddenly, he hadn't even left her his contact information.
And just like that, they'd lost touch.
Yet now, years later, she stood there as though nothing had changed, wearing that same sunlit smile.
Adrian tilted his head, as if confirming she was real, his lips curving unconsciously:
"…Long time no see."
The girl planted her hands on her hips, striking a mock-stern pose, and teased with a wink:
"Amelia Clarke. Remember me? Your favorite little tagalong. Don't you dare say you forgot."
She grinned wider, voice lilting with mischief:
"Surprised? I show up at your door out of nowhere, and you don't even say 'welcome'?"
Adrian shook his head at her smugness, a laugh escaping him.
"…How could I forget."
Suddenly remembering the state of the first floor, he gestured toward the stairs.
"This place isn't exactly ready for guests. Come upstairs instead."
Amelia arched a brow, crossing her arms dramatically:
"Oh? Do I look like the kind of girl who just follows a man upstairs?"
Adrian blinked, momentarily thrown off.
"You—"
Before he could finish, she darted past him with a playful laugh, hopping up the stairs two at a time.
"Relax! I'm kidding. Come on!"
She glanced back, waving for him to follow, her movements light and effortless, like some mischievous sprite who'd danced back into his life.
Adrian could only shake his head, lips quirking with reluctant amusement, as he followed her up.
Amelia bounded onto the second floor, moving with the ease of someone who belonged there.
She surveyed the spacious open kitchen and study, nodding approvingly at the clean black-and-white aesthetic.
"Wow. This is nice. Very you."
Then her eyes landed on the plate at the dining table.
Golden French toast stacked with artistic precision, a side of perfectly cooked eggs, the meal bathed in morning light.
Her eyes lit up instantly.
"Wait—this is your breakfast?!" she exclaimed, voice bright with delight. "Can I have some?"
Adrian sighed, knowing there was no winning against that look. He gestured helplessly.
"Help yourself."
Amelia grinned, sliding into a chair with practiced grace, as if the place had always been hers.
Adrian poured himself a cup of coffee, leaning against the counter to watch her. She sliced the toast into neat bites, savoring each one with unabashed contentment, like a guest at a fine dining table.
"You just got to Paris?" he asked at last.
She dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin, answering with a casual smile:
"Yesterday. Well, technically, I only arrived in France two days ago."
Adrian raised an eyebrow. "That sudden?"
"Not really." She twirled her fork idly, voice light but deliberate. "After you left Shanghai, I did too. Dad's job took us to the U.S., then Germany for a few years."
She paused, her smile turning a touch proud.
"And then, I finished my studies at Imperial College London. Graduated, and came straight here."
Adrian regarded her quietly, his voice carrying a faint trace of something unspoken:
"The U.S., Germany, the U.K.… and now France. You really do keep moving."
Amelia's eyes sparkled with quiet mischief. "Isn't that the point? To see the world."
He chuckled softly, shaking his head.
As she finished the last bite of toast, Adrian finally asked the question that had been circling his mind:
"So… why France? Why now?"
Amelia set down her fork and met his gaze, her expression turning playfully serious.
She smiled—a little sly, yet utterly sincere.
"For you."