The clink of cutlery, the low hum of polished voices, and the warm glow of amber lighting greeted Elin the moment the maître d' pulled out her chair. She sat stiffly, tugging at the hem of the navy dress Axton had chosen for her, her eyes darting to the marble floors, the chandeliers, the wine glasses gleaming like crystal stars.
"This place is..." she whispered, then swallowed, "a little much, don't you think?"
Axton, already slipping easily into his seat across from her, leaned back with a small grin. "I thought about that. But then I remembered—if there's bread on the menu, it's technically in your territory."
Elin blinked, startled into a laugh. "That's not how it works."
"Of course it is," he countered smoothly, lowering his voice just for her. "You're the authority. If Gordon Ramsay himself came over to critique the bread here, I'd tell him to defer to you."
Her shoulders loosened despite herself, a quiet smile tugging at her lips. "You're ridiculous."
"Maybe. But you're smiling now."
Their waiter arrived with the breadbasket, laying it gently between them. Axton leaned forward, breaking off a piece and passing it to her with a flourish, as if offering a crown. "Go on, Master Baker. Tell me if this deserves to exist."
She rolled her eyes but accepted, chewing thoughtfully. "It's good. But the crust doesn't have that... snap. It's not like the ones from my oven."
Axton leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand, watching her as though she were the only thing in the room. "Exactly what I thought. Clearly, Gordon Ramsay needs to step aside."
She rolled her eyes but laughed again, the sound light, almost freeing. He let the moment linger, his gaze soft, until she finally set the bread down and gave him a wry smile. "You're just flattering me."
"No," he said quietly. "I'm telling the truth."
The evening unfolded slowly, like dough rising in the oven. Between sips of wine and plates of food, they traded pieces of themselves. Elin found herself telling him things she rarely shared: how she used to sneak into the kitchen at night as a child, shaping little rolls of dough while her parents thought she was asleep. How she almost gave up baking when her teachers said it wasn't a "real career." How she still feared, sometimes, that she wasn't enough.
He matched her with tales of boardroom chaos, though always told with a wry twist that made her giggle instead of worry.
Her laugh came easier this time, and she relaxed into the evening little by little, soothed by his humour and steady presence.
But beneath his charm, his chest tightened with the weight of what he was holding back. Every time she looked at him with those clear, earnest eyes, the words pressed harder against his tongue. He had rehearsed them, turned them over and over in his mind, but they still burned in his chest, restless and waiting.
The kiss that night in the bakery had been unplanned, almost reckless, but it had stripped away his defences.
He hadn't been able to stop thinking about it since—the warmth of her lips, the way she had trembled and then melted against him. It was that moment he had realized the truth.
The croissants, the coffee, the excuse of stopping by her bakery each morning—it had never been just that.
His hand turned, his fingers catching hers, holding them gently but firmly. And just like that, the restaurant, the polished world around them, began to blur.
"Elin," he murmured, the steadiness of his voice betraying just a flicker of nerves. "There's something I need to say."
Her throat tightened. "What is it?"
He drew in a breath, his green eyes searching hers. "The kiss the other night...and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it since."
Her lips parted, but no words came. The memory of that kiss—the way it had burned and softened at the same time—flashed through her, making her heart stumble.
Axton's grip on her hand tightened slightly, as if anchoring himself. "At first I thought I kept going back to the bakery for the croissants. That it was the bread, the coffee, the comfort. But the truth is, it was never just the food." He paused, his voice roughening. "It was you. It has always been you."
The air between them grew taut, charged with something unspoken, something both terrifying and exhilarating. Elin felt her pulse in her fingertips where his skin touched hers.
Her breath caught. The restaurant, the laughter, the elegant clatter of forks and glasses all faded until there was only him.
He leaned closer, his voice dropping so low it was meant for her alone. "I don't want this to be fleeting. Not a moment caught in the dark, not something we look back on and dismiss. I want more than excuses to walk into your bakery. I want you."
Elin stared at him, stunned, her heart thrumming in her chest. For a moment, she forgot how to breathe. "Axton..." she whispered, unsure if she could find the right words.
But before she could stumble out a reply, his hand tightened gently around hers. "Don't answer me now," he said firmly, though his tone was tender. "Please. I don't want a rushed yes or no, not when it matters this much."
Her eyes widened slightly. "You don't want my answer now?"
He shook his head once, his jaw relaxing as if he had rehearsed this moment in his mind countless times. "No. I want you to think about it. To feel it. To be sure. I want you to choose me because it feels right, not because you felt cornered over a dinner table with too much wine and too many eyes around us."
The words hit her harder than she expected. She felt her throat tighten with something dangerously close to tears, though she blinked them back quickly. Respect. That was what he was giving her. Space. Time. A choice.
"I..." She swallowed, her voice trembling before she steadied it. "Okay. I'll think about it."
Axton's lips curved into a softer smile, one that reached his eyes. "Good." He held her gaze for a beat longer before adding, his voice dropping into that playful rumble she had grown used to, "But you should know, Elin Chen, I plan to make it very, very hard for you to say no."
Her laugh came out choked, half-nervous, half-genuine, and she shook her head as if to push away the heat blooming in her chest. "You're impossible."
"Impossible, sure," he said, finally releasing her hand to reach for his glass of wine, "but you're here. With me."
Her pulse skipped again as she watched him sip slowly, his expression casual, almost smug, but his eyes still soft, still watching her like she was the only person in the room. She pressed her palms together in her lap, fighting the urge to smile too widely.
She wanted to tell him that she was terrified. That the thought of being chosen by someone like him made her feel both weightless and completely out of her depth. That part of her wanted to run, but an even larger part wanted to stay rooted right where she was, watching him watch her.
And in that quiet, fragile space, Elin realized the truth she wasn't ready to say aloud. She wanted him too.
The waiter returned with the first course. Seared scallops rested on the plate like little works of art, balanced atop bright orange carrot purée, garnished with delicate herbs and a crisp shard of pancetta. The presentation was almost intimidating.
Elin hesitated, glancing at Axton. "This looks like a painting. I feel like I'll ruin it if I touch it."
Axton leaned back in his chair, studying the plate with exaggerated seriousness. "I see something missing."
Her brows rose. "What?"
"Bread," he declared solemnly. "Bread is always missing."
A laugh bubbled out of her, a little too loud, and she quickly covered her mouth. The stiffness in her chest eased. She finally picked up her fork, cut into the scallop, and let it melt on her tongue. The buttery flesh gave way instantly, the sweetness of the carrot balancing it perfectly. A small hum escaped her throat before she could stop it.
Axton's gaze softened, his eyes never leaving her. "That good?"
She nodded, cheeks warm. "That good. I didn't know scallops could taste like this."
"Careful," he teased, his voice low. "You sound like you're falling in love."
Her fork clinked against the plate as she set it down, narrowing her eyes at him. "With food, yes. Don't get cocky."
The smirk tugging at his mouth told her he had no intention of listening.
When the main courses arrived, the scent alone made Elin's stomach flutter with anticipation. Axton's dish, the iconic beef Wellington, was golden and crisp, the pastry shell gleaming as the knife slid through to reveal tender pink meat wrapped in earthy mushroom duxelles. Her cod, meanwhile, glistened under the lights, laid over a bed of crushed potatoes and bright green beans.
Elin leaned forward, mesmerised. "That... looks incredible."
Axton cut a neat slice and, without hesitation, placed it onto her plate. "Try it."
She blinked. "Are you sure? This looks like the crown jewel of the menu."
"I insist," he said smoothly. "Besides, food is better when shared."
Her fork speared the piece of Wellington, and she tasted it. The pastry shattered with a satisfying crunch, the meat tender and rich. She stilled, her eyes widening. "Oh my god. That's... indecent."
Axton chuckled, watching her expression with quiet amusement. "So the croissant isn't the only pastry you dream about anymore?"
She pointed her fork at him in mock warning. "Don't you dare make me choose. Croissants are forever. This is just... a fling."
"Fair enough," he said, his grin spreading wide.
By dessert, the warmth of the room had fully seeped into her. The waiter set down their shared plate of sticky toffee pudding, glossy with caramel sauce, a scoop of vanilla ice cream slowly melting against it. Elin dipped her spoon into the soft sponge and took a bite. The sweetness wrapped around her like a blanket, rich and comforting.
She closed her eyes with a sigh. "This... this is happiness. Pure happiness."
Axton had yet to taste his. He was watching her again, his chin resting lightly on his hand, green eyes glowing in the candlelight. "You look beautiful when you're happy," he said quietly.
Her eyes flew open, a flush creeping into her cheeks. "Don't say things like that when my mouth is full of pudding."
"I'll say it whenever I want," he replied, utterly unbothered.
Elin set her fork down carefully, almost reverently, after finishing the last bite of sticky toffee pudding. The warm sweetness still lingered on her tongue, and she couldn't stop herself from smiling. "That was... honestly, that was perfect. I've seen so many of Gordon Ramsay's recipes on YouTube, but to actually be here, eating in one of his restaurants, it feels unreal. Like I'm having an out-of-body experience."
Across from her, Axton leaned back in his chair, his wine glass balanced loosely in one hand. Candlelight softened the sharp lines of his face, but his eyes gleamed with a teasing spark. "Out-of-body, hm? Would you like to make it even more surreal? Would you like to see him in person?"
Her brows shot up. "See him? Gordon Ramsay? Here?" She gave a nervous laugh, shaking her head. "Sure. Why not invite him over to shout at our table? That'd be the full experience."
"Exactly," Axton replied smoothly, the corner of his mouth tugging upward.
Elin tilted her head at him, narrowing her eyes. "Wait. You're joking, right? Please tell me you're joking."
He didn't answer. Instead, he reached into the inside pocket of his blazer and pulled out his phone. He scrolled with practiced ease, lips pressed together in a way that made it impossible to read whether he was bluffing.
Her stomach dropped. "Axton. No."
"Yes," he said, already pressing a number.
Elin half-rose from her chair before sinking back down, cheeks burning. "You're not seriously calling Gordon Ramsay."
He placed the phone to his ear, his expression utterly composed. "Richard," he said smoothly when the line connected. "Quick favor. Can you check whether Gordon's in Singapore this week? Yes. At Bread Street. If he's free, I'd like to—"
Elin clapped a hand over her face, her laugh muffled against her palm. "Oh my god. You're serious. You are actually serious."
Axton's eyes flicked up, catching her expression, and for a second the controlled mask slipped into a grin. He covered the speaker with his hand and leaned forward slightly, his voice lower now, just for her. "Why would I joke about this?"
She peeked at him through her fingers, her cheeks heating more by the second. "Because it's Gordon Ramsay! Normal people don't just call up someone like him."
"I never claimed to be normal." His tone was soft, but the smirk on his lips was dangerous.
Her heart gave a traitorous little flip. She snatched her hand away from her face and pointed her fork at him like a weapon. "If Gordon Ramsay shows up here tonight, I swear I will never bake for you again. Ever."
"Noted," Axton said with mock solemnity, returning to the phone call.
Elin sat frozen, her pulse racing as she tried to decide if he was bluffing or if she was about to meet one of the most famous chefs in the world. Either way, her world already felt tilted on its axis, as if just being here with him was a kind of impossible magic she couldn't quite catch her breath around.
The shift in the air was immediate. A murmur spread across the room, like a wave rolling through the tables. Waiters snapped to attention, their polished shoes clicking against the marble as they straightened their posture. Even the diners, people who looked as though they were used to wealth and spectacle, couldn't stop themselves from turning their heads.
Elin followed their gaze—and froze.
Striding into Bread Street Kitchen, wearing that signature sharp suit and an expression that brooked no nonsense, was Gordon Ramsay himself.
Her fork slipped from her hand, clattering against her plate. "No," she breathed, her voice breaking with disbelief. "That's not... that cannot be—"