The next morning came faster than Amara expected. Her alarm buzzed at seven, and she lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling. Was she really doing this? Taking a job with a complete stranger who refused to even share a name?
She shook off the thought and got up. After a quick shower, she stood before her small mirror, trying to decide what to wear. She didn't want to look too casual or too desperate. After some thought, she chose a neat white blouse tucked into black trousers — simple, professional, and safe.
She tied her hair into a low bun, dabbed a bit of lip balm, and slipped on her flats. Then she packed her knife roll, a small notepad, and her lucky wooden spoon — habits she never broke as a chef.
Just as she zipped up her bag, her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: The driver is outside. Please be ready.
Her heart skipped. No greeting, no signature — just a message. She took a deep breath, grabbed her bag, and whispered to herself, "Alright, Amara. Let's do this."
Outside, a sleek black car waited by the curb. The driver stood beside it, tall and dressed in black.
"Miss Cole?"
"Yes, that's me," she said, her voice steadier than she felt.
He opened the door with a polite nod. "Please, come with me."
Inside, the car smelled of leather and cologne. The tinted windows made the morning light soft and distant. The city slipped away as they drove in silence.
They passed busy streets, then quiet roads lined with tall trees. The higher they climbed, the more isolated it became.
After nearly an hour, the car turned into a long driveway bordered by marble statues and trimmed hedges. When they stopped, Amara's mouth fell open.
The mansion looked like it had been plucked from a movie — tall, grand, and intimidatingly perfect. Glass windows gleamed beneath the sunlight, and the air around it felt unnervingly still.
"This is where I'll be working?" she murmured.
The driver gave a faint smile. "Welcome to the Moretti Estate."
Her pulse quickened. The name sounded familiar. Moretti. She'd seen it in headlines — a billionaire investor who rarely appeared in public.
Inside, the house was breathtaking. Marble floors, elegant chandeliers, and walls lined with art that probably cost more than her apartment. But it felt cold, too quiet, like a place meant to impress, not to live in.
"Please follow me," the driver said, leading her through a hallway that opened into a spacious kitchen.
Amara stopped at the doorway and let out a quiet gasp. It was the most beautiful kitchen she'd ever seen — state-of-the-art appliances, spotless counters, polished copper pots hanging neatly from a rack.
Two kitchen staff members — a middle-aged woman and a young man — turned toward her.
"This is Miss Cole," the driver said. "She'll be the new private chef."
The woman smiled warmly. "Welcome, dear. I'm Maria. That's Enzo. We handle storage and assist when needed."
Amara returned the smile. "It's lovely to meet you both."
Maria showed her around the kitchen — the fully stocked pantry, the temperature-controlled wine cellar, and the walk-in refrigerator filled with the freshest ingredients she'd ever seen. Everything was in perfect order.
"You'll find everything you need," Maria said kindly. "Mr. Moretti appreciates precision and cleanliness."
"Mr. Moretti?" Amara repeated. "Is he… nice?"
Maria and Enzo exchanged a quick glance before Maria replied softly, "He's particular."
That single word told Amara everything she needed to know.
"Please wait in the dining room," the driver said. "Mr. Moretti will meet you shortly."
Amara followed him to the large dining hall — high ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and a table that could seat twenty people. She ran her hand across the smooth wood, feeling the weight of the silence.
Then she heard footsteps. Slow. Steady.
When she turned, her breath caught.
Luca Moretti.
He moved with quiet power, dressed in a fitted black shirt with rolled-up sleeves, revealing a trace of ink on his forearm. His eyes were sharp and unreadable, the kind of gaze that seemed to see everything and nothing at once.
"Miss Cole," he said, his voice smooth and deep. "You're punctual. I appreciate that."
She swallowed. "And you're… Mr. Moretti?"
He nodded once. "Luca is fine."
He gestured toward the kitchen. "You'll have full access to the facilities. Cook whatever you think is suitable. No pork, no shellfish. Lunch at one, dinner at eight. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir," she said automatically.
He raised an eyebrow. "No need for 'sir.' You're not one of my boardroom employees."
Her lips curved slightly. "Alright then… Luca."
He studied her for a moment longer, something unreadable flickering in his eyes, then turned toward the hallway. "I don't like small talk, Miss Cole. Just good food."
Amara smiled faintly. "Good. Because that's the only kind I make."
For the first time, a ghost of a smile tugged at his lips before he walked away.
When he disappeared, Amara exhaled slowly.
What had she just stepped into?
And why did part of her already want to know more about the man with the coldest eyes she'd ever seen?