Miss Parker rose from the bed, smoothing her hair and adjusting her clothes as she prepared to leave for the restaurant. Julian had overheard her conversation with Jace but remained silent on the matter. He was still unraveling the enigma that was his new wife.
"Leaving already?" Julian asked, his voice casual.
"Yes," she replied curtly.
"I'm giving you just three days to move your things here and live with me properly—as husband and wife should."
She turned to face him, her expression inscrutable.
"I thought it's a secret marriage?. No one is supposed to see us together, remember?"
Julian scoffed, setting his coffee cup down on the table with a deliberate clink.
"You are my wife," he whispered, his tone laced with authority. "You should obey your husband. From now on, I'll be keeping a close eye on you. You should have thought twice before signing those papers."
A chill raced down Tyla's spine. Had she made a terrible mistake by marrying him? Yet, even as doubt gnawed at her, she couldn't tear her gaze from his strikingly handsome face. "Understood, hubby," she whispered back, a hint of defiance in her voice.
"Good girl," Julian replied firmly, taking another sip of his coffee.
Tyla sauntered out of the room. One of Julian's guards gestured for her to enter the waiting car. From the window, Julian watched her departure, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other cradling his cup. He had his own preparations to make.
At the restaurant, Tyla Parker—now Tyla Crestwood,stepped into her impeccably organized kitchen. Every ingredient was meticulously arranged, ready for use. She wasn't here to help Edna or her scheming partner Jace. No, this was her chance to reclaim her former glory as a renowned chef.
She had to create a dish that would impress the executives of The Golden Crest, known for their discerning palates—especially the manager and the CEO. Wait... she was married to the CEO. Would Julian be among them today?
"Oh God, what have I gotten myself into?" she muttered.
Rumors painted him as the devil of the culinary world—ruthless and impossible to please. She needed something innovative, far removed from the flavors they were accustomed to. Then it came to her: the one recipe her late father had taught her, Souvenir d'Enfance (Childhood Memory)the very dish that had secured her victory at the prestigious Bon Appétit competition in France.
"Yes," she resolved. "That's the one."
The executives arrived earlier than anticipated. As they settled in, an intoxicating aroma wafted from the kitchen, teasing their senses.
"We can't judge a dish by its aroma alone," Mr. Jackson Crestwood, Julian's father and chairman of The Golden Crest, remarked with a chuckle.
Soon, the plates were presented. Tyla had arranged her creation with the exquisite, signature plating she alone mastered—elegant and evocative, a true work of art.
"Jace, you're about to witness what I'm truly capable of," Tyla thought with a sly inner chuckle.
Edna entered the kitchen, apron tied and a small bandage wrapped around her wrist.
"Hi, Tyla," she said, her greeting dripping with mockery.
"Edna, I hope you win that gold medal again," Tyla shot back sarcastically.
"Thank you, Tyla. One day, I'll repay you for all your 'good deeds,'" Edna replied with a saccharine smile—referring not to kindness, but to her evil intentions towards her.
Tyla curved her lips into a knowing smile. "No need to repay me, Edna. Consider today my gift to you." It was more like a threat but Edna wouldn't think Tyla would do anything to her.
Edna carried the dishes to the executives' table. The plating alone was breathtaking, enough to make mouths water. And the taste—divine. It transported them back in time, evoking the warmth of home and the innocence of childhood. The beef was succulent and moist, melting on the tongue with flavors that lingered like a cherished memory.
Edna watched with smug satisfaction, basking in what she believed was her triumph.
"This brings back the taste of home," Mr. Jackson Crestwood said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. "I can't remember the last time I savored something so comforting."
"This flavor... I've tasted it before, years ago," another executive murmured. "Where...?"
It hit him. "The Bon Appétit competition in France!"
"Ah, yes!" Mr. Crestwood exclaimed. "It was Tyla—the young chef who won that year. Her name escapes me now, but it is unforgettable. Did you create this?" He turned to Edna.
"Y-yes, sir," she stammered.
"Every chef leaves a signature in their cooking—that's what elevates them," Mr. Crestwood continued. "Tell us the name of this dish and share the recipe."
Edna froze. She hadn't anticipated questions. A true chef knows their creation inside out.
"Well... it's called..." she faltered.
Just then, Tyla emerged from the kitchen.