Chapter 2 The Billionaire's Table

• Antoine Moreau hated mornings.
• He hated the chatter of assistants reminding him of meetings, the sound of his phone vibrating with back-to-back calls, the endless swirl of numbers and negotiations. Money never slept, and neither did those who wanted more of it.
• The only thing that made mornings tolerable was silence. Which, of course, was impossible inside his penthouse.
• “Antoine, the board expects you at ten sharp,” Camille, his assistant, said, heels clicking across the marble floor. She carried a stack of folders taller than her forearm. “And the gala tonight. Don’t forget to smile. You do remember how to smile, don’t you?”
• Antoine shot her a look that made her pause mid-step. “I can write another zero on your paycheck if you want me to fake it.”
• She rolled her eyes, unimpressed. That was why she still worked for him—she wasn’t afraid of his temper. “Save your charm for the investors. Or, better yet, for the press.”
• Antoine dismissed her with a wave and strode into the dining room. The table stretched longer than most apartments in Paris, polished oak reflecting the early light spilling through glass walls. The Eiffel Tower loomed in the distance, a constant reminder of where he’d come from—and how far he’d risen.
• On the table sat his breakfast. A masterpiece of presentation, curated by one of the most sought-after chefs in France. Flawless poached eggs, smoked salmon arranged like art, caviar sprinkled in delicate lines.
• Antoine sat. Picked up his fork. Took one bite.
• And frowned.
• “Flat,” he muttered. “Pretty, but flat.”
• Camille, still hovering, glanced at him. “It’s breakfast, Adrien. Not a negotiation. Eat it.”
• He pushed the plate away. “Food isn’t just fuel. It should wake you up. Make you feel something. This tastes like—” He searched for the word, lips curling. “—like money trying too hard.”
• Camille sighed. “Maybe the problem isn’t the food. Maybe it’s you.”
• He ignored her jab, pulling his phone from his pocket. His inbox was full—partnership requests, legal briefs, proposals from Michelin-starred chefs all eager to be the billionaire’s chef. He scrolled through without care until one caught his attention.
• A name. Élise Dubois.
• Not a brand. Not a decorated chef with awards. Just… a name.
• He tapped the message. It was short, almost stubbornly so:
• I may not have stars. But I cook food that makes people feel. Give me one chance, and you’ll never forget it.
• Antoine smirked. Bold. Desperate, maybe. But different.
• “Camille,” he said. “Set up an interview. Today.”
• Her brows furrowed. “For this one? She doesn’t have credentials. She doesn’t even have a restaurant.”
• “Exactly.” His voice was flat but final. “Credentials bore me. I want to see if she’s as reckless as her words.”
• Camille shook her head, muttering under her breath as she scribbled notes. “One day, your appetite for risk is going to kill you.”
• Antoine leaned back, gazing past her at the skyline. His appetite had built empires. But lately, I haven't been satisfied. Deals closed, accounts grew, women smiled for cameras—and yet, every morning felt as empty as the plate in front of him.
• Maybe this girl’s food would be another disappointment. Maybe not. But at least it would be something new.
• ✨
• Élise’s mother slid a chipped plate across the wobbly table. Two slices of day-old baguette, a smear of margarine barely clinging to each. “Ma chérie, eat something. You can’t impress anyone on an empty stomach.”
• Élise forced a smile, though her stomach twisted with nerves more than hunger. “It’s fine, Maman. If I eat now, I’ll just throw it up later. Besides, you’ll need this more than I do.”
• At eight years old, Julien already knew how to read the shadows in the room. He tugged at her sleeve, eyes wide and full of hope. “Will they let you make cakes, Lili? The fancy kind, with chocolate dripping everywhere?”
• She ruffled his dark curls, swallowing the lump in her throat. “If I get the job, mon trésor, I’ll bake you a whole tower of cakes. One taller than you.”
• His face lit up, and for that moment, she almost believed her own words.
• Her mother wasn’t so easily convinced. She folded her thin arms and leaned against the counter, her brow furrowed as always. “Antoine Moreau is not just any man. He’s a billionaire, a businessman. Why would he choose you? He could hire chefs from Michelin kitchens, lined up from here to Lyon.”
• The words stung, though Élise had grown used to them. Doubt lived in this house the way dust clung to the curtains: stubborn, impossible to sweep away. She straightened her shoulders anyway. “Because I’m different. I don’t just cook food. I make people feel something when they eat it.”
• Silence followed, broken only by the ticking of the crooked wall clock.
• Julien grinned, breaking the tension. “That’s true! When Lili makes soup, it makes me forget I’m sad.”
• Her mother’s lips twitched, almost a smile, before her expression closed again. “Dreams are expensive, ma belle. And rich men do not give without taking. Remember that.”
• Élise said nothing. She didn’t want to fight, not today. Instead, she crossed to the old wardrobe and pulled out her blouse—the least faded one, pressed with care last night. She slipped into it quickly, then wrapped her knives in the leather roll she’d carried since culinary school.
• Each knife had been bought secondhand, sharpened and re-sharpened until the blades gleamed. They were her pride, her only dowry, her only inheritance.
• Her reflection in the cracked mirror startled her. She looked… fragile. A pale girl with wide hazel eyes and too-thin wrists. She tilted her chin higher, forcing herself to imagine the woman she wanted to become—confident, unshakable, the kind of chef who belonged in a billionaire’s kitchen.
• Julien padded after her, dragging his mismatched socks on the floor. “When you’re rich, will we get a big apartment? With a balcony? So I can see the stars?”
• Élise laughed softly, crouching to meet his gaze. “When I’m rich, you’ll have your own room. With glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, so you never have to wait for the sky.”
• He hugged her fiercely, arms small but desperate.
• Her mother cleared her throat. “Mon cœur… just promise me you won’t lose yourself in his world. The rich, they eat people like us for breakfast.”
• The words pressed into Élise’s chest heavier than her knife roll. She paused by the door, hand lingering on the knob. For a heartbeat, fear tugged at her—what if Maman was right? What if Antoine Moreau chewed her up and spat her out, like Paris itself had done so many times?
• But then she thought of Julien’s eyes, shining with dreams bigger than this peeling apartment. She thought of all the nights she’d studied recipes with candlelight when the power was out.
• She turned, managing a brave smile. “Don’t worry, Maman. If anyone’s going to get eaten alive, it won’t be me.”
• The door closed behind her with a final click.
• ✨
• The skyscraper stabbed into the sky, all glass and steel, its reflection swallowing the clouds. She’d never even stepped inside a building like this, let alone dreamed of working in one.
• The revolving doors spun like portals to another universe. Her fingers trembled as she clutched her knife roll. She remembered her mother’s warning, Julien’s hopeful smile, and forced her legs forward.
• The receptionist barely looked at her until she gave her name. Then eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Mr. Moreau is expecting you.”
• Élise blinked. Expecting me?
• Her heart pounded faster as she stepped into the elevator. The mirrored walls showed her pale face, the nerves she tried to hide behind squared shoulders.
• As the elevator climbed, she whispered to herself: “You can do this. You have to do this.”
• When the doors slid open, she stepped into another world—polished floors, high ceilings, sunlight spilling through endless glass. And there, at the far end of the room, stood Antoine Moreau.
• Tall. Broad-shouldered. Sharp suit tailored to perfection. He turned as if he’d felt her arrive, his dark eyes locking onto hers with unsettling precision.
• For a moment, Élise forgot how to breathe.
• So this was the man who could change everything.