Chapter 3 The Kitchen Test

• The elevator doors slid open with a soft hiss, and for a moment Élise couldn’t move.
• The space before her didn’t look like an office—it looked like a palace made of glass and light. The entire floor stretched open, framed by walls of windows that spilled Paris at her feet. She had never felt smaller in her life.
• Her sneakers squeaked faintly against the polished floor as she stepped out, clutching her knife roll like a lifeline. Somewhere in this glittering fortress was Antoine Moreau—the man whose name she had only read in headlines, the billionaire who could change her future with a single word.
• She squared her shoulders. You can do this. You’ve faced worse. You’ve faced hunger, failure, rejection. This is just another kitchen.
• A woman in a fitted suit appeared from the corner, her heels striking the floor with purpose. “Élise Dubois?”
• “Yes,” Élise said, her voice thinner than she wanted.
• The woman’s gaze flicked from her clothes to the knife roll in her hands, and one brow arched. “I’m Camille. Mr. Moreau’s assistant. Follow me.”
• Her tone carried no warmth, but Élise forced herself to nod and keep pace. They walked through a hallway that gleamed with art and photographs—Antoine shaking hands with presidents, standing at the opening of skyscrapers, his jaw sharp even in candid shots.
• Finally, Camille stopped before a glass door. She pushed it open and gestured inside.
• The room was not what Élise expected. It wasn’t a boardroom. It was a private kitchen—sleek counters, top-of-the-line appliances, stainless steel that sparkled under soft lighting.
• And at the far end, leaning casually against the counter with a glass of water in hand, stood Antoine Moreau.
• He looked taller in person. Taller, sharper, more intimidating than any photo suggested. His suit was perfectly tailored, his hair slickly swept back in an effortless style that must have cost more than her entire wardrobe. His dark eyes lifted as she entered, pinning her in place with a focus that made her heartbeat stumble.
• “So,” Antoine said, setting the glass down. His voice was smooth, but it carried the weight of authority—like a man used to being obeyed. “This is the woman who believes she can cook her way into my world.”
• The words stung. Élise lifted her chin. “I don’t believe you, Monsieur Moreau. I know.”
• A flicker of surprise touched his expression before it melted back into cool amusement. “Confidence. Let’s see if your food tastes as good as you sound.”
• He gestured toward the kitchen. On the counter waited a small array of ingredients: chicken, herbs, cream, butter, garlic, a basket of fresh produce. Ordinary items, but laid out like a challenge.
• “You have one hour,” Antoine said. “No recipes. No assistants. Just you, your knives, and these. Impress me—or don’t bother showing your face here again.”
• Her throat tightened, but she nodded. She had grown up cooking with scraps, stretching every coin into something her family could eat. This was not new. This was survival.
• She laid her knife roll on the counter, unzipped it, and pulled out the blade her father had once given her. The handle was worn, the steel marked with years of use, but it felt like strength in her hand.
• The clock began ticking.
• ✨
• Antoine folded his arms, watching as she moved. Most chefs who came through his kitchens relied on technique, rigid and calculated. Élise worked differently.
• She moved with instinct, like she was listening to the ingredients themselves. A taste of cream, a pinch of thyme, the garlic crushed under her knife in one swift motion. Her brow furrowed, her lips pressed tight in concentration, but her hands were steady.
• Camille hovered near Antoine, murmuring, “She doesn’t even look nervous.”
• “ She's supposed to be,” she added,more like she was talking to herself. Then she left.
• Antoine’s gaze lingered on the girl’s face. She was nervous—he could see it in the set of her shoulders, the faint tremble when she first picked up the knife. But she carried it differently. She channeled it to the food, turning it into energy.
• Intriguing and Fascinating.
• “ She's really talented and confident indeed”. He thought,caressing his chin.
• Elise stood at the marble counter, the polished surface gleaming beneath the white kitchen lights. She felt the weight of the chef’s knife in her hand, heavier than it should be, her grip just a little too tight. Copper pans dangled above, their shiny curves mocking her reflection. This wasn’t just cooking—it was a performance, and the man seated across from her knew it.
• Antoine leaned lazily on the high stool, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, his posture relaxed but his gaze sharp. He didn’t have to say a word; his silence pressed on her like an extra layer of heat in the already stifling kitchen.
• “Careful,” he said finally, his voice low and deliberate. “You don’t want to ruin the sauce. My chefs wouldn’t forgive me for letting an amateur burn their reputation.”
• Élise bit the inside of her cheek, forcing herself not to snap back too quickly. He wanted her rattled—that much was obvious. She stirred the pot slowly, deliberately, even though the urge to slam the spoon against the edge was nearly irresistible.
• “Maybe they should be more worried about your reputation than mine,” she replied smoothly.
• For the briefest second, Antoine’s expression shifted. His smirk faltered, his jaw tightened. The moment was so fleeting, someone else might have missed it—but Élise caught it. There it was: a crack in the billionaire’s polished, arrogant armor.
• He recovered instantly, leaning forward with a glint in his eyes. “Feisty. I’ll give you that. But that doesn’t win you points in my kitchen.”
• “It’s not your kitchen tonight,” she shot back, pouring the sauce into a pan with more confidence than she felt. The scent of garlic and butter rose up like an ally, wrapping around her, grounding her.
• Antoine chuckled, the sound rich, almost taunting. “You’re bold, I’ll give you that. But boldness without skill?” He let the words hang in the air, like a verdict waiting to be sealed.
• Élise refused to look at him. If she did, she might see mockery—or worse, approval. And she wasn’t ready for either. Instead, she stirred harder, letting the rhythmic scrape of the spoon drown out the sound of her racing heart.
• But deep inside, beneath the frustration, something unexpected stirred. Not just defiance. Not just pride. Something more dangerous.
• Élise’s dish took shape: pan-seared chicken in a cream reduction, garlic mashed potatoes, roasted vegetables dusted with herbs. Simple. Honest. But each flavor layered with care, like a song with quiet notes and sharp crescendos.
• As the final minute ticked down, she plated it with precision with rush, wiping the edges clean. Her heart pounded so hard she thought it would leap from her chest.
• She set the plate before Antoine. “Taste it.”
• Camille smirked faintly, as if expecting disaster. She was back. Antoine, however, picked up the fork without hesitation. He cut into the chicken, lifted it to his mouth, and chewed slowly.
• For a long moment, he said nothing. His eyes darkened, unreadable. Then he set the fork down and leaned back.
• “Well,” he said at last, his tone deceptively mild. “You cook like a woman who has something to prove.”
• Élise’s jaw tightened. “I do.”
• A spark flickered between them. For a heartbeat, the air felt charged, as if the city outside had disappeared and only the two of them existed.
• Antoine’s lips curved into the faintest of smirks. “Not bad, Mademoiselle Dubois. Not bad at all.”
• But his gaze lingered, and Élise had the strange, unsettling sense that this was only the beginning of a much more dangerous test.