Chapter 5 The Invitation

• Élise’s hands trembled slightly as she set the chopping knife down. The rhythm of her breathing was uneven, as though the weight of the man’s gaze still lingered on her skin. The kitchen had always been her sanctuary—a place of sizzling pans, fragrant herbs, and her own quiet authority. But tonight, it felt different. Antoine's, the billionaire who owned half the city’s skyline, had walked in and unsettled her balance with a single sentence.
• “You cook like someone who has something to prove,” he had said, his deep voice leaving trails of curiosity and command.
• Élise had brushed it off then, forcing her lips into the calm smile she’d mastered over years of working under pressure. But his words haunted her still, long after he left the kitchen. She leaned against the counter, inhaling the aroma of roasted garlic and thyme, and tried to ground herself. “Oh my goodness” She exhaled for the umpteenth time.
• Prove what? That she was capable?That she could her own in a world where men like Antoine made the rules .She wasn't sure anymore.
• The clang of plates startled her back to reality. Marie, the older kitchen attendant, gave her a knowing look. “He noticed you,” Marie teased, her voice low enough to avoid the ears of the other staff. “Not every day the master of the house comes down here and lingers.”
• Elise rolled her eyes, though her cheeks betrayed her with heat. “I’m not interested in being noticed. I’m here to work. That’s all.”
• Marie smirked, clearly unconvinced, but let the matter drop. Elise busied herself with garnishing the final plate, her focus sharp again. Yet, deep down, her composure was wavering.
• ✨
• The following evening, Élise thought the day would pass in quiet routine. She was dressed in her crisp uniform, tying her apron like armor. Cooking had always been her battlefield, and tonight she was ready. Or so she thought.
• Halfway through preparing the dinner course, a servant slipped into the kitchen carrying a sealed envelope on a silver tray.“For you, Miss Élise.”
• Her brows knitted. “For me?” She wiped her hands and reached for it, the thick parchment heavy with wealth. The Moreau family crest was pressed in gold at the corner, shimmering under the warm lights.
• Her fingers hesitated before breaking the seal. Inside was a card, elegant script dancing across the page:
• Chef Elise Dubois,
• You are cordially invited to present your signature dish at the private dinner gathering tomorrow evening. Your presence is requested in the main hall.
• — Antoine Moreau.
• The kitchen noise faded into a distant hum. Elise’s heartbeat thundered in her ears. Why her? Of all the chefs and attendants, why single her out?
• Marie leaned over her shoulder, gasping dramatically. “Do you know what this means? He’s asking you to cook for the Moreau elite! That’s an honor most chefs would beg for.”
• But Elise didn’t feel honored. She felt cornered. Invitations like this were rarely just about food. They were about power, status, and silent games Elise had no desire to play.
• Still, she couldn’t refuse. The card was both an order and a test.
• ✨
• The next day crawled with anticipation. Élise prepared meticulously, selecting ingredients as though each one carried her fate. She chose a dish rooted in her mother’s recipes—a seared duck breast with orange glaze, served over wild rice and sautéed greens. It was bold yet delicate, French in tradition but infused with her personal touch.
• As the sun dipped below the horizon, Élise changed into her pristine uniform and stepped into the grand dining hall. Crystal chandeliers glittered above like frozen stars, and long tables shimmered with gold cutlery. Guests in silk gowns and tailored suits murmured in polished tones, glasses of champagne tilting with laughter.
• She felt like an intruder in their world.
• Antoine was there, of course, seated at the head of the table, commanding the room without a word. His gaze caught hers the moment she entered, and something unreadable passed over his face.
• Élise forced herself forward, heart pounding. She presented the dish with steady hands, setting it before him first. For a breathless moment, silence cloaked the table as he lifted his fork, cut into the duck, and tasted.
• The world seemed to stay still.
• Antoine’s jaw tightened briefly, then relaxed. His expression betrayed nothing—until his lips curved, faintly, deliberately. “Exquisite,” he said, his voice carrying across the table like a verdict. “Balanced. Confident.”
• Gasps and murmurs rippled among the guests, as though his approval was a rare treasure. Élise’s chest tightened, relief and defiance mingling in equal measure.
• But Antoine wasn’t finished. He set down his fork, eyes locking with hers. “Chef Dubois, join us.” He gestured.
• A stunned hush swept through the room.Élise froze. “NO!” She screamed inwardly. Join them? At the table? That wasn’t done. Staff did not dine with guests, let alone with Antoine Moreau himself.
• She felt every eye on her, the weight of judgment pressing heavy. Refusing would be bold, reckless even. Accepting… that was stepping into a world she swore she won't belong to.
• Her throat tightened. “Sir, I—”
• Antoine interrupted smoothly, his tone both commanding and coaxing. “Sit.”
• The single word was a challenge, one she couldn’t ignore. With her pulse racing, Élise slid into the empty chair at his side. The scent of his cologne brushed against her senses—woodsy, expensive, unsettling.
• Conversations resumed hesitantly around them, but Élise barely heard. Her mind whirled as Antoine leaned closer, his voice low enough for only her to hear.
• “You don’t cook like the others,” he said, his gaze unwavering. “You cook like someone who refuses to be forgotten. I intend to find out why.”
• Élise stiffened, her knuckles white against her lap. This wasn’t just dinner anymore. This was the beginning of something far more dangerous. She can't afford… to be clueless.