Chapter 1
Simone — Chapter One
The iron gates were tall, black, and entirely too dramatic for a Tuesday morning.
I double-checked the address on my phone and the one etched into the stone pillar beside me. Yep, same address. Still didn’t feel real.
A wrought-iron "W" stood front and center on the gate, clean and elegant. It reminded me of a monogrammed napkin at a hotel restaurant expensive, exclusive, and not at all where I usually belonged.
For a second, I considered turning around.
I could almost hear my mom's voice Girl, don't you go walking into places where you don't belong. Don't set yourself up for rejection.
But then I thought of my student loans. My rent. My dwindling savings.
I squared my shoulders, pulled my curls tighter into the low puff at the nape of my neck, and buzzed the intercom.
"Yes?" A crisp female voice crackled through.
"Simone Langston, here for the interview. Ten o'clock."
A pause. Then a mechanical click, and the gates began to part like the damn Red Sea.
I walked up the winding drive, gravel crunching under my sneakers. The sound felt too loud in the morning quiet, like I was announcing myself to every ghost hidden in those trees. Spanish moss dangled low, brushing against branches in a way that made the whole place feel like a haunted cathedral.
The house revealed itself slowly. No more like mansion. A vision of modern architecture, glass glinting in the sun, steel beams intersecting at impossible angles. It was too clean, too sharp. Like it had been dropped into Savannah by accident, an alien in the middle of old-world charm.
I slowed my steps, staring at the massive windows. Did people really live in houses like this? It didn't feel like a home. It felt like a warning.
The front door swung open before I even made it to the porch.
She stood in the doorway, sunlight catching at the edges of her hair and shoulders like she'd been staged there on purpose. Arms folded across her chest. Face unreadable.
Tatum Ward.
CEO. Mogul. Local legend.
And the woman I was supposed to cook for if I didn't pass out first.
She wore black slacks, a cream blouse tucked with surgical precision, and an expression that didn't move.
"You're early," she said.
"Traffic was light."
One eyebrow lifted, like she didn't appreciate being surprised. Then, without another word, she stepped aside and motioned me in.
The inside matched the outside. Cold. Minimal. Polished.
White marble floors spread out in gleaming slabs. The walls were bare except for a few carefully chosen art pieces massive canvases, clean lines, bold color, no warmth. Everything smelled faintly of eucalyptus, sharp and medicinal.
I followed as she walked, her heels striking against the marble like a metronome.
She didn't look back.
I felt small trailing behind her, sneakers squeaking once before I forced myself to walk softer.
We entered the kitchen, and it was... intimidating.
Stainless steel appliances, spotless counters, an island that could seat eight. This wasn't a kitchen meant for cooking. This was a showroom, the kind you toured but never touched.
"You've reviewed the job expectations?" she asked, lowering herself onto a stool across the island.
Her posture didn't shift. She was the kind of person who didn't slump, didn't bend, didn't soften.
"Yes," I said.
"Full-time. Five days a week. Two meals per day. Breakfast optional depending on meetings."
"Yes, ma'am."
Her eyes narrowed. "Don't call me that."
"Sorry. Habit."
She nodded once. "You'll plan the menus weekly. Healthy, but not boring. I don't do fads or meal plans. If it tastes like cardboard, I won't eat it."
"Understood."
"I don't like surprises. I don't like small talk. And I don't like when people overstep."
Well damn.
I kept my face neutral. "Got it."
Her gaze lingered, dragging from my head down to my shoes. Not lascivious, not even curious just... precise.
"I've had three chefs this year," she said finally. "One left. Two were let go."
"Why?"
"They didn't listen." Her head tilted slightly. "Will you?"
I met her stare. "I always listen. Doesn't mean I won't speak up."
For a second—barely a flicker—her mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.
Then it was gone.
She stood. "Follow me."
We circled back to the kitchen entrance, where a sleek tablet rested on the countertop.
"I want a sample lunch," she said, voice flat, businesslike. "Whatever you'd make on an average Tuesday. You have ninety minutes."
My eyes darted to the fridge, then to the pantry. Both looked like a food magazine had staged them labels facing forward, colors balanced like a painter's palette.
She didn't wait for a reply. "I'll let you know when time's up."
And then she was gone.
Her heels clicked against the marble until the sound disappeared completely, leaving me standing in a silence so heavy it felt deliberate.
I blew out a breath and rolled up my sleeves.
Alright, then.
The fridge was stocked like heaven. Organic produce in neat baskets. Butcher paper-wrapped cuts of fish and meat, tied with string. Fresh herbs so vibrant they looked fake. I held up a bundle of dill, inhaling until my shoulders dropped.
Cooking had always been my safe place. My compass. Here, I didn't stumble. Here, I knew what I was doing.
I scanned the shelves again. Salmon. Yes. Something elegant, but not fussy. Balanced flavors. No gimmicks.
Salmon with a citrus glaze. Roasted asparagus. Fingerling potatoes with lemon zest and dill.
Simple, clean. Confident.
The rhythm took me over as I moved.
Knife in hand, slicing through garlic, the sharp scent biting at my nose. Citrus under my palms as I rolled the oranges and limes, coaxing out more juice. The salmon sizzling the moment it touched the pan, skin crisping into perfection.
Every sound, every smell, every movement centered me.
This was mine.
But it didn't stop me from thinking of her.
Somewhere in this house, Tatum Ward was waiting. Did she even care what I made? Did she care about taste, or was this just another test in a long list of power plays?
I pictured her sitting in another pristine room, posture unbent, expression carved out of stone. What kind of woman cycled through three chefs in a year?
Someone impossible.
Someone lonely.
The potatoes hissed as I smashed them, edges crisping in the oven. Asparagus roasted, the tips darkening just enough. I whisked my glaze, tasting, adjusting—more honey, a hint more cayenne, until it felt like sunlight on the tongue.
When the timer buzzed, my counters were clean, dishes stacked neatly in the sink, and three perfect plates sat ready.
I chose one and set it on the marble island.
Tatum appeared exactly on time.
Not a second early. Not a second late.
Her heels struck the tile like a verdict as she crossed the kitchen, eyes cutting straight to the plate.
She didn't speak. Didn't look at me.
She just picked up the fork.
One bite.
Chew.
Another.
Silence stretching so long I shifted my weight, fingers twitching at my sides.
Finally, she looked up.
"That glaze," she said, voice even, "what's in it?"
"Orange juice, honey, Dijon mustard, a little garlic, cayenne, and white wine."
She nodded once. "And the potatoes?"
"Boiled, smashed, then crisped in the oven with olive oil. Finished with lemon zest and dill."
A pause.
Then—"You're hired."
Just like that.
She turned, already walking away.
I blinked. "When do I start?"
She stopped, half-turned, dark eyes steady on mine.
"You already have."
And just like that, my life changed.
