His Private Chef (by Amycee) novel Chapter 107

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That was why I ended up calling Sophia for help. Something I never thought I’d do.

“I want to plan something special for your brother. Something… big. But not Liam–big like a yacht. or a jet. Something real. Something that’ll reach him.”

Her laugh had been instant. “You’re in love. Like, the scary, gooey, selfless kind.

“I need ideas, not commentary.”

”

“Okay, okay,” she giggled. “You want to blow him away without spending a billion dollars. Hmm… maybe a limited–edition sports car? Or a private island for the weekend?”

I pulled the phone away for a second. “Is this you helping or reminding me that your brother is a billionaire?”

“Fine. Real talk? Liam’s taste is private… maybe something sentimental? But honestly, anything from you will get him mushy.”

I rolled my eyes. “Thanks for the confusion. I’ll figure it out.”

And I did.

Somewhere between going home and lying awake that night, it came to me. Not something bought. Something I built.

The next morning, things didn’t exactly start on a dreamy note.

I made the mistake of checking my comments section. Again.

And there it was.

“She’s where she is because of Liam Black.

”

“Would anyone watch her if she wasn’t dating a billionaire?”

“Pretty privilege. Let’s not act like she earned any of this.

It stung.

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Chapter 107

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I stared at those words for longer than I should have, letting them worm their way into every corner of my mind.

But just before I could sink too deep, a message from Liam popped up on my phone.

Flowers? Trying to outdo me now? What’s the occasion?

I smiled, some of the ache lifting.

I had a bouquet delivered to his office. Someone once told me men only ever get flowers when they’re dead. I decided mine should get his while he could still smirk about them.

Liam sent another text.

So you’re ignoring me now? What are you scheming, Emily?

I laughed and locked my phone. Let him wonder. If silence was a game, he could taste his own medicine. In a few hours, he’d know exactly why.

By five, I was at his house making sure every detail was set. I’d set up the theater, tested the lights, and ran the audio twice. It had to be perfect for him.

Then I went upstairs and changed.

Into one of the two–piece lingerie sets Liam had bought me–black lace, the one he couldn’t stop staring at the last time I wore it.

I stood in front of the mirror, took a single picture from just the right angle, and typed out the message.

Come get what you’ve been thinking about all day.

Then I changed into a fitted black gown, and headed down to get everything ready.

He arrived twenty minutes later.

The moment he walked in, his eyes swept over me and narrowed.

“This,” he said, tugging lightly on the strap of my dress, “is not what I was promised earlier.”

I grinned. “Patience, Mr. Black. Follow me.”

I took his hand and led him to the private theater–dark, candle–lit, already humming low with the

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first chords of Die For You by The Weeknd.

He chuckled. “This song again?”

“You remember.”

“You were in my car, singing it like it was written for you. Of course I remember.

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I pulled him to sit. As the music swelled, I turned toward him and sang the lyrics, not perfectly, but softly, just for him.

His eyes stayed locked on mine, like looking away would break the moment.

When the song faded out, the screen lit up with something new.

A photo of Liam.

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