His Private Chef (by Amycee) novel Chapter 8

Chapter 8

The sun had started setting, casting golden streaks across the grocery store parking lot when I stepped outside. Anger simmered beneath the surface as I clutched the neatly packed paper bags in both arms.

And then I stopped dead in my tracks.

The black Aston Martin was gone.

My jaw dropped slightly. I spun in a slow, disbelieving circle. Maybe. Just maybe, he was parked in a different spot.

He wasn’t.

“Are you kidding me?” I muttered.

A sharp breeze tugged at my dress as I stood frozen, overwhelmed by disbelief.

I took a deep breath. Calm down, I whispered to myself. With trembling fingers, I pulled my phone from my pocket and ordered a ride back to his house.

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By the time I reached the estate and walked through the kitchen entrance with the groceries, I was heartbeat away from exploding.

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Liam sat at kitchen island, eyes glued to his phone, completely unfazed by the fact that he’d left me behind at the store.

“You left me,” I said, slamming the bags onto the counter.

He didn’t look up. “You walked off. I figured you needed space.”

“You left me stranded,” I snapped. “And you knew my car was here!”

“I had somewhere to be.”

“Right,” I huffed, pulling things from the bags more aggressively than necessary. “Of course. God forbid Liam Black be late for his business meetings.”

He finally set the phone down. “You made it back.”

“Thanks to Uber,” I fired back. “But yeah, I made it.”

We stared at each other in silence, like we were locked in a staring contest. Something thick and unfamiliar stirred between us.

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I looked away first. “Your guests will get their precious meal tomorrow. Don’t worry.”

He nodded once. “Good.”

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By late morning the next day, the scent of garlic, white wine, and rosemary filled the kitchen. My playlist hummed quietly in the background as I plated the main course.

Everything was perfect. Or close enough.

I wiped my hands on a linen towel, double–checked the order of service on the counter, and reached for the final garnish when Liam stepped into the kitchen.

“They’re here,” He said, his voice low, unreadable.

I didn’t look up. “Almost done. Five guests, right?”

“Yeah.” A pause. “First course in ten.”

“Got it.”

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The next twenty minutes passed in a quiet rhythm. First the soup, then the salad, then the main course. Delivered like clockwork to Liam’s elite business circle. All men. All steel eyes, tight smiles, and suit that screamed power.

As I stepped into the study to serve the third course, I could feel the tension in the room. Could’ve been business negotiations. Or maybe just the clash of too many over inflated egos

tailored in suits.

I moved quietly, placing the plates down with precision.

One of them, probably in his forties, an expensive silver watch and eyes full of entitlement, gave me a slow, deliberate look as I placed his plate in front of him.

“Looks even better up close,” he murmured, eyes sliding down my neckline.

I gave a tight smile and turned to leave.

But as I passed him, he reached out.

And smacked my ass.

Hard.

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The sound was obscene. The sting was worse.

My breath hitched. I froze.

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It was like time paused. The laughter around the table faltered. One of the men cleared his

throat.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he said with a greasy grin. “It was a compliment.”

I turned slowly, rage boiling in my chest, my cheeks flaming. I didn’t care who he was. I didn’t care how rich or important he thought he was.

But before I could say a word.

Liam’s voice cut through the room like a blade.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

All heads turned.

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Liam stood, every inch of him composed, his expression hard as granite. Cold. Controlled. Deadly.

The man let out an uneasy laugh. “Come on, Liam. I was only joking. ”

“Touch her again,” Liam said, voice low and terrifying, “i’ll make sure it’s the last thing you ever do.”

Silence. The entire room seemed to shrink.

Liam crossed the floor in a flash, his hand resting lightly on my lower back. Then he turned, gaze locking onto the room like a silent threat.

“She’s a chef. Not your entertainment. If anyone has a problem with that, there’s the door.

Nobody moved.

Not a sound.

Liam’s voice dropped even lower. “I said out.”

Chairs scraped.

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One by one, the men rose, murmuring stiff apologies, some not daring to meet my eyes.

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The last to leave was the one who touched me. Liam held the door open for him with a look that promised consequences far beyond the estate walls.

When the door finally closed, the house was silent again.

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