His Private Chef (by Amycee) novel Chapter 93

Chapter 93

288 (Vouchers

For once, I wasn’t rushing to pack, unpack, survive a heartbreak, or fight my feelings. I was just… existing. A little tired, a little bruised, but undeniably home.

After graduation, I took a breath. Then another. My mom cleared her schedule just to spend more time with me. She pushed back her job assignments with that soft smile of hers, saying, “You’ve done enough chasing, baby. Let’s pause and figure out what feels right.”

So I paused.

No Michelin–star job offers. No chef competitions. Just space. And the quiet to figure out what mattered next.

Instead, I leaned into the one thing that kept chasing me, an audience.

The Mason tour. The viral photos. The whirlwind of public attention that came with being linked to Liam Black. It all added up to a growing online following–curious, relentless, waiting for my next move. And for the first time, I had something entirely mine to offer.

I decided to build something small. Honest. Me.

Food vlogging.

Nothing too polished. Just stories told through recipes. Healing served on plates. A little mess, a lot of flavor. A girl with scars, laughter, and an unapologetically large apron collection.

“Only you,” Sophia said when I told her, “would turn your kitchen and emotional baggage into a personal brand.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Was that supposed to be a compliment?”

She grinned. “A glowing one. You’ve got that ‘real girl rises from the ashes with a spatula‘ vibe going. It’s raw. It’s refreshing. It’s marketable.”

“And slightly unhinged.”

“Perfect. Now when do we start turning your house into a studio?”

Today, apparently.

The plan was simple. Sophia would meet me by noon to shop for equipment and ingredients.

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14:29

Chapter 93

288 iVouchers

Cameras, mics, backdrops, soft lights, flour, spices, the whole dreamy mess. But she showed up at 10:03 AM, practically buzzing like she’d overdosed on espresso.

“You’re early,” I said, opening the door in my robe.

She shoved past me, arms full of coffee and mood boards. “You’re too slow. Let’s go. I’ve already drafted two mock–up layouts and a full budget sheet.”

“You’re more excited than I am.”

“Correction. I’m excited because you suck at spending money. Someone has to make you fabulous.”

I shook my head, laughing as I threw on jeans and a black top. By 11:00am, we were in the aisles of the most extra home store in all of LA, arguing over light fixtures and podcast–quality mics.

“I don’t need four cameras,” I said, tossing a basket of lemons into the cart.

“You need angles,” Sophia countered, holding up a silver ring light like a sacred relic. “That’s what separates amateurs from empires.”

I raised a brow. “Are you planning to host this vlog, or am I?”

“Relax, Gordon Ramsay. I’m just making sure your rise to stardom isn’t filmed on a potato.”

We were still mid–bicker when my phone rang. Mom.

“Hey mom, we’re still…”

“Emily,” she cut in. “Come home. Right now.”

My heart stopped. “What? What happened?”

“Nothing’s wrong, baby. Just… come. You’ll see.”

The call ended. I turned to Sophia. “We have to go. Something’s up.”

We ditched our cart mid–aisle and rushed out like we were on a reality show escape mission.

Fifteen minutes later, I pushed open the front door, and stopped.

The living room was a soft storm of packages.

14:29

Chapter 93

288 Vouchers

Box after box, stacked like a perfectly planned ambush. Brand–new cookware, high–end cameras, sleek tripods, lighting kits that belonged on a film set, studio–grade microphones. Every single ingredient from our abandoned shopping list. And then… aprons. Monogrammed, of course.

On the dining table sat a note.

For everything you’re building. And for the girl my heart will forever beat for.

Liam

I turned slowly. “Sophia.”

She winced.

“Tell me you didn’t.”

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