His Private Chef (by Amycee) novel Chapter 96

Chapter 96

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She sat up with a smirk. “I mean, look at this oven. It’s got Wi–Fi. Does it cook or file

your taxes?”

My mom chuckled from the doorway, holding a tray of lemon water. “It’s beautiful, Em. Really. This place feels like… you.”

I blinked back a sudden wave of emotion. “Yeah. It does.”

We were finally done setting up the space I’d dreamed of but never dared to want. It was modern, sleek, and professional, but still warm.

For once, I wasn’t standing in someone else’s spotlight. I was building mine.

Recording the first episode should’ve been easy. I’d done this before. I knew my angles, my voice, my timing.

But when I hit record and the red light blinked to life, I blanked.

Sophia watched from behind the camera, mouthing encouragement while my mom quietly sipped tea offscreen.

Take one: I forgot my intro.

Take two: My hand knocked over a bowl of herbs.

Take three: I sighed, stepped back, and just… started cooking.

No script. No pressure. Just garlic, olive oil, and a story about how I learned to make roasted lemon chicken when I was twelve.

That’s when the magic happened.

Hours later, the editing was rough but personal. Raw, but real. I left in the tiny laugh when I forgot the salt. I didn’t cut the part where I burned my thumb and winced. I wanted it to be honest.

Uploading it felt like letting the world read a page from my diary.

I hovered over the post button, heart in my throat.

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Chapter 96

Sophia leaned over and clicked it for me. “Too late. You’re live.”

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I didn’t sleep much that night.

But by morning, my phone was a riot of buzzing screens and notifications. Comments flooded in.

“She’s back!”

“This is what the internet needed.”

“Did she crawl out of hiding just for this?”

“Funny how she disappears for months and still gets the spotlight.”

A few of the brands that had once circled me like vultures before vanishing were now sending emails again, all sweet words and interest.

It felt good.

No, it felt earned.

But nothing prepared me for what happened the next day.

I was brushing my teeth when Sophia crashed into my room, phone in hand.

“Emily. Mason. Instagram. Now.”

I wiped toothpaste foam off my lip. “What?”

She shoved her phone into my hand.

Mason’s post.

A short reel of my video, captioned.

“My favorite thing to watch right now? @DearEmily’sKitchen. Proud of you, star.‘

I hadn’t expected it.

”

We hadn’t spoken since the tour. Not a text. No call. Just space, silence, and the kind of goodbye that never got said out loud.

Until now.

14:29

Chapter 96

I didn’t know what this meant, or if it meant anything at all. But I texted him anyway,

Thanks for the free PR. Should I name a dish after you or bake you a trophy?

He called instead.

“Mason.”

“Chef Star,” he greeted. “You owe me now.”

I laughed. “How exactly?”

“Zavian, my producer, is throwing a birthday party tonight. You’re coming with me. I need someone photogenic to make me look good.”

I hesitated.

“I’m not asking for forever,” he added. “Just one night and a smile.’

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Producer Zavian’s birthday wasn’t a party, it was an event.

A rooftop club in West Hollywood, drowning in synth beats and LED lights. There was an ice sculpture in the shape of a microphone.

I wore a black dress with a slit. Mason met me outside, all black suit, easy charm and impossibly put together.

“You’re going to steal the room,” he said as he took

I let a smile tug at my lips. “Then don’t let go.”

my hand.

Inside, we moved like we belonged. Mason knew everyone. I smiled, laughed, played the guest. But I could feel it, the stares, the whispers.

Especially once the cameras spotted us.

Flash.

Flash.

Paparazzi descended like moths.

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