His Private Chef (by Amycee) novel Chapter 97

Chapter 97

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I came home to a quiet house. My mom had already gone to bed, and the lights were low, casting soft shadows across the floor. I slipped out of the dress and pulled on Liam’s old black T–shirt, the one I never returned, and walked barefoot into the kitchen.

I had just opened the fridge when someone knocked.

Three hard, slow knocks.

I stilled, the hum of the fridge suddenly too loud. My eyes flicked to the clock on the wall.

12:04 a.m.

I didn’t need to guess.

My heart was already on the other side of that door.

I turned the knob, bracing for impact.

As predicted.

Gray sweatpants. Black T–shirt. Hair wrecked by the wind or his own fingers, I couldn’t tell. His knuckles were pink from the cold, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other gripping nothing.

Liam.

Gray sweatpants. Black T–shirt. Hair wrecked by the wind or maybe his own restless hands. One of Liam’s knuckles looked scraped. His eyes were bloodshot, not from tears, but from everything he wasn’t saying. He wasn’t the man who made headlines.

He was just a man. Standing at my door. Wrecked.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” I said.

“I know.

His voice was low, like it cost him something to get the words out. Not drunk enough to be sloppy. Just drunk enough to tell the truth.

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Chapter 97

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“I saw the photos,” he said, still not stepping inside. His voice wasn’t sharp. Just tired. Bruised. “You and Mason. You looked…”

He didn’t finish that sentence.

I crossed my arms, more to steady myself than to guard anything.

“I get it. I don’t have the right to ask questions,” he said quietly. “But I still want to know. Is he asking you out?”

“That’s not your business anymore,” I replied, my voice steady even though my hands were not.

“Maybe not.” He took a breath. “But I’m asking anyway.”

Then he looked at me like I was something holy.

“You kissed me like I was yours,” he said, voice cracking in the middle. “And now you’re in another man’s arms.”

”

The air between us grew heavy.

“Liam…” I swallowed hard. “It’s late. I’m tired.”

He stepped forward, just one step, but it made my body tense like I’d just taken a blow.

“Will you ever forgive me?” he asked. “Or am I just dragging my heart around hoping for a miracle that has already died?”

I opened my mouth.

But no sound came out.

“Say something,” he whispered. “Even if it’s goodbye. Even if it breaks me.‘

I looked at him fully now, at the stubble on his face, the uneven way his T–shirt sat on his shoulders, like he threw it on without thinking. The haunted look in his eyes that only someone who’d lost something essential could carry.

“I miss you so much it physically hurts,” he whispered. “I lie awake thinking about how I let you go. Wondering if someone else is going to love you in the ways I never learned how to. Wondering if you’ll let them.”

My throat burned. He reached for my hand. His touch was soft, reverent. But it shook.

“Can we talk?” he pleaded. “About the accident. About us. About everything I was too stupid or

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Chapter 97

too scared to say before. Please.”

:

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His voice trembled. “Let me try. Just once. Let me say the things I buried. Or at least let me be the one you hate properly, not the ghost you avoid.”

The word accident cracked something raw in me. A memory I hadn’t touched in months. A scar I wore beneath smiles and content.

I shook my head gently.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“Emily…”

I stepped back and let go of his hand.

“Goodnight, Liam.”

And then I closed the door.

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