Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 30

Chapter 30

No personal items. No photos. No books left lying open. It looked like a hotel suite. A very expensive hotel suite where no one actually

lived.

The kitchen was separated from the living area by a long black marble counter. A middle–aged woman stood there chopping vegetables. She wore a simple gray dress. Her hair was pulled back. She looked up as we entered. Her eyes moved from Julian to me. Confusion crossed her

face.

“Leave it,” Julian said. He didn’t look at her. “I’ll have someone else

handle lunch.”

Mrs. Chen–I remembered her name from before–blinked. She

glanced at me again. Then gathered her coat and purse from a hook by the kitchen. She left quickly. The door clicked shut behind her.

The silence pressed in.

Julian moved to the dining table. The black marble slab that could

seat eight but probably never had. He opened his laptop. His fingers moved across the keys. Quick. Efficient. He didn’t look at me.

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“There’s fresh ingredients in the fridge. Make something.”

His voice was flat. An order to staff.

I stood in the living room. The late afternoon sun slanted through the

windows. Cast long shadows across the white floor. My stomach was

cramping with hunger. I’d eaten nothing since a slice of toast at

breakfast. It was past one o’clock now.

I walked to the kitchen. My footsteps were quiet on the polished

floor. I opened the massive Viking refrigerator. The interior light was

bright. Almost blinding.

Rows of organic vegetables. Angus beef wrapped in butcher paper.

Lobster tails on ice. Black truffles in a glass jar. Foie gras. Asparagus.

Everything expensive. Everything perfect.

My hands moved automatically. Reached for the truffle. The foie gras.

The asparagus.

These were the things he liked. Rich food. French preparation. I’d

learned to make them three years ago. Studied French cooking until

my fingers blistered from knife work. Because I thought if I could feed

him what he loved, maybe he would love me back.

The thought made my stomach twist.

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I stopped. My hand was on the foie gras package. Cold and smooth

under my fingers.

I pulled my hand back.

Set the foie gras down on the counter.

Stared at it.

“Why am I doing this again? Why am I still trying to please him?”

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The butter was already melting in the pan. I turned off the flame.

Picked up the half–prepared foie gras and threw it into the trash.

The sound was satisfying. Final.

I opened the fridge again. This time I looked for what I wanted. What

I actually wanted to eat. Kimchi in a glass jar. Tofu in a plastic

container. Green peppers. Chicken. White rice in the rice cooker on

the counter.

Julian hated spicy food. He’d told me once that kimchi smelled

aggressive. That tofu had the texture of wet sponge. That green

peppers made his throat itch.

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I didn’t care.

I started cooking. Pulled out a pot. Added water. Turned on the heat.

The kitchen filled with the sharp, vinegary scent of fermented

cabbage. Red chili flakes floated in bubbling broth. I chopped the tofu

into cubes. Sliced the peppers. Moved through the familiar motions.

I hummed quietly. No particular tune. Just sound. Just the feeling of

doing something for myself.

For the first time in years, I was cooking for my own taste.

I set the dishes on the table. Red soup in a white bowl. Green peppers

glistening with oil. White rice. The colors were bright. Alive.

Julian looked up from his laptop. His eyes moved from the food to my

face. His expression went completely flat.

He stared at the floating red pepper flakes in the soup. At the

glistening peppers. At the chopsticks I’d placed beside his bowl

instead of a fork and knife.

“What is this?”

His voice was very controlled. Very quiet.

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