Chapter 113: Michelin-star Setup

The supercar pulled up to the curb outside her apartment building, its engine humming with a low, satisfying growl. My driver had it parked right outside the terminal the second our jet wheels touched the tarmac.

We headed upstairs together, the excitement buzzing between us. Before we had left for Tokyo, the kitchen in her apartment was halfway through an absolute top-to-bottom gut job. I had poured serious capital into turning her modest home kitchen into a professional-grade culinary lab—and today was the grand unveiling.

Patricia stood outside her front door, taking a deep breath as I handed her the key. "Ready?" I asked with a smile.

"More than ready," she breathed.

She turned the key and pushed the door open.

The moment we stepped inside, Patricia’s jaw completely dropped.

The space had been transformed into a jaw-dropping, high-end chef’s paradise. The old, cramped counters were gone, replaced by sprawling, custom-honed Italian dark marble worktops that caught the soft warm lighting above. In the center sat an industrial-grade, mirror-finish stainless steel range with precision flame control, custom-built ventilation, and commercial-grade convection ovens built flush into the cabinetry.

Along the main wall stood a double-door smart temperature-controlled refrigeration unit, a shock freezer, and a custom spice rack built directly into the backsplash—complete with micro-gram digital scales and anti-humidity glass canisters. High-end Japanese Damascus steel knives glinted on a sleek magnetic strip, custom-engraved with her initials.

It didn’t look like a residential kitchen anymore. It looked like a Michelin-star development studio.

Patricia walked in slowly, almost afraid to touch anything, her eyes wide as she traced a hand along the cool marble edge.

"Ethan..." she whispered, her voice cracking slightly with pure awe. "This... this is unbelievable. It’s like a dream."

"It’s not a dream," I said, leaning against the doorframe as the familiar translucent system prompt flared up silently in my vision, calculating the massive expenditure. "It’s your new office. It all starts right here."

I signed the paperwork on the spot, dropping $1,000,000 to secure the deed to the property outright. But buying the building was only step one; the interior needed to be transformed into a culinary fortress built specifically around Patricia’s vision.

The next morning, I picked her up and drove straight out to the coast. If we were going to drop millions on a top-tier renovation, every single layout choice, lighting angle, and kitchen flow had to be dictated by the head chef herself.

The sleek engine of my supercar hummed to a stop right along the prime oceanfront strip. The property sat directly adjacent to her former workplace—close enough that you could practically hear the waves crashing against their outdoor terrace.

I stepped out, walked around to the passenger side, and opened the door for her.

Patricia stepped out into the bright coastal sunlight, looking radiant, poised, and utterly transformed in her new style. She stood tall, her confidence radiating off her as she looked up at the massive two-story structure that was about to become her empire.

Right on cue, a couple of line cooks and waitstaff taking a quick break outside the back entrance of her old restaurant turned to look at the roaring engine. Their eyes swept over the supercar, then landed directly on Patricia.

Their jaws dropped.

"Wait... is that... Patricia?!" one of them muttered, practically dropping his cig.

"No way..." another whispered, squinting in total disbelief. "What the hell happened to her? Who is she with?!"

They stood there frozen, staring in sheer shock at the girl they used to order around, now stepping out of a million-dollar ride looking like an absolute queen.

Patricia didn’t even give them a glance. She turned to me with a brilliant, confident smile, completely unbothered. "Shall we take a look at my new kitchen?"

We walked through the cavernous, stripped-down interior with the head architect and lead contractor following closely behind us, digital tablets in hand.

Patricia took complete control of the layout. She paced the main dining hall, gesturing toward the back wall with complete authority. "This entire side needs to be replaced with floor-to-ceiling, seamless smart glass," she instructed, her voice full of vision. "I want every single table to have a uninterrupted, panoramic view of the ocean."

"Consider it done," the architect noted, rapidly sketching on his screen. "And the central feature?"

"A full chef’s showroom kitchen," Patricia said, her eyes lighting up. "Enclosed in acoustic glass with warm overhead spotlighting. I want the guests to watch every single dish being crafted live, like a masterclass performance. But built with a state-of-the-art acoustic system so the sound of high-end lounge music blends seamlessly with the ambient crash of the waves outside."

We spent the next three hours tweaking every single detail—from the dark walnut paneling and brushed brass accents to the custom open-fire grills and climate-controlled wine cellar. We didn’t stop until the blueprint was absolute perfection: a timeless, classic-premium aesthetic that screamed elite luxury.

The overall design was nothing short of epic. When the 3D render finally flashed on the architect’s tablet, it looked like a Michelin-starred flagship built to completely overshadow every dining establishment on the coast.

Including the one right next door.

As we walked back out to the supercar, Patricia looked over at her old restaurant’s sign, then back at our construction site. A cool, serene smile crossed her face.

The stage was set. The trap was laid. And her former boss had no idea what was about to hit him.

As we walked toward the exit of the property, the door to the neighboring restaurant swung open.

Her ex-boss strolled out, flanked by two lawyers in cheap suits. The second his eyes landed on us standing outside the construction site, he burst into a loud, obnoxious laugh that echoed across the entire coastal strip. He clutched his side, practically wheezing with arrogant amusement.

"Oh, look who it is!" he sneered, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye as he strutted over, his swollen jaw still heavily bandaged under his smug grin. "The hero and his little line cook playing house! What, you bought this rundown dump to open a lemonade stand?"

Patricia didn’t even flinch. She just stood beside me, her arms crossed, looking at him like he was a bug on the windshield.

"I hope you two enjoyed your little Japanese vacation," he continued, his tone dripping with greasy satisfaction as one of his lawyers stepped forward and pulled a heavy legal manila folder from his briefcase. "Because reality just caught up with you."

He snatched the papers from his lawyer and slapped them against his palm with a sharp crack.

"My legal team just finalized the paperwork," he bragged, tossing his head back with a cold laugh. "We are officially slapping you with a $1,000,000 lawsuit for physical assault, battery, and public defamation after that stunt you pulled at the resort!"

He turned his toxic glare onto Patricia, his eyes narrowing with pure malice.

"And as for you, you ungrateful little brat? I’m suing you for $80,000 in breach-of-contract damages, effective immediately. You’re going to pay for every single day you walked out on my kitchen. By the time my lawyers are finished with both of you, you won’t even have enough money left to buy a paper plate, let alone run a restaurant next door to mine!"

He folded his arms, looking at us like he had just delivered a fatal blow, totally underestimating who he was standing in front of.

I looked down at the legal papers in his hand, then up at his smug, bandaged face. A slow, calm smile spread across my face.

He really thought $1.08 million was going to break us. He had absolutely no idea he was just adding more fuel to the fire.