Chapter 116: Culinary Training Begins

Olden stared at me for a few long, silent seconds, trying to gauge if I was pulling a stunt. When he realized I wasn’t flinching, he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a pen, and scribbled a number on the back of a pristine white Heaven’s Kitchen note card.

He slid it across the marble top face-down. "This is what my time is worth," he said coldly. "And frankly, I wrote it to make you walk away."

I reached over, tapped the card with my index finger, and flipped it over.

$500,000.

A half-million-dollar tuition fee for a single training block.

I didn’t even blink. I picked up my pen, wrote the full figure onto the draft without a second of hesitation, signed my name with a crisp flourish, and slid the paper straight back into his hands.

"Deal," I said smoothly.

Olden’s jaw subtly tightened, his eyes widening as he stared down at the signed draft. The absolute, effortless speed at which I just tossed half a million dollars onto a restaurant table completely shattered his unshakeable composure. He looked at the check, then back up at me, genuinely stunned that I hadn’t even attempted to negotiate.

Beside me, Patricia had to force herself to remember how to breathe, her heart hammering against her ribs at the sheer scale of what was happening.

Olden cleared his throat, adjusting the cuff of his white jacket as he quickly regained his professional footing. "You’re serious," he muttered, almost to himself, before tucking the check into his pocket.

He looked at Patricia, his sharp blue eyes assessing her with a whole new level of gravity.

"Listen carefully," Olden said, his tone turning dead serious. "My calendar for next month is completely locked down with international culinary galas and television production. I cannot push those dates. That means I can only give you the rest of this month—exactly three weeks. It will be brutal, exhausting, and merciless. I will test every single boundary of your technique, speed, and mental stamina."

He turned back to me, his stance rigid. "If she slacks off for even an hour, the deal is void and I walk. Clear?"

"Crystal," I replied, leaning back with a calm, satisfied smile. "She won’t disappoint you."

Olden nodded once, looking at Patricia with an intense, calculating glare. "Be at Heaven’s Kitchen prep bay at 5:00 AM sharp tomorrow morning, Patricia. Don’t be late."

Patricia nodded eagerly, her eyes bright despite the intimidating deadline. "I’ll be here at 4:30 AM, Chef," she promised, ready to dive headfirst into the fire. 𝒻𝑟ℯℯ

I raised a hand, stopping them both.

"Hold on a second," I said smoothly, taking the pen back out. "No."

Olden’s brow furrowed, a flash of annoyance crossing his face. "No? I just laid out my terms. If you’re backing out—"

"I’m not backing out," I interrupted, leaning forward on the marble table. "I’m upgrading the arrangement. I don’t want her learning in your kitchen surrounded by your staff doing your prep work. I want your undivided, one-on-one attention in her own private facility—the customized, state-of-the-art culinary lab I just built for her."

Olden let out a sharp, incredulous scoff. "You expect me to leave my flagship restaurant during peak season to act as a home-visit tutor? Money or not, my kitchen—"

"I’ll double it," I said, looking him dead in the eyes without a single flicker of hesitation. "One million dollars cash. Cleared today."

The entire table went dead silent.

Patricia’s breath hitched in her throat, her head snapping toward me in total shock. Olden Mante froze completely. The legendary, unshakeable culinary titan stood there, his mouth slightly parted as he processed the fact that I had just casually dropped a cool seven-figure fee simply to change the location of the lessons.

A million dollars for three weeks of private, line-by-line coaching in her personal kitchen. It was an offensive, unheard-of amount of money for a culinary masterclass—more than most executive chefs made in several years.

"One million," I repeated, tapping the draft against the table. "You assign your head sous chef to oversee Heaven’s Kitchen for three weeks, and you report directly to her apartment every morning. Do we have a deal, Chef Mante?"

Olden stared at the draft, then looked at me, a mixture of utter disbelief and profound respect settling over his features. The sheer force of my capital had completely dismantled his leverage.

He slowly let out a deep breath, adjusting the lapels of his white coat.

"One million dollars," Olden murmured, a rare, faint smirk finally breaking through his stoic face. He extended his hand across the table. "You drive a terrifyingly hard bargain. I’ll be at her door at 6:00 AM tomorrow."

I shook his hand, the deal officially sealed. Olden gave Patricia one last long, calculating look before turning on his heel and heading back toward the kitchen line to brief his executive team.

"Ethan..." Patricia whispered as soon as he was out of earshot, her hands visibly trembling as she clutched her glass of water. "A million dollars?! You just bought three weeks of a three-star Michelin chef’s absolute undivided focus like it was nothing!"

"I bought you the best foundation possible," I said, offering her a calm smile. "Because when we open those doors on the oceanfront, I don’t just want us to compete. I want us to completely erase your ex-boss from the culinary map."

We finished the rest of the meal in elevated spirits, the food tasting even better knowing the creator himself was moving into our camp starting tomorrow.

The next morning came fast.

By 5:45 AM, the fresh ocean breeze was rolling through the open windows of Patricia’s apartment. She was already fully dressed in a crisp, custom-tailored white chef’s jacket, her dark hair pulled back tightly, every tool on her workstation organized with surgical precision. The excitement in the room was palpable, mixed with a healthy dose of nervous tension.

At exactly 6:00 AM on the dot, three sharp knocks echoed against the front door.

I pulled it open to find Olden Mante standing in the hallway. He wasn’t wearing his formal executive whites today; instead, he wore a sharp black chef’s coat, carrying a dark leather knife roll slung over his shoulder. He looked like a general stepping onto a tactical battlefield.

He walked past me with an intense, laser-focused air, stepping directly into the freshly renovated kitchen. He paused for a fraction of a second, his sharp blue eyes taking in the Italian marble, the commercial sous-vide stations, the high-end pacojet, and the custom Damascus steel array.

"Not bad," Olden muttered under his breath, unrolling his heavy leather kit onto the marble island with a crisp thud. "At least I won’t be working with amateur equipment."

He turned his cold, uncompromising glare onto Patricia, who stood at attention on the other side of the counter.

"Patricia," Olden barked, his voice echoing in the quiet apartment. "Forget everything you think you know about cooking for compliments. For the next twenty-one days, you are going to rebuild your technique from the molecular level up. If your knife cuts off by a millimeter, we throw the dish out and start again. If your reduction drops half a degree below optimal temp, it goes in the trash."

He drew a heavy, razor-sharp Japanese petty knife from his roll and slammed the handle down onto the cutting board.

"Day One," Olden declared, his eyes burning with intense discipline. "Precision prep and knife speed. Pick up your blade."

Patricia didn’t hesitate for a second. A confident, fiery grin lit up her face as she stepped forward and grabbed her knife. "Ready when you are, Chef."