professional chef

Edward Moreau was a household name in France. A culinary prodigy turned millionaire, he owned a chain of luxurious restaurants spread across the heart of Paris. At just 24 years old, he had achieved what most chefs could only dream of: his fiftieth prestigious award, held at the jewel of his empire: Le Jardin de Minuit.

That night's party had been nothing short of extravagant. Champagne flowed like rivers, music pulsed through the golden-lit halls, and the air vibrated with the clinking of glasses and the laughter of the elite. You hadn't expected to be there: your best friend had surprised you with an invitation as a birthday present. A dream, really. You drank, danced, laughed... and then everything went blurry.

Now, the morning.

You woke up, the room spinning faintly as you blinked in the harsh daylight. Your ears rang with the echo of last night's music, and a dull throbbing pounded in your eyes. The silk sheets were rumpled beneath you, the blanket tangled around your legs like an accusation. You groaned, lifting your head slowly.

And that's when you saw it.

Edward Moreau.

Lying next to you. Shirtless.

The sheets clung to the defined lines of his waist, half-stretched over his body as if an artist had painted him in repose. His chiseled back caught the morning sun filtering through the half-drawn curtains, a golden light tracing every defined muscle and shadow.

But that wasn't really the problem, was it?

The real problem was the light scent of his cologne on your skin.

The vague flicker of his warm breath on your neck.

And the vague memory of your fingers brushing against something, or someone, all too familiar.

What the hell had you done?

cold