Chapter 41: Preparing the Banquet

Hobbies? As if she’d had time for those. Before all this, she’d worked herself ragged just to keep the lights on.

But that was not the line to use in front of the chairman’s wife.

“When I’m off the clock,” Cora said with an easy smile, “I cook. It’s…kind of my therapy. Especially when it’s for someone I love. Watching him finish every bite—” she laughed softly “—it’s the best feeling.”

No lie there; on rare free weekends she did treat herself to something warm and homemade.

Julian kept chatting with the chairman, but he was listening. At the word love, an image flashed uninvited—her late-night noodles, her careful hands. He cut her a quick glance. The little mole was getting good at this.

“The Mr. Watson must adore your cooking,” the chairman’s wife said.

“Very much,” Julian answered smoothly before Cora could. “She’s quite talented.”

Cora side-eyed him. He’d called her pasta awful and then eaten the entire bowl. Selective memory, much?

Julian turned back to their guests, voice light. “Cora insisted we not make a fuss and host lunch right here at headquarters. I tried to stop her.”

The chairman and his wife laughed. “Perfect. We prefer simple to showy. Lunch at the office sounds ideal.”

Excuse me, when did I—

Julian was already on his feet, guiding Cora up with a hand to her elbow. He dipped his head, his breath warm against her ear. “Word just came: Madam loves Chinese hot pot. That’s easy enough, isn’t it?”

Easy? Sure—if ingredients sprang out of thin air and kitchens ran themselves. This was her first time in this building; she didn’t even know where the knives were.

As if reading her mind, he added, “The butler stocked everything. And—” his tone shifted, deliberately casual “—Grandmother says if you pull this off, you can go visit home.”

The protest in her throat died. She looked up, eyes bright. “Promise?”

He winked. “Remember, if we’re going to act—act well.”

Cora pivoted back to the chairman’s wife with a sunny, effortless smile. “I heard you enjoy hot pot, madam. How about something hands-on today? Food always tastes better when we make it ourselves. Just like love—sweeter when you work for it. Isn’t that right, Jule?”

She leaned into Julian’s side, gaze upturned, voice ending on a playful lilt that kicked his pulse hard against his collar.

This little mole… Did she know what that did to a man?

Julian slid an arm around her waist, the picture of a besotted husband. “You’re expecting,” he chided gently. “Let the chefs handle it. No need to push yourself.”

When did I volunteer? Cora smiled through her clenched molars.

“Honored guests deserve a personal touch,” she said, wrinkling her nose at him, teasing. “And don’t keep mentioning I’m pregnant—it’s early. I can handle this.”

“Fine. I can’t win with you,” he murmured, tapping the tip of her nose with exaggerated fondness.

The chairman and his wife were all approval—more so when they learned Cora was expecting. After a few more pleasantries, Cora excused herself to “prepare.”

She made it through the door, dropped the smile, and rubbed her cheeks. Ow. Fake grins used muscles she didn’t know existed.

Austin fell into step. “Restaurant’s on twenty-eight, ma’am. This way.”

As they walked, he laid out the plan in his crisp assistant cadence. “Everything is prepped—soup bases simmered since morning, produce washed and portioned. You’ll just assemble and finish the plates. Also, the chairman and madam are here for leisure more than business. After lunch, the itinerary includes the South Lake villa, riverside fishing, a dawn cruise, and a traditional net-casting demo. If they request additions, we’ll accommodate.”

Cora’s stomach tightened. “I’m…also accompanying?”

He nodded. “If this goes well, the contract is a formality. But if anyone realizes you and Mr. Watson are…a contractual arrangement—” He stopped there.

“I know,” she said quietly. “Tell Julian I won’t ruin this. It’s part of our deal.”

Austin exhaled, relieved. “Yes, ma’am.”

The elevator doors opened to an entire floor of culinary theater—sleek stations by cuisine, spotless glass, staff lined with military precision.

“Mrs. Watson,” the chefs chorused, bowing as one.

Cora nearly jumped. Could everyone please stop doing that?

“The butler?” she asked, doing her best impression of calm authority.

“Inside with the last stock,” Austin said.

In the Chinese kitchen, two glittering rows of induction burners held small copper pots where milky broths rolled in gentle eddies. A dozen chefs monitored heat, skimming and reducing.

“These started at dawn,” the butler explained. “From stockpots down to tasting pots.”

Cora sucked in a breath. For hot pot? The baseline of “simple” here lived on a different planet.

Still—she knew her way around a knife, and the head chefs were patient and elite. With a few pointers, she fell into the rhythm: trimming tenderloin against the grain, shaving mushrooms paper thin, arranging greens by blanch time, plating sauces in a gradient from mild to sinful.

She was mid-slice on a king trumpet when a warm band closed around her waist.

Her hand jerked; the knife almost nicked her thumb. She caught a familiar profile over her shoulder—razor jaw, unfair mouth, the kind of face HR policies were written to prevent.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed, cheeks flaring. “This is the kitchen. People are looking.”

“I’m checking on my wife,” Julian said, voice a velvet scrape at the shell of her ear.

A shiver arrowed down her spine. Heat rushed traitorously to her ears.

She started to shrug him off; his murmur stopped her cold. “They’re watching. The chairman and madam.”

Right. Showtime.

Cora softened against him on cue, tilting her head so it rested—just barely—against his shoulder. Across the line, executives approached with the guests, smiling at the domestic tableau.

Julian’s gaze darkened with something that wasn’t purely performance. He dipped closer—just enough—and his lips brushed the edge of her earlobe in a whisper of a kiss. “Good girl, little mole.”

Electricity shot through her so sharply her fingers trembled on the knife handle.

Little mole? He’s the mole.

She forced her smile brighter, steadied the blade, and set about building the prettiest, deadliest hot pot this continent had ever seen.