The review burned on his screen, each word a deliberate provocation. "Overhyped. Pretentious. All technique, no soul." Zhan Xuan's fingers tightened around his phone until his knuckles whitened. The light from the device cast dangerous shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw.

He could almost hear the whispers spreading through his kitchen—the way his staff avoided his gaze, the clatter of pans suddenly silenced whenever he entered a room.

This wasn't just criticism. It was a challenge. A declaration of war. And Zhan Xuan never lost wars.

"She's just trying to get a reaction, Chef," his sous-chef muttered, too afraid to meet his eyes.

Xuan's laugh was cold and hollow. "Oh, she'll get a reaction." He tossed the phone onto the stainless steel counter with a sharp clatter that made everyone flinch.

For three nights, he became a man possessed. Knives flashed in his hands like extensions of his body, ingredients destroyed and reborn under his ruthless control. His kitchen ran with military precision, every movement calculated, every dish crafted to hurt.

When she arrived, he didn't acknowledge her entrance. Didn't look up from his station as the hostess led her to the best table—directly in his line of sight.

He watched her from under hooded eyes as she ordered, noting the way she held her head high, the feigned confidence in her posture.

Foolish.

The first course was a masterpiece of aggression—spicy enough to make most cry, presented with deliberate arrogance on a black plate that absorbed light.

He delivered it himself, letting his arm brush hers as he set it down. Her intake of breath was barely audible, but he caught it. Felt it like a victory.

"Enjoy," he murmured, his lips brushing her ear. "It gets worse from here."

Course after course, he pushed boundaries—flavors too intense, textures deliberately challenging, presentations that screamed dominance. Each dish was a punishment, a reminder of exactly who she was dealing with.

When he finally approached her table again, it wasn't with dessert. It was with a single, perfectly crafted chocolate truffle—shiny and black like his mood.

He didn't ask permission before sitting across from her. Just pulled out the chair with a deliberate scrape and planted his boots wide apart, claiming the space as his own.

Her fork hovered in midair, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and something else—something that made his嘴角勾起 in a predatory smile.

"Well?" His voice was low and dangerous, a growl disguised as speech. He plucked the truffle from its plate and held it between his thumb and forefinger, just out of her reach. "Are you ready to beg for forgiveness yet?"