The Billionaire's Apron - nextpart.feji.io
CHAPTER 1: THE GROOM’S ILLUSION
The scent of caramelized white truffles and searing Wagyu beef always brought Julian back to earth.
In the chaotic, high-pressure arena of the Grand Elysium’s main kitchen, he wasn’t a billionaire. He wasn’t the elusive mogul whose face the tech and hospitality industries desperately tried to plaster on magazine covers. Here, under the harsh fluorescent lights and amid the symphony of clanking stainless steel, he was just a man in a white apron.
Julian carefully wiped a stray drop of reduction from the rim of a porcelain plate. His hands were steady. His focus was absolute.
“Perfect,” Julian murmured, stepping back.
“You’re going to be late for your own wedding rehearsal, cousin,” a sharp voice cut through the sizzling noise of the kitchen.
Marcus stood at the kitchen entrance, looking pristine in a bespoke three-piece Tom Ford suit. He adjusted his Rolex, an anxious smirk playing on his lips. Marcus was Julian’s cousin, his closest confidant, and—to the eyes of the public—the official CEO of the Grand Elysium Luxury Hotel Group.
Julian pulled off his latex gloves and tossed them into the bin. “The kitchen dictates the timeline, Marcus. Not the calendar.”
“Well, your fiancé is currently upstairs, and according to the bridesmaids, she’s already losing her patience,” Marcus warned, stepping closer so the line cooks couldn’t overhear. “Are you really going to keep this charade up today? Julian, she thinks I’m the billionaire. She thinks you’re just the ‘Head of Culinary Operations’ I hired out of pity.”
Julian smiled, a faint, calculated glint in his dark eyes. “If Isabella loves me for the man who manages the kitchens, she’ll love me when she finds out I own the entire skyline. It’s a simple test, Marcus.”
“A dangerous one,” Marcus countered. “Women like Isabella Vance don’t marry for the recipe of a perfect soufflé.”
“Isabella is different,” Julian said, though a tiny seed of doubt, deep down, remained locked away. “She’s elegant. Grounded. Every time we go to that cheap diner downtown, she never complains.”
Marcus let out a soft scoff but shook his head. “If you say so. Just don’t blame me if the illusion shatters.”
On the penthouse suite of the Grand Elysium, the atmosphere was entirely different. It didn’t smell like truffles; it smelled of expensive French perfume, panic, and unspoken terror.
Isabella Vance stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror, admiring her reflection. The Vera Wang gown hugged her curves flawlessly. The diamonds around her neck caught the afternoon sun, casting sharp beams of light across the room.
To the world, Isabella was a rising socialite, a woman of grace and pedigree. She had played the part perfectly for eighteen months. She had smiled sweetly at Julian’s modest apartment. She had pretended to enjoy the greasy-spoon diners he took her to, secretly sanitizing her hands under the table. She had tolerated his long hours in the kitchen, convincing herself that it was a temporary sacrifice.
Because she knew the real prize.
Julian had introduced her to his cousin, Marcus, the ‘CEO’ of the multi-billion-dollar empire. Isabella knew that once she married Julian, she would be family. She would have a direct pipeline to Marcus’s wealth, and Julian would eventually be promoted to an executive position. She was playing the long game.
But today, the mask was beginning to itch.
“Careful!” Isabella snapped, her voice suddenly losing its melodic sweetness, replaced by a razor-sharp edge.
The young makeup artist, a girl named Sarah, flinched. Her brush trembled. “I’m sorry, Miss Vance. I was just—”
“You were just ruining a thirty-thousand-dollar dress with your incompetence,” Isabella hissed, turning her head sharply. The warmth in her eyes was completely gone, replaced by a cold, aristocratic disdain. “If a single speck of powder lands on this silk, I will personally ensure you never work in this city again. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Miss Vance. I’m so sorry,” Sarah whispered, her eyes welling with tears.
Isabella didn’t care. She looked at her reflection, smoothing down the satin of her dress. In her mind, she was already the queen of the Grand Elysium. The staff weren’t human beings; they were merely props in her fairy tale.
A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. Marcus walked in, holding a clipboard.
Isabella’s face instantly transformed. The coldness vanished, replaced by a radiant, dazzling smile that could fool the devil himself.
“Marcus! Darling!” Isabella glided across the room, her voice dripping with honey. “Tell me everything is ready for the reception. I want perfection. Only perfection for the future Mrs. executive family.”
Marcus forced a polite smile, though his eyes glanced briefly at the terrified makeup artist in the corner. “Everything is on schedule, Isabella. Julian is just finishing up some quality control checks in the kitchen. He’ll be up shortly.”
Isabella’s smile stiffened for a fraction of a second. The kitchen. Always the damn kitchen.
“Oh, Julian and his little food hobby,” Isabella laughed daintily, waving her hand dismissively. “He’s so passionate about his work. It’s cute, really. But honestly, Marcus, once we’re married, you really must give him a real corporate job. A corner office. He can’t spend his life smelling like onions.”
“Julian is very content where he is,” Marcus said carefully. “He built his reputation from the ground up.”
“Yes, well, reputation doesn’t buy yachts, does it?” Isabella chuckled, assuming Marcus shared her elite worldview. She leaned in closer, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Between us, Marcus… I’ve already drafted a new budget for the West Wing renovation. We can discuss it over champagne tonight.”
Marcus felt a chill run down his spine. He looked at the woman his cousin loved—or rather, the monster his cousin was entirely blind to.
“I’ll let Julian know you’re ready,” Marcus said coldly, stepping back.
As soon as the door clicked shut behind Marcus, Isabella’s smile dropped instantly. The warmth evaporated.
“Where is my iced matcha latte?” she demanded, turning to her personal assistant, Chloe. “I asked for it twenty minutes ago!”
“I-I ordered it from the room service kitchen, Miss Vance. They said it would be up right away—”
“Go get it yourself!” Isabella screamed, slamming her hand onto the vanity table. “I am surrounded by idiots! If that latte isn’t here in three minutes, someone is getting fired!”
Downstairs, Julian was walking through the grand lobby, adjusting his tie. He had changed into a simple, elegant suit. He looked like an ordinary, upper-middle-class man trying his best to look sophisticated.
He genuinely believed he was the luckiest man alive. He believed Isabella loved his mind, his passion, and his soul. He had hidden his immense wealth because he had seen too many billionaires get swallowed alive by gold-diggers and fake affection.
He wanted something real.
As he walked past the reception desk, the concierge bowed slightly. “Good afternoon, Mr.—”
Julian raised a single finger, a silent cue.
“—Mr. Julian,” the concierge quickly corrected himself, sweating slightly. “Have a wonderful rehearsal.”
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Julian nodded, a soft smile on his face. He genuinely believed his secret was safe, and that his wedding day would be the start of a beautiful, honest life.
He had no idea that upstairs, the woman he loved was about to tear his illusion apart, piece by piece.
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