The doorbell chimed softly at exactly two o'clock. Sylvain, who had been pacing the living room for the past twenty minutes, froze. He quickly wiped his damp palms on his shirt and went to answer it.
A woman in her mid-forties stood outside, dressed in a crisp white chef's coat with "Madame Elena Moreau" embroidered in elegant script on the chest. She carried a large leather bag over one shoulder and exuded a nouveau riche kind of feeling.
"You must be Sylvain," she said, offering a polite but professional smile. "Mr. Vane arranged for me to give you private cooking lessons. May I come in?"
Sylvain nodded and stepped aside. "Yes, please. Welcome."
Madame Moreau entered with confident strides, her eyes scanning the expansive, state-of-the-art kitchen with obvious approval. She placed her bag on the marble counter and immediately began unpacking — professional knives, fresh produce, herbs, spices, and several small containers of ingredients she had brought herself. Sylvain assisted her in placing her utensil awkwardly.
"Mr. Vane was very specific with his instructions," she said as she arranged everything neatly. "You are to learn basic, reliable dishes that can be prepared daily without stress. Nothing too complicated for now. We will start with breakfast items, a simple pasta, and a few easy proteins. By the end of today, you should be able to make at least three decent meals."
Sylvain stood awkwardly on the opposite side of the table, feeling completely out of his depth. "I… I don't really know how to cook much. Just eggs and toast, mostly. And even that I manage to burn sometimes."
"I do see why, Sir Vale paid me with a higher amount. Madame Moreau gave him a knowing look, her lips twitching slightly. "That much was obvious from your handling of the kitchen utensils while assisting me in arranging my tools. We will fix that today. First, wash your hands properly and put on an apron."
Sylvain obeyed quickly, tying the apron around his waist with clumsy fingers. For the next three hours, Madame Moreau guided him with his first food practical lesson. She started with something basic — a classic French omelette.
"Most beginners fail because they are impatient with heat," she explained, demonstrating the proper wrist movement for whisking eggs. "You must watch the pan constantly. The moment it looks ready, you fold."
When Sylvain's first attempt came out brown and slightly burnt on the bottom, she simply said, "Again," and made him start over. The second one was better but still uneven. By the sixth, it came out soft, golden, and perfectly folded. Madame Moreau tasted a small piece and gave a single nod of approval.
"Better. Now, sautéed vegetables. Color and crunch matter. Overcooked vegetables are a sin in any kitchen."
She taught him how to control the induction cooktop, when to add garlic, and the importance of not overcrowding the pan.
Sylvain's hands shook slightly at first, but as the lesson continued, he began to focus more. The rhythmic chopping of vegetables, the sizzle of butter in the pan, and Madame Moreau's steady instructions slowly pulled him into the process.
Next came a simple creamy pasta. Sylvain measured the ingredients carefully, stirred the sauce with more confidence this time, and even managed to plate it neatly under her watchful eye. The kitchen now smelled warm and inviting — fresh herbs, garlic, and melted butter filled the air.
Madame Moreau tasted each finished dish and offered short but honest feedback. "You're still nervous, which makes your movements stiff. Cooking requires calm hands and a calm mind. Breathe while you work. Food can sense fear."
Sylvain's face stayed flushed with embarrassment the entire section with her. Each little correction reminded him exactly why this lesson was happening — because Silas had decided he wasn't even capable of feeding him properly.
The memory of last night's cold, bland ramen and the way Silas had laughed at him still burned in his chest.
By six-thirty in the evening, the lesson finally came to an end. Several perfectly plated dishes now sat covered on the counter — a golden omelette, vibrant sautéed vegetables, and a creamy pasta with herbs. Madame Moreau packed her tools and handed Sylvain a small notebook.
"These are the recipes we covered today. Practice every single day. I will be back in three days to check your progress. Mr. Vane expects visible improvement, and so do I."
Sylvain nodded, clutching the notebook. "Thank you… I'll try my best."
After Madame Moreau left, the penthouse fell quiet once more. Sylvain stood alone in the kitchen, staring at the dishes he had managed to cook. A strange mix of pride and shame twisted inside him.
For the first time in days, he had created something that didn't taste like him—a failure at that. Yet the entire experience had still felt like another layer of control — another reminder that even the smallest parts of his life now belonged to Silas.
He had just finished cleaning the last of the utensils when the sound of the private elevator reached him. The doors slid open with a soft chime.
Silas stepped into the penthouse, still dressed in his golf attire — fitted white polo, tailored navy trousers, and polished shoes. A faint sheen of sweat glistened on his skin from the long day under the sun.
He looked relaxed, yet the usual commanding presence radiated from him.
His sharp gaze immediately swept over the kitchen, taking in the neatly arranged dishes, the faint aroma of fresh cooking, and Sylvain standing nervously by the dishes.
One eyebrow rose slightly. "You had your lesson," he stated, voice low and even.
Sylvain nodded quickly, his heart already racing. "Yes. Madame Moreau left about thirty minutes ago. I… I tried to follow everything she taught me. There's pasta, omelette, and vegetables if you're hungry."
Silas walked over to the dishes with measured steps. He lifted the cover from the pasta dish, picked up a fork, and took a small bite. He chewed slowly, his dark eyes never leaving Sylvain's face. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, until Sylvain felt like he might suffocate under the weight of that stare.
Silas finally set the fork down. "Better than the cold ramen from last night. Marginally."
He took one more step closer, towering over Sylvain. The air between them suddenly felt charged.
"Clean this up," Silas ordered calmly, gesturing to the dishes. "Then go prepare yourself properly. I've had a long day on the course… and I'm in the mood to release some stress."
The familiar command landed like a weight on Sylvain's chest. His mouth opened, but no words came out. He could only nod, heat crawling up his neck as Silas turned and headed toward the master bedroom without another glance.
Sylvain stood frozen for several seconds after Silas disappeared down the hallway. The peaceful afternoon of learning how to cook now felt like a distant memory. The real lesson — the one Silas taught with fear and possessive hands was about to begin.