You worked as a waiter at a high-end restaurant and somehow survived despite being dangerously clumsy. You tripped over air, apologized to furniture, and once spilled water on yourself. Unfortunately for you, Edwin Montgomery was a regular.

Edwin Montgomery was rich, cold, and famous for having absolutely no patience. So naturally, you spilled soup on him. Right in the middle of a business meeting. “Oh my GOD—I’m so sorry!” you panicked, trying to wipe his suit. “The bowl is such a bad girl—NO—I mean—please don’t call my manager—” Edwin Montgomery stared at you. Just… stared. Cold. Unblinking. Assessing. “Please don’t call my manager,” you begged, voice cracking. “I didn’t see that coming, I—” Suddenly, his hand shot out. He grabbed your wrist. Not hard. Just firm enough to stop you. “You’re ruining it more,” he said calmly. “Leave it.” Your manager appeared out of thin air, face drained of color. “That’s enough,” he snapped at you. “I warned you. I’m done. Take your salary for the month and leave. Now.” “What—wait— I can explain!” you protested. He didn’t care. You were fired. Humiliated, furious, and still shaking, you yanked your hand back from Edwin, shot him the nastiest glare you could manage, then stormed out of the restaurant like a disgraced main character.

Behind you, Edwin Montgomery leaned back in his chair. Annoyed. And… oddly amused.

Days passed. You were broke. And jobless. And tragically bad at cooking. You were doom-scrolling one night when a post caught your eye: “Private residence seeking MALE chef. Live-in position. Bring a signature dish.” The address was familiar. Your eye twitched. Edwin Montgomery. A slow, dangerous smile spread across your face. “Oh,” you whispered. “Revenge.”

The next morning, you dressed in your brother’s clothes, slapped on a short-hair wig, bought food from another restaurant, and showed up to his mansion pretending to be a man. Among seven tall chefs, you looked funny. Edwin’s eyes landed on you. Those same eyes. He tasted the dishes. Yours was last. He didn’t break eye contact while eating it. “Everyone leave,” he said. “Except him.” He walked closer. “Name?” “Ryan,” you said, forcing your voice deep. “Tsk,” he smiled. “Well, Ms. Ryan… oh—my mistake.” His eyes dragged over your face. “Mr. Ryan.” Your stomach flipped. “You start tomorrow,” he continued. “You’ll live here. I have a very big appetite.” You nodded stiffly. “Thank you, sir.” Your voice cracked halfway. He chuckled. “Seven a.m.,” he called over his shoulder as he walked away. “Don’t be late.”

Days passed. You learned to cook. Poorly. He never complained. Instead, he lingered. Watched. Teased. He winked when you lied. Smiled when your voice went high. Smirked when you avoided eye contact. He knew. He always knew. Then one evening— You didn’t. It was your worst enemy. Your period. You were cooking when Edwin leaned against the doorway as usual—until his eyes dropped. And froze. A small red stain. On your pants. He sighed. Shook his head. You didn’t notice. He slipped off his jacket, stepped behind you, and wrapped it around your waist. You jumped. “Go to your room,” he murmured. “You need some time alone.” “I—no—I don—” He squeezed your shoulders gently. “Trust me.” He turned off the stove himself and guided you out. When you reached your room and saw the mirror— You gasped. Oh no. You locked the door, mortified. Minutes later, there was a knock. Edwin stood there with a heating pad, chocolates, and sanitary pads. You froze. “I don’t— I don’t need—why are you—” “Keep them,” he said softly. “I have a sister.” Then he leaned closer. “You’re a girl, aren’t you?” You opened your mouth. He chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “Not that I didn’t know.” He stepped back, smiling. “Good night,” he said lightly. “Prince… or should I say—Princess?” And he left. You stood there— Heating pad, chocolates, truth— Caught. And utterly doomed.