Overbearing CEO's Contract Love
Chapter 167: Her Culinary Creations, Tasted Only by Him

Chapter 167: Her Culinary Creations, Tasted Only by Him

"No, that’s not right!"

"That doesn’t go in there!"

"You’ve added too much!"

...

Damien Sterling stood by, sighing in resignation as he watched Emma Hart fumble and scramble in front of him.

What was he thinking, allowing her to attempt British cuisine? Could he really envision such a woman in his future home?

Catching Damien’s look of disdain, Emma retracted her hands mid-air, unsure of where to wipe the lingering cream. Eventually, she resigned herself to smearing it on her apron.

This act didn’t escape Damien’s notice, his face a mixture of disbelief and incredulity. "Emma Hart?" he asked, incredulously.

"What?" she responded, a hint of frustration in her voice. After all, where else was she supposed to wipe her hands? Besides, the apron was disposable.

Damien found himself at a loss for words, unable to articulate the chaos unfolding before him.

"I told you I didn’t want to learn, didn’t I? You were the one who insisted on dragging me here!" Emma, now defiant, slumped into a nearby chair, ready to go on strike.

Irritated, and perhaps a bit angry at her own incompetence, Emma found traditional Chinese cooking within her grasp, but British cuisine was a torture she’d rather avoid.

"I quite enjoy a British breakfast," Damien suddenly said, his head bowed as he busily sliced a tomato.

Emma looked up, catching a glimpse of something somber, almost forced strength in his gaze, a fragility that seemed out of place.

What’s with him? His sudden depth of emotion was uncharacteristic, unsettling Emma and making her fidget in her seat. Rising, she cautiously approached Damien.

"As a child in England, my mother was by my side until I was ten. After that, my parents became too engulfed in their business, and I was sent to a prestigious boarding school. The annual tuition there could cover the complete education costs for a child from an ordinary family back home."

Emma couldn’t begin to fathom the expense, but she knew of Damien’s affluence; everything about him screamed luxury.

Yet, it seemed his intent wasn’t to flaunt the cost but to convey something deeper.

"As they left, I managed a smile, claiming I could take care of myself. On that morning, my mother made me an English breakfast, the last meal she ever cooked for me. No matter who else tries to replicate it, it never tastes the same as it did that day," he said, pausing in his cutting. "Though I’ve tried to make it myself since then."

The man stopped his movements, looking up and off into the distance, his gaze seeming to stretch endlessly downward, devoid of energy.

Emma Hart could almost see a ten-year-old boy watching his mother’s car drive away, a boy with Damian Sterling’s resolve probably holding back tears, pretending everything was fine as he said goodbye to his mother.

To a ten-year-old, mountains of gold and silver could never outweigh the importance of a mother’s breakfast.

Suddenly, Emma felt a pang of sympathy for the man in front of her.

Her hand moved instinctively towards Damian Sterling, intending to offer comfort, but he abruptly turned, catching her mid-motion.

"What are you doing?" he asked, baffled.

Emma looked down at her arm, then back at Damian Sterling’s confused face, wondering if she was overthinking things.

Was she really about to wipe away his tears while patting him on the back for comfort? What was she thinking?

Such an image would forever tarnish the reputation of this cold, hard man who didn’t need her consolation.

Shaking her arm, she said, "Oh... nothing... just feeling a bit sore."

Damian Sterling then looked away, still somewhat skeptical.

"Chop these up," he commanded, before turning to grab two slices of bread, expertly trimming off the crusts.

Emma watched him, a grin spreading across her face, "You seem to know how to do everything, don’t you?"

Damian paused, then looked up at her.

Emma coughed lightly, her smile fading. Every time she playfully watched him, he would return her gaze with such seriousness that she felt it was a grave disrespect to continue laughing in his presence.

"What’s wrong?" she asked.

"Didn’t you pay attention to what the instructor just taught?" he asked.

His skill wasn’t the point; everything they needed had already been demonstrated by the British chef at the front of the class.

Moreover, such a simple English breakfast should have been easy to grasp.

Damian couldn’t understand how Emma could stand there as if she hadn’t absorbed a single word.

Emma Hart propped her chin in her hand, thoughtfully trying to recall the words of the British chef who had just been speaking on stage.

Strangely, she found herself unable to remember anything concrete—just a scattering of impressions.

However, the chef’s gentlemanly poise and his striking eyes left a lasting impression on her.

"Actually, I..." Emma started, tempted to confess her complete lapse in memory.

Looking at the ingredients before her, some of which Damien Sterling had already crafted into semi-finished products, Emma thought it might not be so difficult to assemble them into something edible.

Suddenly brimming with confidence, she declared, "It’s simple, just an English breakfast, right? Just watch!"

With that, Emma set to work, combining various items with a casual flair while pretending to arrange the plate with serious intent.

Damien watched as she randomly assembled the items, then presented the final result—a breakfast pieced together from fragmented memories—with unmistakable pride.

"How about it, Mr. President?"

The beauty of an English breakfast, she thought, was that it didn’t require the precise control over heat like Chinese cuisine to ensure the food’s color looked appetizing.

At least the color of her creation resembled that of a proper English breakfast.

The British chef, who had descended from the stage, came over and gave Emma a thumbs-up, exclaiming, "GOOD FOOD!"

Could it be praise?

She offered the plate to the chef, "Would you like to try?"

As the chef reached for the cutlery, another pair of hands hovered over the plate—Damien’s.

After tasting a bite, Damien looked up with his cold eyes and declared to Emma, "Only I am allowed to taste what you make."

Really, was that necessary? It was just a breakfast, after all.

Damien’s domineering attitude was perplexing, leaving Emma torn between annoyance and a begrudging admiration.

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