CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

RICHARD'S POV

Chef Baptiste was still on his knees, his pride crumbling like a poorly baked soufflé. The room was a mix of hushed whispers and stifled chuckles, the energy shifting between sympathy and disbelief.

"Please, Richard. I—I can do better. Just give me another chance," Baptiste pleaded, his voice breaking under the strain.

This was my moment of triumph, and I wasn't about to let it slip away. But as he pleaded with me, desperation etched into every line of his face, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of annoyance. It was time to put an end to this charade.

"Enough," I said firmly, my voice cutting through the air like a knife. "You've had your chance. Now leave. I believe the stipulation was clear enough from the start."

But to my surprise, instead of obeying my command, the chef began to laugh—a low, mocking sound that grated on my nerves. I narrowed my eyes, my patience wearing thin. Did he truly think this was a laughing matter?

"What's so funny?" I demanded, my tone lace
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