Chapter 570

Chapter 569:

The beef was charred black along the edges. The rosemary had reduced to dry, brittle twigs. The paprika had formed a thick, crusted paste across the surface. It looked like a science experiment that had gone catastrophically wrong.

Gaston quietly poured a large glass of ice water and set it on the counter, fully prepared for her to take one bite and immediately reach for it.

Jocelyn picked up a fork, stabbed a blackened piece of meat, blew on it, and put it in her mouth. She closed her eyes and chewed.

Gaston held his breath, his muscles coiled, ready to grab the trash can.

Jocelyn’s eyes snapped open. A bright, genuine spark of joy lit up her face.

“Oh my god,” she groaned happily, swallowing. “This is incredible p>

The aggressive, overpowering spices had completely masked the metallic taste in her mouth. The heavy salt and char settled her rolling stomach instantly. She eagerly stabbed another piece, her cheeks flushing with excitement.

Gaston stared at her in utter disbelief. The tension drained out of him, replaced by a wave of overwhelming, helpless affection. He watched her eat the burnt meat as though it were a five-star delicacy.

Jocelyn cut a piece and held the fork up to his mouth. “Try it p>

Gaston did not hesitate. He opened his mouth and took the bite.

The dry, scorched spices assaulted his palate immediately. The pepper burned the back of his throat. It was, without any question, the worst thing he had ever tasted in his life.

𝖨n𝗍еn𝘀e 𝗿𝗼ma𝗇𝘤е о𝗇

He forced himself to chew. He swallowed hard, suppressing a cough.

“It is amazing,” Gaston said smoothly, offering her a devastatingly handsome smile. “The best roast I have ever had p>

Jocelyn looked at his slightly watering eyes. She knew he was lying.

But standing in her kitchen, eating her terrible food, a profound sense of accomplishment washed over her anyway. She didn’t need Elouise. She didn’t need Michelin chefs. She could take care of herself.

A small, fierce seed of independence took root in her chest. She was ready to take back control of her life.

A few days later, the afternoon sun poured through the glass walls of the penthouse sunroom.

Jocelyn sat in a white wicker chair with a thick binder resting in her lap, deeply absorbed in the legal framework for establishing a non-profit charity foundation. She wanted to build a sanctuary for abused women — and she wanted to fund it entirely herself.

The private elevator chimed.

Penelope, Jocelyn’s close friend and a powerhouse television producer, marched into the penthouse having survived three grueling layers of newly implemented biometric security checks downstairs. She wore a sharp crimson blazer and towering Louboutin heels, carrying two iced decaffeinated matcha lattes in one hand and a thick, glossy folder in the other.

“You look glowing,” Penelope announced, handing Jocelyn a cup and dropping into the chair opposite her. “Pregnancy looks obnoxiously good on you p>

Jocelyn smiled and took a sip of the cold drink. “Thank you. What brings you up here in the middle of a workday p>