Chapter 122: Let’s Feed The City!

A whisper rippled through the glass facade of Ocean Front Restaurant, turning the growing tide of fury into pure, unadulterated shock.

One of the high-society critics at the front table had whipped out a pair of brass opera glasses, peering down the strip toward the glowing, floor-to-ceiling showroom of LUMEN.

"Is that... no, it can’t be," the critic muttered, leaning closer to the window. "That’s Olden Mante sitting right at the head chef’s table!"

"What?!" a venture capitalist snapped, pushing his plate of cold, rubbery fish aside. "Olden is down the street?!"

Within seconds, half the dining room was pressed against the glass. Through the crystal-clear oceanfront view, the sight was unmistakable: Olden Mante, dressed in a sharp suit, was swirling a glass of vintage wine, happily engaged in conversation while being served an exquisite, steaming plate of hand-rolled truffle agnolotti from a glowing, white-alabaster glass kitchen.

"He’s not even cooking there—he’s eating there as a guest!" someone yelled.

"Who the hell is running that kitchen then?" another voice chimed in.

One of the wealthiest tech moguls in the room waved over his private assistant, his voice tight with impatience. "Go down there right now. See if they have an open table for twelve. I am not sitting here eating this overpriced sludge for another second."

Durev, who was hovering near the kitchen doors drenched in sweat and smelling of burnt butter, felt the blood completely drain from his face.

"No... no, no, no," Durev stammered, his knees buckling slightly. "That’s impossible. Olden is under contract with me!"

Driven by a terrifying blend of denial and rage, Durev ripped off his grease-stained apron, shoved past his furious floor manager, and marched out the front doors into the cool ocean breeze. He didn’t care about the paparazzi flashes or the murmuring crowd trailing behind him; he walked down the strip like a madman, his eyes locked on the blinding sign of LUMEN.

The tech mogul’s assistant reached the entrance first, pushing through the heavy glass doors.

Inside, LUMEN was a sanctuary of high-class perfection. Soft jazz echoed softly through the acoustic layout, white-gloved waiters glided across polished marble floors with silver trays, and the rich, mouth-watering aroma of roasted duck and saffron sauce filled the air.

At the center of it all stood Patricia in her crisp, custom chef’s whites, commanding Matt, Elena, and her brigade with quiet, flawless authority.

The assistant walked up to the maître d’, wide-eyed. "Excuse me... do you have room for a party of twelve from Ocean Front? We’re willing to pay whatever it takes."

"We have prepared our floor for a full house tonight, sir," the maître d’ replied with a flawless, welcoming smile. "Please, bring your party in."

Right as the assistant turned around to wave the guests over, Durev slammed through the front doors, completely unhinged.

"WHAT IS THIS?!" Durev roared, his voice cracking as he looked at the pristine dining room, the high-end equipment, and finally at Patricia standing tall in her glass showroom. "Patricia?! Olden?!"

Olden slowly set his wine glass down on the white tablecloth, wiping his mouth with a napkin before turning his gaze toward Durev with cold, absolute disgust.

Durev stared at Patricia, his chest heaving, his mind completely collapsing as he realized the truth. "You... you stole my chef! You ruined my night!"

Patricia stepped up to the pass of her glass showroom, leaning forward slightly, her eyes blazing with calm, razor-sharp triumph.

"I didn’t steal anything, Durev," Patricia said, her voice carrying effortlessly across the silent, stunning room. "Olden just chose to dine at a real restaurant tonight."

Olden picked up his fork, casually taking another bite of the pan-seared duck before looking up at Durev. The absolute calm in his voice cut through the tense room like a blade.

"In fact," Olden said, loud enough for the gathering crowd of high-society patrons and critics to hear clearly, "this is, without a doubt, the single finest meal I have tasted in my entire professional career. Chef Patricia has surpassed my standards in every imaginable way."

A collective gasp rippled through the doorway as the top critics frantically began jotting down notes on their phones.

I pushed off the marble pillar I was leaning against, walking smoothly into the showroom and stepping right beside Patricia. I rested a supportive hand on the edge of the pass, looking Durev dead in the eyes with a cool, satisfied smile.

Durev’s bloodshot eyes darted from me to Patricia, and then past her toward the kitchen line. That’s when his gaze landed on Matt, Elena, and the rest of the support brigade—working with seamless, high-speed precision in immaculate LUMEN jackets.

The realization hit him like a physical blow.

"Matt?!" Durev choked out, his face turning an unsightly, pale purple as he pointed a trembling finger at his former head sous chef. "Elena?! You... you poached my entire kitchen staff?!"

He finally understood why his own back-of-house had been in such complete, unmitigated ruin tonight. He hadn’t just lost Olden Mante—we had systematically stripped his entire operational spine out from right under him before he even realized a war had started.

"YOU FRAUDS!" Durev completely lost it, crashing out right in the middle of the entrance. He lunged forward, slamming his fists against the glass partition. "You sabotaged me! You ruined my contract! I’ll sue all of you into the ground! I’ll destroy—"

Before he could finish his wild, spittle-flying tirade, two of my broad-shouldered security guards stepped up, seizing him firmly by the arms and dragging his thrashing frame backward out into the cool night air.

"Get your hands off me!" Durev shrieked, his voice echoing down the strip. "I MADE YOU, PATRICIA! YOU’RE NOTHING WITHOUT ME!"

Nobody was listening to him anymore.

While Durev was being escorted off the property like a raving madman, the floodgates opened. Frustrated, hungry, and completely fed up with the disaster next door, the billionaire investors, celebrities, and critics began pouring out of Ocean Front Restaurant in droves.

They marched right past Durev, abandoning his empty, smoke-filled venue to line up down the block for a table at LUMEN.

Patricia took a deep, grounding breath, her hand steadying under mine as she looked out at the packed room, the flashing cameras of the press, and the glowing success of her new home.

"Table four is seated, Chef," Matt called out from the line, his voice sharp and confident. "Tickets are rolling in!"

Patricia looked at me, a brilliant, unshakeable smile breaking across her face, before turning back to her kitchen with absolute, total command.

"LET’S FEED THE CITY, BRIGADE! FIRE ALL STATIONS!"