Chapter 450: A Feast Fit For A King

The voice from outside the door shattered the moment like glass.

Mika’s hands immediately released her.

He stepped back, his expression shifting to something neutral, professional, as if nothing had happened.

Nadia, on the other hand, was still reeling.

Her chest heaved. Her face burned. Her thoughts were scattered fragments that refused to form anything coherent.

She stood frozen in the middle of the room, her hands clenched at her sides, her body still tingling where his hands had been.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

"Lady Nadia? Is everything alright? Should I bring everyone in so that you can talk in private?"

The door handle began to turn.

That was enough to snap her back to reality. She drew a sharp breath, forced her voice into something resembling calm.

"No! No, it’s fine. I’ll be right there."

She moved quickly, crossing the room and pulling the door open before the staff member could enter.

The young woman on the other side looked relieved to see her, though her eyes flickered briefly over Nadia’s face—noticing something, perhaps, but too professional to comment.

"The delegates are assembled, Lady Nadia. They’re ready whenever you are."

Nadia nodded once, stiffly. "Thank you. I’ll be there shortly."

The staff member bowed and retreated down the hallway.

Nadia stood in the doorway for a moment, her back to Mika, her hand still on the handle. She could feel his presence behind her, could almost hear the amusement radiating off him.

She knew should turn around and say something.

She should look at him like a normal person would.

But she couldn’t.

Every time she tried to lift her gaze, her eyes slid away, refusing to settle on his face.

Her cheeks were still hot. The memory of his hands on her body was still too fresh, too vivid, too present.

So she looked down.

"They need me, Mika." She said, her voice quieter than she intended. "You should...take your time. Come out when you’re ready. Oh, and there’s plenty of food I prepared for you to enjoy, so—help yourself."

She didn’t wait for a response.

She stepped through the doorway and closed it behind her with a firm click, then walked down the hallway at a pace that was dignified but decidedly fast.

She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling her heart still racing beneath her palm.

’What was that?’

’What had that been?’

His hands on her. His fingers. The way he had squeezed and released, squeezed and released, like she was an instrument he was learning to play.

Her face burned again.

She shook her head, forcing herself to focus. She was Lady Nadia. She had a meeting to attend. Seventy-eight worlds were waiting for her.

She could not afford to be distracted by...by whatever that was.

She straightened her dress, smoothed her hair, and walked toward the main hall with all the composure she could muster.

—

Inside the room, Mika watched the closed door for a moment, a smile spreading across his face.

She was running from him. From the confusion and heat and uncertainty she clearly didn’t know how to process.

And in that moment he looked like he knew exactly what he was doing—and he most definitely did.

After all, he had learned from Yelena and Fauna, yes. Grown bolder, more confident, more willing to push boundaries.

He wasn’t the same boy who was hesitant to make a move on his mother anyone and has grown past that, so it was only natural that he would be more assertive.

But more then that he had something with Nadia that he didn’t have with the others—an absolute guarantee of safety.

A guarantee that she would never speak against him, because the moment her emotions slipped, the world would tremble.

Of course, if anyone else had tried what he just did, they would be dead. Nadia would have removed their hands without a second thought, then their head, then whatever remained of their existence.

But he was her son.

Her favorite person in the entire world.

So all she could do was stand there, confused and embarrassed and overwhelmed, and then run away—

—and he was going to take full advantage of this.

He would toy with her emotions first. Pull her one way, then another. Keep her off balance, keep her uncertain, keep her thinking about him and then, slowly, he would envelop her.

Make her his.

She didn’t know it yet. She probably wouldn’t even recognize it when it started happening.

But it was already in motion.

But for now, he decided to stay aside. He had heard there was food waiting somewhere outside, and he hadn’t eaten breakfast or lunch yet.

Starving didn’t quite cover it—his stomach was ready to declare war on the entire building if something edible didn’t appear soon.

So he straightened his dress, pushed his hair back into place, and made his way out.

Walking through the corridors, he felt eyes on him from every direction. He was probably the second most watched person in the entire event—right after Nadia herself.

The male officials looked at him with confusion bordering on irritation.

After all, this area was strictly VIP—only top individuals and their closest aides could stay here, no subordinates, no underlings.

So who was this young man wandering through like he owned the place? He didn’t fit any of the boxes they had mentally prepared.

The women were a different story.

Their eyes lingered longer, their heads tilted slightly, their whispers passed from one to another.

Who was that handsome gentleman?

Was he attached to one of the delegations?

He looked far too young to be a official himself, but he carried himself with an ease that suggested he belonged.

A few of them made tentative steps toward him, lips parting to form greetings or questions.

But Mika walked past them all without slowing.

He didn’t care about the stares. He didn’t care about the whispers. The only thing occupying his mind was food.

The smell hit him before he reached the hall where everyone was talking to one another—rich, layered, unmistakably familiar.

His pace quickened.Then he saw it.

A massive spread. Tables lined with dishes upon dishes, steaming and golden and arranged with the kind of care that spoke of real craftsmanship.

Caterers moved between them, replenishing, adjusting, making sure everything was perfect.

And at the center, standing with his arms crossed, watching the untouched food with an expression of quiet disappointment the head chef.

Seeing him, Mika’s face lit up. He bounded over, his earlier composure completely abandoned.

"Hello! Sorry to bother you, but—" He pointed at a dish near the edge. "—is this the saffron-infused rice with the caramelized shallots? And this—" His finger moved. "—is the slow-roasted lamb with the pomegranate glaze, right? And these dumplings—they look like the ones with the mushroom and truffle filling."

He was pointing at dish after dish, rattling off descriptions with the enthusiasm of a child unwrapping presents.

The chef stared at him in confusion and wonder.

He was a man who had made a name for himself across the continent—an award-winning chef with a bestselling cookbook who was invited to the most prestigious events.

And when he had received the call for this particular event, he had been honored beyond words.

The Ten-Year Coalition Meeting. The gathering that would decide the future of inter-realm relations.

This was supposed to be a milestone in his career.

He had prepared obsessively. Poured weeks into planning, testing, refining.

He had elevated his homestyle dishes to something worthy of dignitaries, preserving the comfort while adding layers of complexity.

But...the reality had been crushing.

The officials were too snobby to eat. They sipped their champagne, held their wine glasses, murmured about policies and alliances.

When they approached the food at all, it was with the air of people doing something slightly beneath them.

A tiny sample. A polite nod. And then they moved on.

Not one of them had shown genuine interest. Not one had asked about the preparation.

Not one had looked at his creations the way this young man was looking at them now—with hunger, with recognition, with joy.

So, right now the chef felt something crack open in his chest.

"Yes!" He said, his voice rougher than he intended. "Yes, that’s exactly right. All of it."

Mika’s eyes went wide. He looked at the chef, then back at the food, then at the chef again.

"This one too?" He pointed at a pastry glistening with honey. "And this? And—"

"Every single dish." The chef confirmed, a smile finally breaking through. "Let me explain..."

He stepped forward, gesturing at the spread.

"This rice, I toast the grains three times before adding the broth. The lamb marinates for eighteen hours in pomegranate and cardamom. The dumplings..." He picked one up, showing the delicate pleating. "...the wrapper is rolled so thin you can read through it. The filling is aged truffle with a hint of yuzu zest."

Mika listened, nodding along, his expression shifting from excitement to genuine appreciation.

And then he froze.

His eyes locked onto the chef’s face. His mouth dropped open. He took a step back, then forward again, pointing with a trembling finger like he had just recognised a celebrity.

"You’re—" He gasped. "You’re Chef Damine Latiffé! The four-time fischigan award winner! The one who revolutionized homestyle cooking!"

The chef blinked. Then laughed.

"Hahaha! I didn’t expect anyone here to recognize me here."

"Recognize you?" Mika’s voice climbed higher. "How could I not recognize you? Your book is—the Chapter on braising alone changed how I think about cooking!"

"And your work with fermented ingredients? Revolutionary. Absolutely revolutionary. And the way you balance acidity without overpowering the base flavors—"

He was rambling now, listing achievements, techniques, the specific dishes that had made the chef famous.

The man stood there, soaking it in, feeling a decade of exhaustion lift off his shoulders.

Finally, Mika stopped. He looked at the spread of food, then back at the chef, his expression turning almost reverent.

"I don’t even know if I can touch these." He said quietly. "They’re too beautiful. I’d ruin them just by—"

The chef scoffed.

"Please. Since I got here, barely anyone has even looked at this food, let alone eaten it. I prepared enough for a small army, thinking it would run out in an hour."

He gestured at the untouched dishes.

"But no one has touched it."

"How could they not?!" Mika clutched his chest like he was personally offended.

The chef opened his mouth to answer, but Mika was already going.

"This food—" He waved at the spread like they were treasures. "—do they have any idea what went into this!? Do they know about the eighteen-hour marinade?! The triple-grilled chicken!? The hand-rolled sweets?"

"They’re just standing there with their champagne, acting like—like—!"

He stopped himself, looking almost embarrassed by his own passion.

And seeing his enthusiasm, the chef laughed—a real laugh, the first genuine one he’d let out all day before saying with a big smile on his face,

"Oh lad, you don’t how how happy I am because of what you said. You really made my day!"

He then noticed Mika’s fiery gaze on the food and chuckled as he said,

"And since it’s so obvious you’re dying to have a taste, take as much as you want. There’s no need to hold back."

Mika’s eyes narrowed. A curious, fervent look crossed his face.

"Are you sure? I can really take as much as I want? What about the other guests here."

"Please." The chef scoffed like he couldn’t give a shit. "I can even pack boxes for you to take home. No one here is going to appreciate this food the way it deserves, so..." He shrugged. "...take it all."

Hearing this—Mika didn’t hesitate.

The chef expected him to grab a plate. To fill it carefully, maybe go back for seconds. Normal behavior.

Instead, Mika spotted an empty round table nearby.

He walked over, pulled off the tablecloth and lifted the table like it weighed nothing and held it like it was a tray.

Then he went to the food to fill his ’tray’ up.

But he didn’t scoop. He didn’t select individual portions.

He took entire platters—whole dishes, still steaming, still perfect and stacked them onto his table-tray.

One after another, moving with the efficiency of someone who had done this before.

Around them, the hall went quiet.

A delegate stopped mid-sentence, his wine glass frozen at his lips. A cluster of diplomats turned to stare.

Women who had been admiring Mika from a distance now looked at him with expressions caught between horror and fascination.

"What is he doing?"

"Who let him in?"

"Is he—is he taking all of it?"

The whispers grew louder. Voices layered over each other, carrying notes of offense and disbelief. Someone muttered about "that brat." Another suggested calling security.

Mika didn’t hear any of it. Or if he did, he didn’t care. He kept stacking.

The chef watched for a moment, stunned. Then he burst out laughing—loud, genuine, unapologetic laughter that drew even more stares.

"Young man, there’s no need for this!" He called out. "If you’re that hungry, I can have the food brought to you. Properly. With a table setting and everything."

Mika paused mid-platter. "Really? You’d do that?"

The chef spread his hands.

"This is the first time I’ve seen anyone truly hungry for my food. How could I refuse?"

He glanced at the mountain of dishes Mika had already claimed.

"But are you sure you can eat all of that? You’re cleaning out my entire pantry."

Mika scoffed. "Don’t worry. I’ll return every dish without a drop of sauce left on them."

The chef’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he signaled to the catering staff, who began carefully transferring the dishes onto proper trays.

Mika watched them work, his excitement settling into something warmer. Then a thought struck him.

"Actually—can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

"Who ordered these dishes?" Mika asked curiously. "Like who made the selection of food here?"

The chef puffed out his chest, pride evident in every line of his face as he said,

"It was Lady Nadia herself!"

Mika’s eyes shimmered slightly.

"She contacted me personally!" He went on in a boastful manner. "Gave me a list of specific dishes—exact preparations, detailed instructions. She even sent notes on how she wanted each one adjusted."

He looked at the spread with something like wonder.

"I assumed they were her favorites. The way she described them, the care she put into the instructions...she wanted these dishes done right."

He turned back to Mika.

"But she hasn’t come out yet. I hope she’s pleased with what I made."

Mika smiled.

"She will be. Don’t worry."

The chef tilted his head. "How can you be so sure?"

Mika’s smile widened, turning secretive as he said,

"Because I’m happy right now. So she’ll probably be happy too."

The chef blinked, clearly not following, but Mika didn’t explain.

Because he understood what Nadia had done.

These weren’t her favorite dishes. They were his.

Every single one. The rice with saffron. The slow-roasted lamb. The truffle dumplings. The honey-glazed pastries.

All the foods he had loved since he was small, the ones she used to make for him before everything became complicated.

She had dragged him here under false pretenses.

Tricked him into attending the most important political event of the decade.

And she had prepared for it by filling the hall with his favorite foods, arranged with the same care she used to put into his birthday dinners.

She was thinking of him. Every moment, every detail.

The warmth that spread through his chest was impossible to ignore.

"Alright." He said, watching the caterers finish packing the last trays. "Follow me, everyone."

He strode through the hall with the procession of caterers behind him—a small parade of clattering dishes and curious stares.

But he didn’t care.

This was the food Nadia had prepared for him.

And he was going to eat every last bite.