This meant that from now on, I wouldn't even be able to taste my own creations.

No, that’s impossible. It can’t be.

Ethan shook his head, his eyes unfocused, a crushing wave of panic and despair dragging him under. He stumbled back to the hospital room, staring blankly at the harsh, blinding sunlight spilling through the window.

The burns on the back of his hand, the patch of skin stripped from his forearm, the sudden void where his sense of smell and taste used to be... he was nothing more than a broken man now. In just a few days, Olivia and Damon had stripped him of everything that made him who he was.

Ethan squeezed his eyes shut. A single hot tear traced a path down his cheek, but he felt so numb that he couldn't even distinguish the physical pain from the agony in his heart.

Olivia watched his pallid face, her delicate brows knitting together in a flash of hesitation.

"Tomorrow, the CEO of the Robertson Group is coming to the hotel for an inspection. There is a 5-billion-dollar resort project on the line, and he has specifically requested that the hotel’s head chef prepare three signature courses."

She paused, looking him over. "You’ll be at the gala on the cruise ship tomorrow. You’re going to prepare those three dishes yourself."

Ethan leaned back against the headboard, his voice raspy and trembling with disbelief. "I just lost my sense of smell and taste, and you want me to cook?"

He looked up, his eyes meeting hers. "Are you doing this just to crush the last shred of my dignity? Do you enjoy watching me humiliate myself?"

"I’ll have the sous-chef stand by your side the entire time to taste the food for you," she countered, cold and indifferent.

Ethan let out a laugh that sounded more like a jagged sob. He thrust his right hand—wrapped in thick, sterile gauze—into the air, his voice dripping with raw pain and fury. "My hand is ruined. You stripped the skin off my arm for your grafts, and it still screams in agony. I can’t even hold a knife."

Olivia’s gaze flickered to his shaking arm for a fraction of a second before her expression hardened again. "I can handle the issue with your hand. I’ll assign you assistants. All you have to do is direct them. Your mind and your experience are still intact, aren't they?"

She leaned in, her eyes locking onto Ethan’s bloodshot ones, her tone brooking no argument. "Ethan, this inspection is vital to the Hayes Group. We cannot afford a single mistake. I’ll have a car pick you up tomorrow afternoon."

She stood straight, smoothing her dress. "I’ll have them use the best medication on you. Just focus on healing."

Without a backward glance, she turned and strode toward the door.

Silence swallowed the room. Ethan collapsed back against the mattress, staring at the sterile white ceiling. The physical pain throbbed in waves, but the sudden absence of smell and taste felt like a bottomless black hole, devouring every scrap of his perception and hope.

Olivia Hayes had pushed him off the edge of the cliff with her own two hands.

A cold, mirthless smile touched his lips as he suppressed every volatile emotion surging within him. He reached for his phone and dialed a number in Portsmouth.

The call was answered almost instantly.

A woman’s voice, filled with surprise and thinly veiled anxiety, echoed through the speaker. "Ethan? You finally decided to call me!"

Ethan fought back the tears, his voice trembling. "Amelia, please. Come and bring me home to Portsmouth."

"Yes, yes, of course! I’m arranging it now—wait for me!"

***

Aboard the luxury cruise ship, Olivia stood near the head of a long, white-clothed dining table, adjusting the angle of the centerpiece ice sculpture. Her brow remained furrowed as her eyes darted toward the entrance, searching.

Damon walked up behind her, sliding his arms around her slender waist and pulling her close. "Relax, Olivia."

His voice was laced with a comforting laugh, his warm breath fanning against her ear. "It’s just a gala. Besides, I’m here."

Olivia leaned back into him, her posture rigid. "We’ve done everything to make this perfect. I’m just… worried that Ethan might cause a scene or mess something up at the last minute."

Damon chuckled, a low, dismissive sound. "He’s a shell of a man now. I’ve hired a few top-tier chefs to hover over him while he works. Don’t worry; if he dares to step out of line, I’ll be the first to teach him a lesson."

***

Back at the hospital, Ethan changed into a crisp white shirt and dark trousers, standing tall.

Two men in black suits bowed slightly. "Mr. Spencer, the car is ready."

Ethan followed them out of the ward and straight to the parking garage. A chauffeur in a sharp suit and white gloves stood by the door of a black Maybach. Upon seeing Ethan, he bowed deeply and pulled the door open, his posture dripping with deference. "Young Master, please."

Ethan stepped into the car without a second’s hesitation.

The Maybach glided smoothly out of the parking spot, merging into the main road. Just as it transitioned onto the highway, a Rolls-Royce sped past in the opposite lane, heading toward the hospital.

It was the car Olivia had sent to fetch him for the gala.

Ethan watched it disappear in the rearview mirror, a cold sneer forming on his face. *Olivia Hayes, from this moment on, the hatred between us will outlast any love we ever had. This is war.*