Hriday sat at the dining table, finishing his breakfast.

The food was... good.

Very good.

He didn't show it on his face.

Gauri had started working from today. Her first morning in the Shekhawat mansion.

Simple cotton saree. Hair tied neatly. No unnecessary words.

Just work.

His phone rang.

"Mom" flashed on the screen.

He answered.

"Hriday, did you have breakfast?" Maithili asked immediately.

"Yes, Mom. The cook made good food."

There was visible relief in her voice.

"Oh thank God. You know how picky you are."

He smirked slightly.

He was picky. Always had been. Being the only heir of the Shekhawat family came with privileges. The best chefs, the best ingredients, the best everything.

Meanwhile—

Gauri walked into the living room with a small notepad in her hand.

"Sir, what would you like for lunch?"

She didn't realize he was on a call.

Hriday slowly turned his head toward her.

His eyes lingered on her for a second.

"I need... wait."

He shifted the phone slightly.

"Mom, you know I miss your cooked food so much."

There was a pause.

"But son," Maithili said, genuinely confused, "I barely used to cook."

Which was true.

Why would she cook when the mansion had professional chefs? The only thing she made occasionally were cakes — and those were disasters sometimes.

And after burning her fingers badly once as a teenager, her father had practically banned her from the kitchen.

"I'm talking about that special food, Mom," Hriday insisted dramatically.

"Which special food?"

Gauri stood quietly in front of him, eyes lowered. He hadn't told her to leave.

"Mom, I'll call you later," he said and disconnected.

Silence.

He leaned back in his chair.

"Cook. Come here. Stand in front of me."

Gauri stiffened slightly but obeyed.

She stood about six feet away.

Professional distance.

"Yes, sir."

"Today," he said casually, "prepare full Haryanvi-style food."

She blinked.

"But... I don't know how to make Haryanvi dishes."

He raised an eyebrow.

"I appointed you as my personal cook. That means you cook whatever I tell you to."

Her jaw tightened.

"Okay, sir."

She gritted her teeth slightly.

His gaze dropped to her clenched jaw.

"Don't use your teeth so much," he said lazily. "Use your hands."

Her fingers curled around the notepad.

"I will, sir."

She turned and walked toward the kitchen.

Hriday watched her go.

He picked up another bite of food.

Still warm.

Still perfectly balanced.

He didn't admit it out loud—

But she cooked better than the chefs at home.

And now he had given her a dish she didn't know how to make.

Let's see, Miss Pressure Cooker.

How long before you burst?

In the kitchen—

Gauri slammed the ladle down.

"What does he think of himself?" she muttered under her breath. "He may be king in his house... in his office... but I am not his servant."

Her hands trembled slightly.

"But I won't give up. It's only three months. Just three months."

"Cook!!!"

His voice echoed from the dining hall.

She inhaled sharply.

"Where is my food, Cook?!"

"Coming, sir!" she replied tightly.

Outside, Hriday sat at the long dining table, fingers tapping lightly against the polished wood.

A faint smirk curved on his lips.

She placed the beautifully arranged Haryanvi thali in front of him.

He didn't look at her.

He picked up a bite.

Chewed slowly.

Then—

"Gauri, the salt is too much."

Her brows snapped together.

"Huh? But I added the exact amount—"

He looked up.

Cold.

"Are you saying I'm lying?"

Her throat dried instantly.

She lowered her gaze.

"No, sir. I'll take care from next time."

"Not next time," he corrected smoothly. "You need a lesson now."

Her fingers stiffened.

"Make it again."

Her eyes widened.

He had ten other dishes on the table.

He could eat something else.

But no.

He wanted control.

She silently lifted the plate.

Inside the kitchen, she stared at the food for two seconds—

Then dumped it into the dustbin.

And started again.

Second time.

She measured every grain of salt carefully.

Served it.

Hriday tasted.

"Salt is perfect."

For a second, relief crossed her face.

"But the spice is too much."

Her patience cracked slightly.

"But sir—"

"Make it again."

No expression. No anger. Just command.

Third time.

Her hands were slightly shaking now.

She tasted it twice.

Everything was balanced.

Perfect.

She stepped out—

And collided straight into Hriday, who was walking while on a phone call.

The entire dish slipped.

Crashed.

Spilled across the marble floor.

Silence.

She stared at the mess.

Then slowly looked up at him.

He ended the call.

Looked at the ruined food.

Then at her.

"Make it again."

That was it.

No anger.

No sympathy.

Just those three words.

Inside the kitchen—

"Make it again... Make it again... Does he know any other sentence?"

Her eyes were slightly red now — not from tears, but exhaustion.

"Cook! Where is my food?"

"Almost complete, sir!"

She hurried.

Literally ran toward the table this time.

Placed the dish carefully.

He looked at her face.

"You look fine," he said with a smirk.

She didn't respond.

No glare.

No anger.

Just a hardened expression.

He looked at the food.

Took a bite.

Chewed.

Another bite.

Another.

Silence stretched.

Gauri stood there.

Waiting.

Bracing herself.

Waiting to hear—

Make it again.

But the words didn't come.

Hriday continued eating.

Quietly.

Calmly.

Completely.

He finished half the plate.

Then looked up at her.

Their eyes met.

And for the first time since morning—

There was no mockery in his gaze.

Only something unreadable.

Gauri didn't relax.

She didn't smile.

She just stood there.

Because she knew—

This wasn't about food.

This was about breaking.

And she hadn't broken.