You got your marriage certificate and then abandoned me? I'll feed the richest woman in the wor

[Scene: The hallway leading to the kitchen of the Michelin three-star restaurant at the Château de Paris]

A cold, hard voice echoed through the luxurious castle hall.

It hit the marble floor tiles, and even the echo was filled with icy shards.

French chef Alain's cheeks turned a deep purplish-red.

The veins on his neck bulged and throbbed violently with his heavy breathing.

He opened his mouth, and a rough, labored breathing sounded from his throat, like a broken bellows.

Half a syllable is stuck in my throat and I can't utter it.

Chen Yuan didn't even glance at him.

He tugged at the collar of his haute couture suit with one hand.

He turned around, his leather shoes clicking on the Persian carpet.

I strode forward and headed straight for the double brass doors that represented the restaurant's core restricted area.

His steps were steady and decisive, without the slightest hesitation.

The dull thud of the heel of the leather shoe hitting the ground was like a heavy hammer blow.

It was like a gentle tap on the nerves of all the French chefs present.

Shen Wanzhou sat on a carved wooden chair.

Fair fingers traced the rim of the glass, the fingertips still warm.

Those shimmering, peach-blossom eyes quietly followed the man's tall, straight back.

In his cool and aloof eyes, the protective shell that had been there had long since melted away.

All that remains is trust that's overflowing.

As long as he keeps moving forward.

Even if there were mountains of knives and seas of fire ahead, she felt it was the safest path in the world.

"Stop! That's my kitchen!"

Alan has finally found his voice again.

He roared, waving his thick arms, and charged forward aggressively with several sous chefs.

He tried to block the door with his body.

The eagle resembles a lurking black panther.

It slid out silently from the side.

His broad shoulders blocked Alan's path.

The tactical boots made a dull thud as they stepped on the floor.

Scarface had no expression on his face, and his right hand was already on the buckle of the baton at his lower back.

"Back off."

The eagle's English has a strong metallic, abrasive quality.

"Take one more step and I'll break your leg."

Alan was forced to stop in his tracks by this palpable killing intent.

My feet slipped on the smooth floor tiles, and I almost fell.

"Bang."

Chen Yuan pushed open the heavy brass door.

A wave of heat hit us.

The kitchen of a Michelin three-star restaurant covers an area of ​​nearly 300 square meters.

All you see are cold, hard stainless steel countertops.

The blinding shadowless lights shone on all sorts of expensive instruments.

Fine bubbles rose from the constant temperature slow cooker.

White, cold air was billowing out of the valve of the liquid nitrogen tank.

Several molecular gastronomy centrifuges are emitting a low-frequency hum.

A dozen or so French sous chefs and apprentices dressed in snow-white chef uniforms.

Hearing the loud bang of the door slamming shut, the movements of his hands froze.

A whisk fell onto the steel table with a "clang".

Several pairs of blue eyes stared in astonishment at the intruding Eastern man.

This is their holy land.

Even the restaurant owner can't just set foot in there.

Chen Yuan stood in front of the kitchen counter.

His dark eyes swept over the expensive machines with their flashing digital panels.

The contempt in their eyes was like a dull knife, scraping across the face of every French chef.

There was no warmth or liveliness.

The aroma of caramelized food without the smoke of cooking oil.

The air was filled only with the sweet smell of butter and a cold, laboratory-like odor.

Chen Yuan turned his head and looked at Alan, who had chased after him to the door.

"A temperature calculated by a machine doesn't deserve to be called 'cooking time'!"

His voice wasn't loud, but it clearly drowned out the noise of the exhaust fan.

Alan pushed aside the eagle's obstruction and rushed into the kitchen.

He clung tightly to the stainless steel countertop with both hands.

"What do you know! This is the perfect combination of technology and cooking!"

"This is art with precision down to 0.1 grams!"

"Your hands are only fit to fry those greasy, junk food meals on the street!"

Chen Yuan did not refute.

He raised his right hand and pinched the platinum cufflink on his left wrist.

The metal slot made a soft popping sound.

A custom-made cufflink inlaid with black diamonds fell off.

He casually tossed it onto the expensive marble countertop.

"bite."

The cufflinks rolled twice on the table and stopped next to a few slices of fresh black truffles.

Next are the cufflinks on the right hand.

Two priceless accessories were simply thrown aside as scrap metal.

His long, slender fingers parted the cuffs of his pure white shirt.

The movements were slow and methodical.

One lap, two laps.

The pristine white sleeves were neatly rolled up above the forearms.

It reveals strong, smooth muscle lines.

On it, one can still vaguely see a few old, faint scars left from the battles on the dark web years ago.

The air in the kitchen seemed to be tightly gripped by an invisible hand.

The French chefs even became careful with their breathing.

This man's movements were extremely casual.

Yet it carried an aura of superior authority that made people want to kneel and submit.

The eagle, carrying a black travel bag, walked to Chen Yuan's side.

The zipper is unzipped.

They didn't bring out any rare treasures.

Chen Yuan's large, well-defined hand reached inside.

It was extracted.

It was a black cotton apron that had been washed until the edges were faded and the fabric was slightly worn.

That was the apron he wore every day when he cooked for Shen Wanzhou back in the country.

There was even a faint scent of scallion oil and cedar soap on it.

The entire room fell silent.

Alan's eyes were about to bulge out of their sockets.

A man wearing a bespoke suit who casually tosses away his platinum cufflinks.

Why would someone carry such a cheap and shabby old apron with them?

Chen Yuan gripped the apron straps with both hands.

Go around the lower back.

Her fingers deftly tied a knot.

The black apron clung to his tall, straight waist.

At the very moment the rope was tightened.

Chen Yuan's aura suddenly changed.

The cold, ruthless aura that belonged to multinational financial giants dissipated.

Instead, it is the air of a master chef, honed through decades of culinary experience and tempered by the warmth of cooking.

Deep and still, towering and majestic.

Unshakeable.

He stood there, as if the French kitchen, filled with high-tech machines, had instantly become his personal domain.

The slow cookers and centrifuges around him were all under the pressure of his aura.

It's like a pile of scrap metal, utterly ridiculous.

Several young French apprentices began to feel their legs go weak.

Involuntarily, I took two steps back, my back pressed firmly against the cold, tiled wall.

Chen Yuan's gaze swept across the refrigerated display case.

I didn't even look at the caviar priced at several thousand euros.

They didn't even look at the Kobe beef with blood streaks.

He opened the cabinet door.

At the bottom of a pile of side dishes, I took out a plastic box filled with water.

Inside, lying quietly, was a piece of the most ordinary silken tofu.

This piece of tofu was originally intended as a scrap for vegetarian guests to use in soup.

It's worth less than a euro.

Alan looked at the tofu in his hand and let out a dry, cold snort.

"A mushy, solidified piece of bean?"

"You think you can challenge my Samsung kitchen with this cheap scrap?"

Chen Yuan placed the plastic box on the stainless steel cutting board.

Tear off the seal.

Clear water ripples, and tender white tofu sways gently in the water.

So fragile that it seems it would crumble into a pile of mud with the slightest force.

"Eagle, knife."

Chen Yuan spread out his right hand.

The eagle emerged from a compartment in the black travel bag.

He drew a knife.

It's not the kind of long, thin Western chef's knife with a thin blade.

It's not Yanagiba, whom Japanese chefs are so proud of.

Instead, it was a Chinese cleaver that was entirely black, with a thick back and a rugged feel.

Its heavy weight, under the light, exuded a primal, murderous aura.

Chen Yuan gripped the hilt of the knife.

I flicked my finger lightly across the blade.

"Zheng—"

The blade emitted a deep, resonant metallic hum that cut through the noise of all the exhaust fans in the kitchen.

He weighed the broad-backed kitchen knife in one hand.

The weight is just right.

With a slight twist of his wrist, the blade slashed through the air, leaving a sharp, dark shadow.

Alan and his sous chefs' expressions changed completely.

Using such a heavy knife, like a wood-chopping axe, to cut a piece of tender tofu that would crumble at the slightest touch?

This completely defies common sense in culinary science!

Chen Yuan didn't look at anyone.

His gaze fell on the piece of tofu on the cutting board.

The warmth beneath his dark eyes vanished completely.

Chen Yuan casually picked up a piece of the most ordinary soft tofu, weighed the borrowed Chinese broad-backed cleaver in his hand, and his voice echoed in the deathly silent kitchen: "Today, I'll show you frogs in a well what a real Chinese state banquet is like."