Damian's POV
I finished a Zoom meeting with my managers about the upcoming project. The Spellbound product was a huge success and is still selling well, but I've been thinking about introducing a new scent to our collection—different from the classic and Spellbound scents.

The Unrequited scent would be a delicate, mildly sweet fragrance that lingers on clothes until a new scent takes over. Like someone holding onto their crush, even though their feelings aren't reciprocated, until the crush finds a lover who forces them to let go.

Unrequited is perfect for the piercing winter. The colognes were carefully crafted, blended, and distilled to ensure each note harmonizes and works together seamlessly.

Unrequited broke the record for the highest cologne sales in twenty-four hours, surpassing the seductive Spellbound scent. Its melancholy fragrance and the wistful story behind it must be the reason for its success—a lot of fragile hearts shattered like thin ice. I hoped this scent would express their feelings.

The tune of credit alerts was a pleasant sound, but I had to mute my phone.

Bentley. He came to mind naturally. He’s not working. My man should be placed on a weekly allowance.

"Where can I find his account number?" I muttered, scrolling through my phone. Bentley worked for me once. My secretary should have it. Dialing her phone, I got it within two minutes.

One hundred million dollars weekly should be okay. Knowing Bentley, he might say it’s too much. How about fifty million? Fifty million weekly would be two hundred million a month. Bentley would still complain about the amount. Ten... ten million dollars is the right amount. That’ll be forty in a month. He’ll tell me if he needs more.

I transferred the money to his account, sending a text with my heart poured into the message—even though he might ignore me.

My eyes widened at the text I received. I read his message and smiled.
Bentley said he loves me.

Does this mean he’ll be back soon? I miss him. I want to kiss him and love him properly. But most importantly, he’s alive and doing well.

***

Bentley resumed his YouTube channel in a grand way: a virtual cooking contest using one of Bentley's recipes. The contestants would upload videos on social media using the hashtag #BentleysRecipesXXXX, and the top three winners would be featured in one of his future videos as his sous chef.

A brilliant thought popped into my head: What if I participate in this? Winning would mean I’d get to see him physically, to stand by his side, assisting him in doing what he loves. If he’s impressed with the way our video turns out, he might kiss me.

I jumped from the couch into the kitchen, searching for his video on chocolate chip cookies—one of the simplest recipes. It wouldn’t give me much stress. How hard could it be?

After watching it twice, it was time for the moment of truth: baking. Tying a white apron and rolling up my sleeves, I gathered the ingredients, following his instructions step by step, referring back to the video when I got confused.

Adding two hundred and eighty grams of flour, a teaspoon of baking soda, and salt into a medium bowl, I whisked them together.

"I think I’m getting the hang of it," I exhaled, pressing the play button to watch how he effortlessly made the cookies perfect.

I carefully placed the cookies into the preheated oven. Bentley said they should bake for about eight to ten minutes.

"Cooking is draining," I confessed, collapsing on the couch to rest a bit.

Sniffing an irritated smell, my eyes snapped open, and I sprinted into the kitchen. "The cookies!"

Choked by the burning smell that clouded my vision, I coughed, holding my nose as I made my way to the oven. "Alpha, turn it off," I commanded.

Bringing out the cookies, now turned to charcoal, trampled on my hope; all my efforts had been wasted. It wasn’t time to give up. I’ll use another recipe—if I make a complex dish, maybe my chances of winning will skyrocket.

Taking the frying pan from the cabinet and clicking on the next video, I decided to make stir fry for the contest.

Bentley gathered his ingredients and veggies, his chopping precise, like that of a master chef. My eyes stayed glued to my phone, admiring his great skills. He didn’t even look at his fingers once. How does he do it?

It had been years since I used a knife. The kitchen knife lay diagonally on the chopping board. I picked it up and sliced the vegetables slowly, raising my head to check the next step, only to jolt at the sting on my index finger. My eyes narrowed down to the bright red streak slipping through the cut.

Turning the tap on and letting the blood wash off, I placed a band-aid around my finger and went back to cooking. My pan was on the gas stove, and I poured oil into it.

I turned my back for a few minutes to slice the chicken thin.

A strange warmth embraced the kitchen, different from the usual temperature of the place. My brows furrowed as I turned toward the source.

"Fire!" I yelled, my eyes widening at the violent flames on the pan. "Alpha, get the extinguisher!"

A robotic hand sprang from a rectangular box on the wall, holding a red cylinder as it extinguished the fire.

I sighed, rubbing my puzzled forehead. "This is my second failure. Maybe I need a break," I thought, settling into a dining chair.

I tried five more dishes before finally giving up. Cooking is not meant for me; I’m just not gifted in that aspect.

I’ll have to wait a little longer to see him. Maybe it’s for the best.

Author's note:
Poor Damian. 🤧😂

I was supposed to publish this yesterday but I slept off. 🤣