The Eiffel Tower glittered against the night sky, lights flickering like distant stars. Maya stood at her tiny apartment window, a cup of coffee in her hands, watching the city she'd only dreamed about.
It was everything she wanted — the smells of fresh bread, the sound of rain on cobblestone streets, the endless kitchens where fire and flavor danced like art.
And yet… something felt missing.
She touched the small bracelet on her wrist — the one Adrian had given her before she left.
"For luck," he'd said.
She hadn't taken it off once.As she walked him to the door, the rain softened again. He paused, looking back once more before leaving.
She watched him disappear into the misty street —
her heart whispering goodbye,
but her soul whispering not forever.Back in London, Adrian's life had returned to its cold, corporate rhythm — meetings, suits, deadlines. But the empty chair across his breakfast table said otherwise.
He'd started visiting her old restaurant every week — sometimes sitting at her favorite corner, sometimes talking to her mentor, Chef Aanya.
"She's doing amazing," Aanya told him one evening, smiling knowingly. "But you're still her flavor."
Adrian laughed softly. "That's the nicest way to say I'm not over her."
He had changed — less guarded, more human. Every decision he made now was guided by something she'd taught him: "People aren't recipes. You can't control them — you just have to feel them."At the Le Ciel Bleu Culinary Institute, Maya had quickly become one of the top trainees. Her desserts were beautiful, delicate, and full of heart. The French chefs called her "Le cœur Indien" — The Indian Heart.
But every time someone praised her for her passion, she thought of the man who once told her, "Your food tastes like hope."
Late at night, she'd scroll through her phone — her gallery full of their old pictures, messages unsent, and one saved voicemail.
> Adrian's voice: "Don't forget to eat properly. Paris may have the stars, but none shine like you, Chef."
She smiled faintly, whispering to herself, "I hate that you know exactly what to say."That night, both of them stood beneath the same Parisian sky —
Maya looking out her window at the city that had become her dream,
and Adrian flying toward it — the woman who was his dream waiting unknowingly below.
The distance between them had never felt so small…
and their hearts had never beaten so loudly.
---Weeks turned into months. Maya's confidence grew — her food began winning competitions, and one evening she received an invitation to prepare desserts for a Global Business Summit Gala in Paris.
She glanced at the guest list — and her breath caught.
Knight Enterprises. CEO: Adrian Knight.
Her heart thudded. "He's coming here?"
Her friend Isabelle giggled. "The famous British CEO? You know him?"
Maya forced a smile. "Something like that."
That night, she couldn't sleep.
She kept imagining walking into that grand ballroom — in her white chef coat — and seeing him after months apart.
Would he smile? Would he still call her "Chef"?
---
Meanwhile, Adrian sat on his flight to Paris, his assistant updating him about the event.
When she mentioned the catering team's lead chef, Adrian froze.
"Maya Sharma?" he asked quietly.
"Yes, sir," the assistant said. "From India. Very promising young chef, it seems."
He looked out the window as clouds drifted by — a small smile curving his lips.
"Of course it's her."When the event's host announced, "Desserts by Chef Maya Sharma, Paris Culinary Exchange,"
Adrian's breath caught.
Maya walked out with her team, carrying a small silver tray. The spotlight brushed her face — confident, radiant, grown.
She didn't see him at first. But as she placed the final dish on the presentation table, she heard a familiar voice behind her.
"Still making soufflés that break hearts, Chef?"
She froze. Slowly, she turned.
There he was — standing just a few feet away, same deep eyes, same half-smile that made her forget the world.
"Adrian…" she breathed.
He stepped closer, his voice soft but certain. "I told you I'd wait."
For a heartbeat, the noise of the gala disappeared — no music, no crowd, just them.