Chapter 209: Lumen New Pastries Chef

I stepped inside the cool, rustic living room. The calm atmosphere didn’t last very long, though. From deeper inside the house, the loud, booming voice of Emiliana’s mother echoed down the hallway—she was clearly one of those classic, loud, single-minded country moms.

"Emili! Where in God’s name did you put the laundry basket?!" her mom shouted from the back room, her footsteps stomping over the hardwood floor. "And where is your brother?! He was supposed to feed the chickens twenty minutes ago!"

Emiliana gave me a shy, apologetic smile, wincing slightly as her mom stepped into the living room, rubbing her temples aggressively.

"Oh, sweet Lord above..." her mom groaned, letting out a long, heavy sigh that sounded like it came from the bottom of her soul. "My head is absolutely splitting today... between these kids and this farm, I swear my head hurts every single hour."

It was immediately clear to me why Patricia had such a hard time getting a word in edge-wise. The woman wasn’t mean—she was just completely overwhelmed, exhausted, and hopelessly stressed out from running the farm and raising children all on her own.

Her mother stopped dead in her tracks, her hand dropping from her temple as her sharp eyes locked onto me. A sudden, curious smile tugged at her lips.

"Well now... who’s the handsome young man?" she asked, smoothing down her apron.

"My name is—" I started, but Emiliana cut in with a proud, excited grin.

"Mom, this is Ethan!" Emiliana interjected, gesturing toward me like she was introducing royalty. "He’s the one who bought Gorel’s diner, paid off his massive loan shark debt, and is turning the whole place into a top-tier live music venue! And his girlfriend is Ruby, the pop star!"

"And a chef," her mom added, her eyes narrowing shrewdly as she wiped her hands on her apron. She let out a dry, tired chuckle, cutting straight through the flattery. "Look, if you’re standing in my living room because you want me to pack up and move to the city to bake for your fancy restaurant, I’m guessing your chef friend already passed along my answer."

She leaned heavily against the wooden doorway, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I’ve got a farm to run, a son who can’t remember his own chores, and a life right here," she said, though the sheer exhaustion in her voice betrayed just how heavy that life was weighing on her. "I don’t need city bright lights, Ethan."

"I know," I said smoothly, taking a slow step forward and keeping my posture relaxed. "That’s exactly why I came here myself."

I looked around the simple living room, then back at her with an honest, calculated look. "Let me ask you something. Why do you bake your pastries?"

She blinked, caught off guard by the question, but opened her mouth to speak—before I raised a hand gently to continue.

"I know Patricia came here offering you a grand job in the city at Lumen, and I respect why you turned it down. You’ve got roots here. You’ve got your kids and your farm. But I also know you’re running yourself into the ground every single day just trying to keep your head above water."

In my mind, a subtle interface pinged—a quiet breakdown of market data and culinary assessment popping up before my eyes:

[Target Evaluation: Mrs Romelia]

[Skill Level: Master Artisan Baker (Uncertified).]

[Overlooked. Traditional recipes show a 98.4% perfection in flavor profile and texture.]

[Distribution Rating: 1.5]

[Sales Potential: 8.7]

[Localized countryside trade, and uncompensated giveaways.]

The System confirmed what my instincts already knew: her baking wasn’t just good, it was an untapped goldmine trapped in the wrong market.

"You’re baking world-class pastries and practically giving them away to the locals or selling them for pennies at country stands," I said, leaning casually against the back of an armchair. "So here’s my alternative—one that doesn’t force you to pack up your life or move to the city."

Her mother shifted her weight, her sharp eyes locking onto mine with genuine curiosity now. "I’m listening..."

"I own the diner down the road now," I explained with a confident grin. "I’m branding it under the Lumen name, but I want a dual-concept model. During the day, it’s a high-end, rustic pastry cafe powered directly by your recipes. At night, it transforms into a world-class live sessions music hub."

Emiliana gasped softly, her hands clapping over her mouth in excitement.

"That way," I continued, looking her mom straight in the eye, "you get to keep your home, stay right here with your family, and run the kitchen on your own terms. We supply the marketing, the Lumen brand power, and the massive stream of tourists and music fans coming to see live acts. Double the profit, local convenience, and you finally get paid what your talent is actually worth. You won’t just be surviving off farm chores anymore—you’ll be running the top culinary spot in the entire region."

Her mother stood frozen, her jaw slightly slack as she processed the offer, the sheer weight of her daily stress suddenly battling against a life-changing opportunity sitting right on her doorstep.

She didn’t immediately jump up in joy. Instead, she straightened her back, folding her arms tight across her chest in a desperate attempt not to let any of her excitement show.

"Let me get this straight," she said, her voice cautious, squinting her eyes at me. "I get to stay right here in my own home, bake from the diner down the road, and you’re going to pay me a real salary for it?"

I gave her a firm, simple nod. "Exactly that."

Emiliana couldn’t hold back anymore—she started bouncing on her toes, grabbing her mom’s arm. "Mom, please! That’s literally amazing! You have to accept!"

Her mother cleared her throat, trying to play it cool, though the massive relief in her eyes gave her away completely. "Fine... I agree," she muttered, attempting a stern look. "But on one strict condition! My family recipes stay my family recipes. I’m not handing my secret ingredients or techniques over to some corporate city executives."

I smirked internally. Even without Emiliana pushing her, I knew the offer was simply too good to refuse—a life-changing income without having to uproot her life or abandon her farm.

"Deal," I smiled smoothly, offering her my hand. "Your family recipes remain entirely yours. You run the kitchen, keep your secrets, and we just provide the platform, the Lumen branding, and the customers."

She took my hand and gave it a surprisingly firm handshake. "Then we’ve got a deal, Ethan."

"Mom!" Emiliana squealed, throwing her arms around her mother’s neck in a tight hug. Her mom tried to act annoyed, but a warm, genuine smile finally broke across her tired face as she hugged her daughter back.