chapter 6

evelyn pov

My hands trembled as I returned to my station, the pristine knives and fresh ingredients laid out before me suddenly feeling distant, irrelevant. The heat from the overhead lights pressed down, but it was nothing compared to the flush burning across my cheeks.

Get it together. I exhaled sharply, wrapping my fingers around the cool steel handle of the chef’s knife. The weight grounded me, dragging me back into the present.

But Damian Blackstone’s gaze lingered in my mind like the shadow of smoke—sharp, invasive, impossible to ignore. Just another obstacle. Another judge who had seen hundreds, maybe thousands, of competitors pass through this very station. He was nothing—he should be nothing.

So why did his attention feel so heavy?

I sliced through a ripe tomato, each cut clean and precise, despite the chaos churning beneath the surface. I shouldn’t care what he thought. I was here to win—not to unravel the enigma behind those dark, knowing eyes.

My teeth clenched as I set the knife down The frustration simmered beneath my skin, battling with a curiosity I refused to name. I set the knife down, wiping my clammy palms against my apron. the buzzing sensation in my chest refusing to fade the sizzling oil in the pan beside me was a welcome distraction—the familiar heat and rhythm pulling me back into focus., the heat from the stove cutting through the chaos in my mind, grounding me back to my senses.

Focus, Evelyn.

The noise of the competition swirled around me—clanging pans, shouted orders, the low murmur of judges circling like vultures. But all I could feel was the weight of that moment—his eyes narrowing, as if he could see straight through me.

I clenched my jaw. I’ve dealt with men like him before.

Memories clawed their way to the surface—mentors who dismissed my ambition, investors who offered smiles lined with ulterior motives, critics who questioned every choice I made simply because I refused to play by their rules. I’d fought too hard to be here, and I wasn’t about to let some overconfident, good-looking judge knock me off course.

The scent of caramelizing onions snapped me back. I adjusted the heat, tasting the sauce with quick, methodical movements. Every sprinkle of seasoning, every flick of my wrist—an act of defiance.

“Impressive composure, as always.”

Chris’s voice cut through my concentration. He leaned in, low enough to be conspiratorial, but not enough to break my rhythm.

“I don’t need cheer leading right now,” I muttered, eyes fixed on the scallops searing in the pan.

“Not cheer leading.” His tone was quieter now. “Just a heads-up. Blackstone doesn’t focus on anyone without a reason. Could mean opportunity… or trouble.”

I forced out a dry laugh. “His interest is irrelevant.”

Chris didn’t push, but his silence was louder than any warning.

Judging time arrived like a storm rolling in—slow, inevitable, unwelcome. I stood behind my station, shoulders squared, face blank. The panel moved from contestant to contestant, their critiques ranging from polite encouragement to brutal honesty.

Blackstone remained detached—his voice even, his words precise. When he wasn’t speaking, he looked almost bored.

Until he reached me.

I presented my dish—seared scallops on saffron-infused risotto, garnished with micro greens and a delicate citrus foam. My heart hammered in my chest, but I kept my expression steady, watching as he studied the plate with clinical detachment.

He picked up his fork. Every movement was deliberate—the curl of his fingers around the silverware, the measured pace of his first bite.

A pause. A raised eyebrow. A flicker—so brief I almost missed it—of something like interest beneath his polished exterior.

“Balanced,” he said, voice low. “Unexpected depth.”

It wasn’t much. But it was more than he’d given anyone else.

I locked onto his gaze, forcing myself not to flinch. “I aim to surprise.”

His nod was slow, noncommittal, but something passed between us—something unspoken, something I couldn’t quite pin down. He moved on, but the ripple of tension lingered long after he walked away.

By the time the day’s competition wrapped and i had made it to the final round with two other contestants, exhaustion weighed heavy on my limbs. Outside, the cool air cut through the lingering heat of the kitchen. I leaned against the wall, letting myself breathe—really breathe—for the first time all day.

A flick of movement caught my eye.

Damian Blackstone stood a few feet away, cigarette balanced between his fingers. The ember’s glow carved sharp lines into his face, his expression unreadable.

“You’re intense,” he said without preamble, his voice carrying that same lazy amusement.

I crossed my arms. “Focused, actually. There’s a difference.”

He exhaled a plume of smoke, half-lidded eyes watching me. “Most people would take the attention as flattery.”

“I’m not most people.”

His smirk deepened—just a flicker, but enough to spark something in my chest.

“No,” he murmured. “You’re not.”

I took a step forward, close enough to catch the faint scent of smoke and spice clinging to him. “I’m here to win. Not to be a distraction—or be distracted.”

The space between us stretched tight, crackling with something I refused to name.

Then he leaned back, cool and unbothered. “We’ll see about that.”

He took one last drag, flicked the cigarette away, and walked off—leaving me alone in the quiet night, heart pounding against my ribs.

You won’t get in my head, I promised myself.

But as the ember of his cigarette faded into the dark, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Damian Blackstone had already carved out a space in my thoughts—and that, somehow, he knew it.