chapter 7

The door clicked shut behind me, the faint hum of the city seeping through the cracked window. The distant horns and muffled conversations from the streets below were familiar—white noise that usually soothed me after a long day. But they only seemed to amplify the storm churning beneath my ribs tonight.

I carefully set my knives on the counter, the blades catching the dim glow from the kitchen light. My fingers lingered on the worn leather of the roll, tracing each handle like a ritual. The weight of the contest hung heavy in the room, pressing against my chest—one more night until everything was decided.

One more night to prove I belonged.

The memory of Damian Blackstone’s smirk flickered behind my eyes, sharp and intrusive. I could still hear his voice—smooth, low, laced with that effortless arrogance he wore like a second skin.

““We’ll see about that.”

I had replayed those words a hundred times on the walk home, each repetition digging deeper beneath my skin. He was testing me. Measuring me. The worst part was the nagging suspicion that he saw something in me I didn’t want him to—some flicker of doubt I thought I’d buried years ago.

I shook the thought away and turned toward the stove, pulling out the few ingredients I had left. A simple meal—nothing special—but I needed something steady to hold on to. Something to ground me.

The knife fit perfectly in my hand, the motion of chopping vegetables automatic. I’d done this a thousand times before. The rhythm usually calmed me, but tonight my mind refused to settle.

Damian’s dark eyes flashed in my memory again—sharp, calculating. Dangerous.

I hated that I noticed.

I hated even more that it unsettled me.

My hand faltered on the cutting board, the knife biting a little too close to my fingers. I exhaled sharply and set the blade down, pressing the heels of my palms into the edge of the counter.

Why did it bother me so much? It wasn’t the first time someone had looked at me like that—like they were waiting for me to crack.

I closed my eyes, and the past clawed its way back before I could stop it.

The heat of the old kitchen. The scent of burnt sugar clinging to the air. Chef Laurent’s voice cold and clipped as he glanced at the sloppy plating in front of him.

“You’ll never make it if you don’t learn precision, girl.”

He hadn’t even looked at me when he said it—just turned away, leaving me to scrape the ruined dessert into the trash. I was nineteen, fresh out of culinary school, still naive enough to believe hard work alone would be enough to earn respect.

That night, I’d stayed long after everyone else had gone—practicing, refining, until my fingers were blistered and my legs ached.

I never let him see me cry.

I never let him see me crack.

I wouldn’t let Damian Blackstone see it either.

The water boiled on the stove, snapping me back to the present. I poured it over the noodles, watching the steam rise in delicate curls. The city stretched out beyond the window—lights flickering like distant stars. Somewhere out there, the judges were making their predictions. Contestants were posting curated shots of their best dishes, fighting for the smallest sliver of attention.

I dried my hands and reached for my phone, scrolling through the endless stream of updates. Photos from the contest filled my feed—plated perfection against white marble backdrops. My name flickered in a few captions, buried beneath hashtags and speculation.

Then I saw it—one post standing out among the noise.

A blurry shot of Damian at the judges’ table, leaning in to speak to another chef. The caption below it sent a chill through me.

“Word is Blackstone has his eye on Evelyn Hayes… Could she be the dark horse of the competition?”

I locked my phone and set it face down on the table, heart thudding against my ribs.

His eye on me.

I hated how those words made my stomach twist. I should’ve felt vindicated—finally on their radar after years of being invisible. But all I could feel was the weight of it pressing down on me, threatening to crack something open I couldn’t afford to let anyone see.

I wasn’t some novelty for Damian Blackstone to toy with. I wasn’t some underdog story for the judges to latch onto.

I’d worked too damn hard to be anyone’s entertainment.

The tea kettle whistled, sharp and sudden. I poured a cup and carried it to the window, wrapping both hands around the warmth. The city pulsed below—alive, relentless. I wondered how many others were out there tonight, fighting for something no one else could see.

My reflection stared back at me in the glass—dark circles beneath my eyes, hair pulled into a messy knot. I looked tired. Worn down.

But there was steel beneath the surface. There always had been.

I sipped the tea slowly, letting the heat settle deep in my chest. Tomorrow would be the last day. One final dish to prove everything I’d been carrying inside me—every sleepless night, every failure, every doubt I had swallowed whole and turned into fuel.

I set the empty mug down and crossed the room to where my knives waited. The whetstone fit perfectly in my palm, rough and familiar. Each pass of the blade against stone echoed through the quiet apartment—steady, measured, relentless.

I sharpened every edge until they gleamed under the soft light. Until they were an extension of me—razor-sharp and ready.

Tomorrow, they’d see exactly who I was.

Not some dark horse.

Not Damian Blackstone’s fleeting curiosity.

I whispered the words to myself as I slid the last knife back into its sheath, voice steady against the night.

“I won’t be anyone’s entertainment—not even his.”

The city stretched on beyond the glass, indifferent to the promises made in the dark.

But I’d keep this one.