chapter 8

The steady clatter of knives against cutting boards echoed through the competition kitchen, a familiar rhythm that should have settled my nerves. Instead, every sharp tap grated against the edges of my fraying composure. My fingers tightened around the chef’s knife in my hand, its cool weight grounding me as I diced shallots with precision.

Focus. Just focus.

The rich aroma of butter warming in the pan curled around me—a scent that usually brought me comfort—but today it felt distant, dulled beneath the undercurrent of tension threading through the room. I didn’t need to glance over my shoulder to know eyes were on me. I could feel their weight pressing against my back, sharp whispers slicing through the low hum of the kitchen.

“She’s got a direct line to the top, hasn’t she?”

“Funny how someone always gets ahead when the head judge takes a liking.”

I forced my hands to stay steady, the rhythmic chop of my knife never faltering. My heart hammered hard against my ribs, but I kept my face blank—indifferent. I’d learned early on in this industry that the best way to survive was to pretend the knives aimed at your back didn’t cut deep.

Still, their words dug beneath my skin, leaving little wounds that stung even as I tried to ignore them.

Damian was across the room, his arms folded as he observed the competition from behind the judges’ table. His gaze swept the stations with that same cool, unreadable expression he always wore—like he saw everything but gave nothing away.

He hadn’t looked at me once. Not in any way that could fuel the rumors.

I should have been grateful for that. But a traitorous part of me—buried so deep I barely acknowledged it—wished he would. Wished he would glance my way, offer even the smallest flicker of reassurance.

Instead, I was alone.

I exhaled slowly, turning back to my dish. The sauce needed to be balanced perfectly—bright acidity from the white wine, the shallots softened without a hint of bitterness. Every element mattered. It was the only thing I could control.

The competition was divided into two rounds, with only 10 of us remaining after yesterday’s elimination of the last 10 contestants.

Today marks the first round, where we’re required to deliver our best dishes. Only those deemed worthy by the judges — those who present exceptional creations — will advance to the final round. In the second round, only three contestants will compete, and from them, the winner will be crowned the head chef of one of Blackstone Hotels.

By the time the judges made their rounds, my station was spotless, the plate in front of me a careful arrangement of seared scallops resting on a bed of golden blurred blanch. I stepped back as they approached, locking my hands behind my back to hide the tremor still lingering in my fingers.

Damian stood at the end of the line, silent as the other judges tasted my dish. His eyes flicked down to the plate—just for a second—before they moved on. No lingering look. No secret smile. Nothing that would give them any reason to talk.

I should have been relieved.

When the announcement came, my name carried through the room, placing me among the top finalists. A wave of satisfaction flickered through me, warm and brief, before the whispers rose again—louder this time.

“Shocking.”

“Wonder what she had to do to get that spot.”

I clenched my jaw so tightly my teeth ached, heat burning beneath my skin. I wanted to spin around, to snap that I’d earned this—that every second I’d spent perfecting my craft had led me here—but the words stuck like glass in my throat.

I’d spent my whole life working twice as hard to prove I belonged. It had never been enough to simply be good—I had to be flawless. And still, they always found reasons to doubt.

A sharp voice cut through the muttering.

“If you have something to say, say it.”

The room went still. I turned just in time to see Oliver, one of the more arrogant contestants, step forward. His smirk curled like he’d been waiting for this moment.

“Alright,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “We’re all thinking it. You must have the right kind of… connections to keep making it through, huh, Evelyn?”

The air in the room thickened, pressing against my chest. My heart pounded in my ears, drowning out the sudden hush that followed.

Don’t react. Don’t give them what they want.

I opened my mouth—ready to defend myself, ready to fight—but before I could speak, another voice sliced through the tension.

“Enough.”

Damian’s tone was low, calm—like a blade sliding from its sheath.

The room seemed to shrink around him as he stepped forward, his gaze locking onto Oliver with a quiet intensity that made the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

“This competition is judged on skill and execution. Nothing more.” His voice was steady, precise, every word measured. “If anyone would like to challenge the technical merits of Evelyn’s dish, I suggest you do so now.”

Silence stretched out, brittle and sharp. No one spoke.

Damian’s eyes never wavered.

“That’s what I thought.”

Oliver’s smirk faltered, but he recovered quickly, muttering something under his breath as he slunk back to his station. My pulse thudded painfully in my throat, heat prickling behind my eyes. I wanted to thank Damian—but the flicker of protectiveness beneath his composed mask unsettled me as much as it soothed.

He’d defended me without a second thought—but not once did he look at me.

Not once did he make it seem like he was defending me.

It was just the competition. Just the rules. Nothing personal.

Right?

I swallowed hard and turned back to my station, trying to ignore the way my heart twisted painfully in my chest.

The whispers didn’t stop—if anything, they seemed to multiply, curling through the air like smoke. But Damian’s quiet intervention had shifted something in the room. The accusations lingered, but no one dared voice them again.

The competition resumed. I moved on autopilot, forcing myself to focus on the work in front of me. Chop. Saute. Taste. Adjust. But every now and then, I caught myself glancing toward the judges’ table—toward Damian.

He never looked back.

By the time the round ended, exhaustion weighed heavy on my limbs. I lingered at my station, cleaning meticulously even though everything was already spotless—anything to delay facing the hallway full of whispered rumors.

When I finally looked up, Damian was gone.

I should have been relieved. Instead, the absence left a hollow ache in its place.

I couldn’t decide if I was grateful for his defense—or if it only made the whispers harder to silence.

And the worst part?

I wasn’t sure which answer scared me more.