Chapter 11 #2
“You’re not a liar at all. That’s the point.
In an industry built on image and perception, you refused to play along.
You chose integrity over convenience, even when it cost you everything.
” He reaches across the table, his hand warm on mine.
“That’s what they lost, Mei. That’s what I found on the Strip that night.
A chef. A social media presence. A woman I can’t stop thinking about.
And someone who sees the world clearly and refuses to look away, even when it hurts. ”
My throat tightens.
“I want to offer you a partnership,” he says, his voice steady despite the tension in his shoulders.
“A real one. Fifty-fifty in The Drunken Dragon. The bar, the kitchen, the apartment upstairs if you want it. Creative control over the menu, equal say in business decisions, the security of knowing it’s yours regardless of what happens between us personally.
” He meets my eyes directly. “I’m doing this because what we’ve built together is worth protecting.
Worth making official. Worth fighting for. ”
The offer hangs between us. A recognition of what we’ve built, a commitment to keeping it regardless of what happens between us personally.
“And I’m in love with you,” he adds, the words coming out slightly rougher than the ones before. “You’re complicated and fierce and completely unwilling to compromise on the things that matter. The woman who walked into my bar four months ago and changed everything without even trying.”
My chest tightens. The feeling of being seen, really seen. Four months of working beside him, building something real in a kitchen that wasn’t mine.
And now he’s offering me everything. The bar, the kitchen, what happens when we work side by side. As a partner. An equal. Someone who matters to him.
“I accept,” I say, the words coming out more forceful than I intended. “The partnership. All of it. Yes.”
Relief flashes in his eyes before his expression settles. “And the other part?” he asks, his voice gentle. “The being in love with you part? Where do you stand on that?”
It would be easy to say it back. To match his declaration with one of my own, to give him the words he’s clearly hoping for. But easy isn’t the same as true, and what I feel for him deserves more than the simple fiction of “I love you too.”
“I’m here,” I say, meeting his eyes directly. “I’m not running. I’m choosing this. You, the bar, whatever we’re building together. With my eyes wide open.” I squeeze his hand, hoping he can feel the weight of the promise. “That has to be enough for now. The words will come when they’re ready.”
He nods. “It’s enough,” he says, and means it completely. “More than enough.”
We sit in silence for a moment, our hands linked across the small table.
Around us, the tea house comes to life. Mrs. Lin moving between tables, the occasional customer arriving for their morning fix, the soft tick of the clock marking the passage of time.
This moment of quiet in the middle of chaos, this chance to put down the weight I’ve been carrying and see what happens next.
“We need to talk about the debt,” Tovek says finally.
I tense, but he’s already shaking his head. “It’s not your debt anymore, Mei. It’s The Drunken Dragon’s. Ours. Fifty-fifty, remember?” His hand tightens on mine. “You shouldn’t have had to carry it alone in the first place. Not the money, not what the Alliance did to your reputation. None of it.”
My throat goes tight. “Tovek—”
“I mean it. We’re partners now. That means the debt is mine too. We handle it together.”
I blink hard, surprised by the sudden sting behind my eyes. “Okay,” I manage. “Together.”
He nods, then waits. Like he knows I have more to say.
I take a breath. “When I went to Wyvern’s Dawn Convention when Sunny competed and won Best in Show.
” The memory of her standing on that stage, trophy in hand, makes me smile despite everything.
“Watching her up there, I kept thinking...we could do that. Not Wyvern’s Dawn, but something like it. Something big.”
“The New Vegas Annual Cook-Off,” Tovek says, his eyes lighting up.
I blink. “You know about it?”
“First prize is one-fifty and a Culinary Quarterly feature, right?” He leans forward. “Mei, that’s perfect. We should absolutely do it.”
“It’s a lot of work,” I say, already bracing for the reality check. “The application alone is brutal. Concept, menu, references, a whole video pitch. And the competition—previous winners have Michelin stars and James Beard awards. People who’ve been cooking since before I was born.”
“So?” Tovek’s grin is sharp. “They haven’t been cooking with you.”
My stomach does that stupid flip thing. “The prize money would clear most of the debt. Pay off Grishnak completely. And the Culinary Quarterly platform...” I meet his eyes. “It would prove I’m still legitimate. That the Alliance was wrong. If we win, they can’t touch us. Grishnak can’t touch us.”
“Then we’re doing it.” No hesitation. Just certainty.
“It’s in eight weeks. Applications close in three.”
“Plenty of time.”
I laugh, surprised. “You’re serious.”
“Completely.” He reaches for the teapot. “What we’ve built in that kitchen is special. It deserves to be seen. And those Alliance assholes deserve to watch you win.”
God, I want to kiss him. “Okay. We’re doing this. The Drunken Dragon enters the New Vegas Annual Cook-Off.”
“To partnership?” he says, raising his cup.
I raise mine. “To not running.”
We drink. The oolong is cool now but still complex, the flavors shifting with each sip.
I’m done running. Done hiding. Done pretending this isn’t exactly what I want.
Eight weeks to perfect our concept, submit our application, convince the judges we’re worth their attention. And afterward, when we clear the debt, and my reputation, we can turn this bar into something that no one can take away.