Chapter 22
Kiera Emmerson
The campus auditorium looms ahead of me, all glass and steel and windows. My hands are sweating as I pull into the parking lot, and I have to wipe them on my jeans before I can even unbuckle my seatbelt.
This is it. The Future Chef Challenge. The thing I’ve been working toward for months. The thing I’ve sacrificed for, and placed all my bets on. Does River know it’s today?
I turn and grab my bag from the passenger seat, scolding myself. I’m not thinking about River today. I’m thinking about winning this scholarship, proving I can make it on my own, showing everyone—including myself—that I can do it.
The auditorium is buzzing with activity when I push through the main doors.
Cameras are set up at various angles, their operators making final adjustments.
In the center of the space, twelve individual cooking stations are arranged in neat rows, each one equipped with a stovetop, oven, prep space, and an impressive array of tools and equipment.
Large screens hang from the ceiling so the audience can watch close-ups of what we’re doing.
A woman with a clipboard and a headset spots me. “Name?”
“Kiera Emmerson.”
She checks her list and smiles. “Station seven. You can put your things in the prep area and get familiar with your space. We start in thirty minutes.”
I make my way to station seven, my heart hammering against my ribs. The cooking space is pristine—stainless steel surfaces gleaming under the bright lights, every tool in its place. I set down my bag and run my hand along the counter, trying to ground myself.
I can do this. I’ve practiced. I’m ready.
Through the large windows at the back of the auditorium, I can see food trucks setting up in the parking lot. The audience is already starting to filter in, taking seats in the rows of chairs arranged theater-style around the cooking stations. This is really happening. This is real.
I take a deep breath and look out at the growing crowd, trying to calm my racing thoughts.
That’s when I see them.
Kiki and Tobias, settling into seats about halfway back. Kiki waves when she catches my eye, her smile so bright and genuine it makes my pulse race. Tobias gives me a smile, and I can see him saying something to Kiki that makes her laugh.
They came. They actually came to watch me compete.
I give them a small smile, and something warm settles in my chest. Whatever happens today, I’m not alone. I have people who believe in me, who showed up to root for me, who care whether I succeed or fail.
A production assistant taps a microphone at the front of the auditorium. “Five minutes until we begin. Competitors, please take your places.”
I turn back to my station, my hands still shaking slightly. I can do this. I’ve worked with mystery ingredients before. I know how to think on my feet, how to adapt, how to—
Movement in the front row catches my eye. Someone just sat down. I look over, barely curious, and my entire world stops.
River.
River Stone is sitting in the front row, his eyes locked directly on me.
My heart jumps into my throat. I can’t breathe.
Can’t think. Can’t process what I’m seeing because it doesn’t make sense.
River shouldn’t be here. We broke up three weeks ago, and he hasn’t contacted me since.
He gave me the space I asked for, respected my decision to end things before they got too complicated, before I could get hurt.
I thought he was done with me. Thought he’d moved on. Thought the silence meant he’d realized I was right, that we were better off as just... nothing.
But he’s here.
Sitting in the front row in jeans and a gray t-shirt, his hair slightly messy like he ran his hands through it on the drive over. And he’s looking at me like I’m the only person in this entire auditorium.
He raises both hands and gives me two thumbs up.
Then he mouths three words that nearly break me: You’ve got this.
Emotion surges through me so fast and so fierce I have to press my lips together to keep from crying. My eyes burn. My throat closes up. Because River is here. After everything. After I pushed him away and told him I couldn’t do this, couldn’t let things go any further.
He came anyway.
I blink rapidly, forcing the tears back. I cannot cry right now. I cannot fall apart in front of cameras and judges and an audience full of strangers. But holy Heaven, River is here, and I don’t know what to do with the feelings crashing through me.
“Welcome, everyone, to the Future Chef Challenge!” The announcer’s voice booms through the speakers, and I tear my gaze away from River to focus on the judges’ table at the front of the auditorium.
Three judges sit behind an elegant wooden table—Chef Marie Dubois, a renowned pastry chef whose cookbook I’ve studied religiously; Chef David Kim, who owns a Michelin-starred restaurant in Atlanta; and Chef Patricia Wells, a culinary school professor known for being tough but fair.
“Today, twelve talented young chefs will compete for a full scholarship to the Georgia Culinary Institute,” the announcer continues.
“They’ll be creating three courses—an appetizer, a main, and a dessert—each featuring a mystery ingredient that will be revealed at the start of each round. Let’s meet our finalists!”
They go through the introductions one by one. When they get to me, I give a small wave, trying not to look as terrified as I feel. The cameras zoom in, and I can see my face on the big screens—pink-streaked hair, pale skin, eyes way too wide.
I look like a deer caught in headlights.
“And now,” the announcer says dramatically, “let’s reveal the first mystery ingredient!”
A production assistant wheels out a covered tray and sets it on a table at the center of the cooking area. My pulse is racing. This is it. Whatever’s under that cover will determine my first course.
The announcer whips off the cloth with a flourish.
“Truffle oil!”
Relief floods through me so powerfully I almost laugh.
Truffle oil. I’ve worked with truffle oil. River bought it during his panic shopping spree that first day I came to cook for him. I’ve researched it, and used it. This is familiar territory.
I glance at River without meaning to, and he’s got both arms raised in the air like I just scored a touchdown in the Super Bowl. The gesture is so enthusiastic, so completely over-the-top supportive, that I can’t help but smile.
A real smile. The first genuine one I’ve managed in three weeks.
“You have one hour to create an appetizer featuring truffle oil. Your time starts... now!”
The auditorium erupts in movement as all twelve of us rush to the ingredient stations set up along the walls. I grab fresh mushrooms, crusty bread, garlic, thyme, and goat cheese, my mind already racing through the recipe.
Truffle mushroom crostini. Classic, elegant, and a perfect showcase for the truffle oil’s earthy richness.
I get to work, my hands steady now that I have something to focus on besides the emotions churning in my chest. I slice the bread into even rounds and brush them with olive oil before sliding them into the oven to toast. While they’re crisping up, I sauté the mushrooms with minced garlic and fresh thyme, the smell filling my cooking station with something warm and inviting.
The truffle oil goes in at the end—just a drizzle to preserve its delicate flavor. Too much and it becomes overwhelming, like eating perfume. But the right amount adds this depth, this earthy complexity that makes everything taste expensive.
I spread the goat cheese on the toasted bread, top each piece with the truffle mushrooms, and finish with another tiny drizzle of truffle oil and a sprinkle of fresh thyme leaves. The presentation is simple but elegant—the kind of thing you’d see at a wine tasting or an upscale cocktail party.
“Time!” the announcer calls, and I step back from my station, my heart pounding.
The judges move through the room systematically, tasting each competitor’s dish. I watch them sample other people’s creations—some ambitious, some safe, some that make the judges’ expressions go carefully neutral in that way that means they’re trying not to show disappointment.
Finally, they reach my station.
Chef Dubois picks up one of my crostini and examines it from all angles before taking a bite. She chews thoughtfully, and I hold my breath.
She nods.
It’s subtle, barely noticeable, but it’s there. A small, approving nod.
Chef Kim tries his next, and I see his eyebrows raise slightly. “The truffle oil is well-balanced,” he says, making notes on his clipboard. “Not overpowering. The mushrooms are cooked perfectly.”
Chef Wells takes her bite and nods as well. “Good flavor combination. Classic execution.”
They move on to the next station, and I release the breath I’ve been holding. Good. That was good. They liked it.
I look out at the audience and find River in the front row. He’s grinning at me, giving me another thumbs up, and the warmth in his expression makes my chest ache.
“We’ll take a thirty-minute break while the judges deliberate,” the announcer says. “Audience members, feel free to visit the food trucks outside.”
The auditorium erupts in movement as people stand and stretch. I’m wiping down my station when Kiki and Tobias appear, both of them practically vibrating with excitement.
“Kiera!” Kiki pulls me into a hug. “That looked fantastic. The judges were nodding. Did you see them nodding?”
“I saw.” I hug her back, grateful for the distraction from my racing thoughts.
“You’ve got a great start,” Tobias says. “Seriously. You looked so confident up there.”
“I didn’t feel confident.” I pull back from Kiki. “I felt like I was going to throw up.”
“Well, you hid it well.” Kiki squeezes my hand. “Come on, let’s get some food. You need to eat something before the next round.”
I glance around the auditorium, looking for River. But he’s not in his seat anymore, and I don’t see him anywhere in the crowd heading toward the exits.
Where did he go?