Chapter 23
NIK
The chefs made their way through the maze for a final time, the crimson lights illuminating the paths to their stations. Nik couldn’t tear his eyes away from Elara, who he’d believed would be deep in some dungeon by now.
She walked like a woman headed to the gallows, chin up high and back stiff.
But they hadn’t arrested her.
Not after the thunderous applause from the crowd, not after Faucher and Tremblay both took on Gabriel and Cormier in a heated debate. She’d practically spat in their faces, and they’d loved it. That was the gamble with performing for the rich. There was no telling what they’d take as art or insult.
At least one threat was taken care of. Fiona waved smugly up toward the crowd, gaze lingering on a glass panel depicting a close-up of Elara. She’d gotten what she wanted, and the way was paved for her success.
Nik cowered in a secluded balcony and watched. Elara would never be safe again. His father would’ve kept her as Souverain of Arts Culinaires as long as she obeyed and sided with his every political move.
Now?
He would drown her.
Rebel or not, every corner of the city would be talking about her. Even if the Counseil changed the script for the Lisette Plouffe flyers, word would spread of her performance. The Restes would see her as a symbol of change, and symbols could not be given a moment of power.
Lafontaine would need to end Elara. Soon.
“There you are!” The curtain swished behind him as Chantal rushed forward, cheeks flushed. “Listen, I know you’re probably furious, but she had a reason to hide.”
“I know.”
“No, you need to listen, Nik. You have every reason to hate the rebels, but—”
“I knew who she was, Chantal.”
Her mouth gaped. “You what?”
“I knew before the first round, when I tracked Gaetan down. I found this.” He pulled the photograph from his pocket and handed it to her.
Chantal looked at it. “Is this…?”
“Yes.” Nik took it back.
“Then why didn’t you tell your father earlier? Why didn’t you give her up?”
Nik leaned his elbows against the balcony, so he could keep Elara in his sights. She walked with total confidence only because she had no idea the hell his father would bring upon her soon enough.
“I couldn’t,” he said. “I tried using Gaetan to push her toward me, then again when…” He wouldn’t tell Chantal about their midnight confessions. Those had stopped being part of his plan days ago.
“Oh, Nik.”
He hated the softness in her voice.
What he knew it meant.
What he’d been denying himself all along.
Elara Rousseau had ceased to be his puppet long ago. Now she was … something more. It used to be his father’s voice that guided him, but now all he could hear was her.
“You need to tell her everything,” Chantal said. “All of it, Nik, or you’ll lose her.”
He rubbed his bottom lip in thought, staring down at Elara, who never had a chance of fitting in. She was born to be different, to be bold. Being near her had made him feel that way too, but it was only a momentary respite.
If he told her even half the things he’d hidden, she’d hate him.
“We can help her escape the city tonight,” he said, “and we’ll be back to our old lives by morning.”
Chantal laughed. “You really are thick.”
“You’ve said as much before. What makes this a special occasion?”
She leaned her shoulder against his.
“Because you think you know how everything—everyone—works, but you haven’t the slightest clue.” She nodded down to Elara, who finished making her way back to her station. “Elara’s not the type of person to run.”
“Especially after that speech,” Blai said, dropping into a chair to his right. “We’re ruined.”
Chantal rolled her eyes. “I’m surrounded by fatalists.”
“I prefer realist,” Blai muttered.
“Her magie was brilliant, and the crowd loved her. If the Counseil don’t make her a finalist, the audience will riot.”
A word that sank like a stone in Nik’s stomach.
The music and lights shifted.
Chantal was na?ve. Lafontaine was more ruthless than she or Blai could imagine. Regardless of what the people wanted, Lafontaine would do what was best. For the city … and himself.
As he watched Elara stare ahead, a feeling grew in his chest: want. It was so different from the need he’d felt. The need for food, water, and shelter. Basic necessities to stay alive. Things were different now that Elara had made him realize he could have … could dream for so much more.
He wanted to believe Chantal.
He wanted to believe that one wrong choice wasn’t enough to condemn a person.
Hope, his aching face reminded him, was a dangerous thing. He’d survived his whole life by focusing on the necessary things, including supporting his father’s every whim.
Because hope required abandoning reason to invest in a future that wasn’t promised.
Elara somehow balanced both.
The wanting in Nik’s chest expanded as he watched her face the future, unafraid.
“In last place,” Tremblay called. “Manon Gavreau.”
The light on the chef went out, plunging her into darkness.
“Fourth place, Fiona Brady.”
The red-haired girl screamed as her light burned out too.
Elara had done it.
All on her own, just as she’d begged to do from the beginning.
Chantal bumped his hip. “Told you so.”
Even Nik couldn’t stop the giddy bubble of laughter that erupted out of him.
“Third place, and our first finalist, Hector Vidal.”
His joy quickly fled.
Hector’s light dimmed, leaving only two burning spires: Berina and Elara.
“And your winner tonight is…”
Nik studied the Counseil quickly, discerning how their vote had swayed.
His father was standing off to the side, his hatred and fury narrowed onto the one person standing in his way.
“Elara Rousseau.”
Nik’s hopes sank, giving room for fear to rise.
In trying to avoid a Restes riot, they’d unknowingly elected its leader.