Chapter 4The Chrysalis Burns Twice

The entire row went dead silent. The champagne flutes stopped clinking.

Lauren hurried toward me, her hands extended to smooth things over. "Bennett, don't take that the wrong way. Everyone was just teasing—"

I didn't look at her hands. I didn't look at her friends. My voice was a flatline.

"Where did the champion get The Chrysalis design?"

She blinked, bewildered. "What are you talking about?"

I pointed a trembling finger at the massive projection screen above the main stage, where the gold-medal cake was being broadcast in high definition.

"That showpiece. That is my design. The internal structure, the sugar butterflies, the flavor profile. I only ever showed those schematics to you."

Lauren glanced at the screen, then turned back to me with an exhausted, scolding look. "Bennett, I know you’re disappointed about getting second place. But you can't just throw out wild accusations because your pride is hurt."

I looked at her, and the last ember of warmth in my chest died.

I pulled out my phone and dialed the direct line for the American Culinary Federation ethics committee printed on the competitor badge.

"Fine. We’ll let the sanctioning board open an inquiry."

Before the second ring, Derek lunged out of his seat. His face was ghostly pale. He grabbed my forearm with both hands. "Bennett! Don't call them! Please, don't! It was me... I leaked it by accident!"

Lauren gasped. She reached out, snatched my phone straight from my hand, and tapped the red disconnect button.

I stood there, looking down at my empty palm. My chest felt hollowed out, like someone had taken a melon baller to my ribs.

Lauren locked my screen and shoved the phone into her designer handbag. "I remember now," she said, her voice rising defensively. "I sent it to Derek two weeks ago. His grandfather's ninetieth birthday was coming up, and he wanted to commission something magnificent. Derek saw your sketches on the coffee table, thought they were beautiful, and asked for the photos. So I texted them to him."

She hadn't even remembered it was my competition entry. The sketches I had spent thirty nights explaining to her over dinner—she had viewed them as clip art to pass around.

I clenched my fists. "Why didn't you ask me?"

Lauren rubbed her temples, letting out an exasperated breath. "I forgot, okay? And let's be honest—if I had asked, would you have said yes? It’s just a sketch, Bennett! Derek has spent months dedicating his time to our relationship. Consider it tuition! Why do you always have to hold on to things that don't matter?"

Things that don't matter.

A month of sleepless nights. A tribute to my dead father. My entire heart poured out in sugar and cocoa—reduced to "tuition" for a parasite.

Derek was blinking back theatrical tears. "Bennett, I swear to God I didn't know. I thought it was just a random concept. I sent it to Chef Donovan’s bakery just to ask for a price quote for my grandpa's party. I didn't know he was going to enter it here..."

I took a long, steady breath. I reached out, clamped my hand around Derek’s collar, and dragged him toward the aisle stairs.

"Great," I said coldly. "Then you can come up to the podium and explain that to the judges."

Derek panicked, digging his heels into the carpet. "Lauren! Help me! He’s crazy!"

Lauren charged forward. She grabbed my arm, wrenching my fingers off Derek’s coat, and shoved me back with all her weight.

I wasn't braced. My lower back slammed into the sharp corner of a wooden auditorium seat. A blinding, searing pain shot up my spine, forcing a sharp gasp from my lips.

"That is enough!" Lauren shouted, stepping squarely in front of Derek, shielding him like a mother bear. "Are you going to humiliate Derek in front of the entire industry over a damn cake design?"

A damn cake design.

My back throbbed with an agonizing, dull heat. The skin on my wrists was scraped red. But inside, I felt nothing. The pain was entirely physical; the emotional receptor had severed completely.

"That was my life’s work," I whispered. "I have the right to reclaim it."

Lauren looked down at me, her face harder than granite. She crossed her arms. "Name your price."

I looked up. "What?"

"I said, name your price," she repeated, her tone completely businesslike. "Whatever the prize money was, whatever you think that recipe was worth. I’ll write you a check right now. On the condition that you keep your mouth shut and don't drag Derek’s name into this."

My dreams. My integrity. My father's legacy.

In her world, everything had an invoice.

Seeing me remain silent, she leaned down, lowering her voice so only I could hear. "Bennett, you know who my family is. The Pierce name carries weight on every board in this city. Even if you walk up to that stage, I can make sure the committee buries your complaint before the ink is dry. I can ensure no high-end kitchen in this state ever hires you again. I know baking is your entire life. Don't make me ruin it for you. Choose wisely."

She knew baking was my life. And she was using that exact knowledge to hold a knife to my throat to protect her coach.

I stared at her. Her gray eyes were dead, focused only on preserving her social circle's spotless image.

The silence between us stretched until the fanfare on stage swelled. The gold medal was hung around Marcus Donovan’s neck. The confetti fell. The window for an official appeal closed forever.

The audience began to file out.

Lauren pulled my phone from her bag and shoved it back into my chest. "Good. The matter is settled. I’ll text you the new address for dinner. Get your head straight, wash your face, and don't make things awkward for everyone tonight."

She turned, hooked her arm through Derek’s, and walked away.

I stood there in the emptying hall, amidst the crushed hyacinth petals and discarded programs.

I didn't go to dinner.

I took a cab back to the apartment, hauled my bags down the front steps, and got into an Uber heading straight for Logan International Airport.

Sitting at the departure gate, waiting for boarding group one to be called for Paris, I pulled out my phone, opened our chat, and typed two sentences:

Lauren, for these four years:

I give you a zero. You’re fired.