His Corrupted Vow of Rosemary

The next day, a food blog hosted a live podcast in a SoHo loft kitchen. The so-called "roundtable discussion" was, in reality, a carefully orchestrated PR stunt.

Caleb sat on a barstool, still in the Zegna suit from the night before. His tie was loosened, giving him a roguish, hungover air—the perfect embodiment of the "effortlessly genius chef" persona his fans adored.

He leaned into the microphone, slipping into his well-rehearsed "mentor" persona.

"Clara is a doer. Her technique is exceptionally solid."

He paused, adopting the arrogant tone of a top lecturer at Le Cordon Bleu.

"But as we say in the culinary world, 'less is more.' Too much technique, and a dish loses its soul. It becomes overwrought."

Then, he abruptly pivoted to Sloane.

"Sloane is completely different. Her cooking has a rustic authenticity. Her intuition for ingredients is phenomenal."

I stared at him, my stomach churning.

Overwrought?

I'd spent three months in a back-of-house pressure cooker, my arms a testament of scars from hot oil, all to perfect a single soup. I’d trudged through countless farmers' markets for the perfect ingredients. That was overwrought?

Meanwhile, Sloane sketched menus on her iPad from a beach in the Hamptons. Where was the intuition in that?

While Food & Wine and Bon Appétit praised my dishes for their "refreshingly humanistic spirit," my own partner was publicly shaming me on a live broadcast.

I wanted to lash out, but his past gaslighting echoed in my head: You're too sensitive. It's not that serious.

Since this was all a show, I decided to end the farce my own way.

"Caleb," I said, my voice crisp as I adjusted the microphone. I cut him off, using my best podcast-host cadence. "That was a fantastic point. And on that note, I need to use the restroom."

I took off my headphones and stood. The kitchen fell silent.

During the break, Caleb cornered me in the alley behind the studio.

"What the hell was that?" he hissed, lighting a cigarette. "I set this up for you. For your career. All you had to do was play along, admit you learned from your 'failure,' praise Sloane's raw talent..."

So that was his agenda.

The internet was buzzing with accusations of nepotism. He needed me, the "former creative core," to endorse Sloane, to legitimize her win and silence the critics.

The whole thing was ludicrous. I glanced at him.

"Caleb, I have to admit, it's a brilliant PR strategy."

I forced a sarcastic smile. "But I'm just the runner-up. I'm afraid I'm not qualified to comment on a genius, am I?"

With that, I turned and walked away, leaving him alone in the alley with the cold wind and his crumbling charade.