Decisions.

It could go right or wrong. That's why scientists spent hours researching data to support their thesis. As I got my makeup done, I weighed both options heavily and couldn't figure out which angle I was leaning towards. Wesley came from a big Italian family who've struggled with job after job to collect enough money for his cooking academy.

He deserved to win the grand prize. Sure, the grand prize was incredible and I would love it, but I already had my shot. Seventeen years ago. I could give him the money that came along with the grand prize so his schooling would be paid off. But I felt so dirty to take away his win.

I'm privileged.

Regardless of the result, I would be okay because I had an established career. Wesley was a newcomer. The media would invite him to talk shows, sketch shows, maybe a few commercials, but slowly, everything fizzled out. If he won, Wesley would've got a cooking show under his belt which could lead to another cooking competition, maybe even recruited as a judge.

"D, congratulations!" Milo announced, storming into the room.

My eyebrows bunched together. "Congratulations on what?"

Milo tapped the Airpod in his ear. "On winner of the competition. Isn't that obvious?"

"But we haven't even started yet..." I drawed out in confusion.

"Didn't you read the contract when you signed it? I told you to read everything before signing onto things. That's how you got yourself into that little fisac-."

My face cringed. "Yeah, yeah. It isn't my fault that those contracts are like two-hundred pages. My hand hurts to turn every page."

"That's why you have Ambrose," Milo joked.

I sent him a glare. "Anyway, what did the contract say?"

"That you're winning this shit," Milo confessed, causing all the color to drain from my face.

"Huh?"

Milo laughed. "You didn't think I would let you participate in the competition without pulling some strings."

Frustration nipped me like a bug bite. "Are you implying you didn't have faith I could win this competition without it?"

He sighed, forcing his fingers through his gelled hair. "Davina, a few months ago, you barely went a night without drinking or partying. I did what I had to do, so your career would take off. You don't pay me to make you look pretty, you pay me to make you into a star and I'm doing my job."

My eyebrows scrunched in exasperation. "But at the expense of others? Did I even make it this far because of my skills or because of the contract?"

Milo shrugged. "Why does it matter?"

"It does to me," I stated, droplets of despair spilling through my veins.

"You want to hear the truth?" Milo asked, his eyes glistening with aggravation. "Fine. I hate to break the imaginary world you live in, but your skills plummeted after your accident. You drank away any potential you had. All these opportunities are falling in your lap because of me."

My entire confidence shattered like broken glass. These past months' rounds flickered past my mind like a black-and-white film. All the minor mistakes, mishaps, and somehow I went through every round with no question. Who knew if the judge's comments were genuine or they were bribed.

This competition was a hoax.

No one stood a chance. It was created specifically for me.

I scoffed. "Is that why you're so bitter I didn't get the part of Isabel?"

He nodded. "Exactly! It was in the palms of your hands, Davina. But you gave it away for a relationship that probably won't last until the end of the year."

"You're an asshole! Just because you can't keep your shriveled dick in your pants doesn't mean every other guy is like that," I spat, my patience wearing thin. "Ambrose and I are getting married. My happiness comes first, then my career."

Milo chuckled, patting my hair like a young girl rubbing a balloon against it. "Davina, for your own good, I hope the wedding happens, but like it or not... Obstacles always follow you."

I rolled my eyes. "Whatever! I'm not playing by your rules anymore. If that means giving up the win to Wesley, then I will."

"Over my dead body," Milo growled, his eyes narrowed into murderous slits. "You're winning this competition, you selfish little brat!"

"No," I responded through gritted teeth. "I don't want the title because of the contract. If I'm going to win, it's on my own terms, fair game for the both of us. You go tell them or I'm not filming the anticipated finale."

Milo wandered to the door with his tail between his legs. He might've thought he had the power, but in reality, I did. I'm a stubborn bitch, and I'll stay in this dressing room until the show concluded if I didn't get what I wanted.

"You're too spoiled for your own good," Milo mumbled, exiting the room and obeying my requests.

The competition was back on. Milo yanked the plug on the station's little plan, refusing to fund the station once the competition was finalized. They wouldn't risk losing million dollars over a little scheme, so they bend to my terms. Tonight, for the first time in this competition, we were being judged fairly, and it's in anyone's hands.

Wesley stood in his kitchen in his tiny splattered paint apron matching adorably with his chef hat. The hat held onto his curls for dear life. As I made it over to my station, his eyes caught mine, and he waved. His excitement was through the roof even with the sweat rushing down his cheeks.

Felicia remained in between our stations, having her mic pack adjusted before filming began. The audience poured in through the double doors, taking their spots with a minimum amount of chatter. The front row was reserved for Wesley's family and mine. Kasey couldn't find a babysitter in time, so my support system for the night was Ambrose.

Whenever he decided to show up.

"3,2,1!" Elton slammed the action sign. "Go!"

A forced smile graced Felicia's lips. "Congratulations Chefs! After weeks of gruesome matches, you guys have made it to the Competition of the Century finale!" The audience applauded.

"This season took inspiration from every country and put the chef to the test to either show up or give up. While your fellow chefs fell into the crooked sides of things, you two survived. So far." Spooky Halloween sound effects played in the background along with flashing lights.

"Today, one of you will triumph and accomplish what everyone set out to do. This round begins with a riddle... Don't we just love those!" Felicia giggled, taking a piece of paper from her pocket.

"Milk. Eggs. Bacon. Protein Powder. Yogurt with a bu-." Her eyes widened as she crumpled the page in her hand. "Sorry, that's a grocery list. My bad. I apologize." With a few chuckles from the audience, she took out another note. "Here we go! The dessert that will determine your fate is different for both of you, yet they are all exactly the same."

Wesley and I exchanged confused glances.

"The answer to the riddle..." The drumming sound effect along, with the audience pounding their legs, vibrated through the room. "Fear. For our final match, you guys are expected to present a three-course meal to the judges. But there's a catch. You'll be creating a dessert with an ingredient you fear the most."

Shivers went down my spine as I reminisced about all the horrid ingredients I could be stuck with. Rosemary. Sauerkraut. Celery. Black garlic. A panicked smile emerged on my face as the camera switched between Wesley and me.

Felicia put her hands in the air in defense. "We looked deep within the darkest regions of your soul and also on the questionnaire where you told us your nightmare ingredient. Sorry." Her nose scrunched up. "Davina, step up and grab the box."

She shifted to the side of the table, revealing two black treasure chests, dusty as hell with our names on them. My composed state was comprised of distress signals coming from my brain as I stepped forward. To ignore the nerve-wracking alerts, my eyes searched for the one person who brought me inner peace.

Ambrose.

Expect, he has yet to arrive.

Maybe he's just running late. Being in charge of a popular restaurant like Shimmery Harmony, it's only natural for customers to continuously pour in regardless of time. Ambrose was probably on his way over here. Whenever he promised something, he never failed to complete it.

With a concerned grin, I opened the black treasure and read, "Black garlic! You guys just love torturing us, don't you?"

Felicia couldn't hold in her amusement. "Sorry, not sorry. Wesley, your turn."

Wesley had different personalities. On his bad days, he barely uttered a word or seemed enthusiastic about anything. But today was his good day, and he skipped towards the table, almost tripping over his feet with a grin. For a split second, when he opened the chest, his smile wobbled, and pretended to slam it on the ground.

"It's freaking gelatin," Wesley dramatically groaned, throwing his head back.

"Anyhow, while each of your fears may be different. Your feature flavor will be the same. That warm and toasty taste of camp. Smores! Chefs, you have one-hundred and twenty minutes to create a three-course meal with the ingredient you fear the most. You guys ready?"

A panic snicker left my lips. "Sure?"

"Yeah! Let's rock this popsicle stand!" Wesley shouted, throwing his hands in the air.

"Go!"

Once the timer began ticking down, I sprinted towards the refrigerator and took a good look at all the ingredients. Several ideas raced through my head like a tennis ball, but I couldn't support the idea. Staring over my shoulder, I searched for Ambrose, one look from him, and I'd construct the perfect meal.

An adorable secret I kept to myself was for every round, I would spend the first five minutes admiring Ambrose's determination. He's always the first contestant with all the ingredients in his hands like he natural thinker. Usually, his meal in a way inspired whatever I produced that round. It developed when my feelings became a hindering pain in my ass, and now, as my fiance, he was my secret weapon.

Expect his chair was still empty.

Fuck!

Well, I guess that option was off the table. Jesus, what's taking bean sprout so long? At this point, the only sense of security I have was Wesley and he's my opponent. Dark, gloomy clouds hung over my head, making it ten times harder to think straight. I really wished Ambrose was here.

With a deep sigh, I began dumping random ingredients into my basket in hopes when I reached my stove, an awesome idea would pop into my mind. Spoiler alert; I got nothing. Zero. Blank slate. Meanwhile, Wesley had already chopped multiple vegetables on his cutting board. Nerves overpowered my body like a bad hangover as I stumbled over my own foot.

I'm fucked.

So fucked.

Then, like a miracle from heaven, a simple idea popped into my head like a floating light bulb. It's basic, sure, but it was better than being air for the judges to try. First, I preheated the oven and tore open the potato bag. After I washed six potatoes, I poked a fork through the skin eight to ten times and rubbed a light coat of olive oil. Then, in perfect timing, as the oven rang, I laid the potatoes on the baking sheets and threw them in for an hour.

Appetizers. Check.

Main course.

What's something yummy and tasty? Goddamnit Davina, there are a million foods that fit into that category! How are you supposed to narrow it down like that? Maybe something cheesy?

Mac and cheese!

For starters, using a pot, I cooked two packages of elbow macaroni and spread a baking sheet with no cooking spray. Meanwhile, in another saucer on low heat, I whisked in half a cup of flour until smooth. Gradually, I added four cups of milk; it always helped heighten the cheese flavor. Once the mixture appeared hot and bubbly, I added four cups of shredded cheese and a half cup of Redhot sauce. 

As I waited for the cheese to melt, I measured two cups of pre-chopped chicken and dropped a packet of celery on the cutting board. For my own torture, I peeped at the empty chair with Ambrose's name on it, growing miserable by the second.

I felt my heart plummet to my gut with a mixture of disappointment and anger.

An excruciating pain shot through me.

"Fuck," I muttered. My eyes widened as the camera peered in my direction. "Holy fuckity fuck!" I cursed, applying pressure on my oozing finger.

"Oh my gosh! Things don't seem to be going well at Davina's station. I think we need a medic!" Felicia reported.

My finger ached like nothing I've experienced. Maybe a broken heart. It's almost reaching that status. The stupid laceration had to be fucking deep because the entire napkin exuded red or maybe I'm a natural bleeder. Deep down, I knew my chances of winning this thing lessened as the time ticked down.

Wesley sent a concerned look in my direction, breaking his concentration from the mixing bowl. With clenched teeth, I tried sending a brain signal to him about how there was nothing to worry about. From the amount of blood, my finger might've been in two pieces, but he shouldn't waste a minute concerned about me.

Where are you, Ambrose?

The medic came over with his bag and set it on the empty counter. "Let me take a look at it."

I unwrapped my finger, darting at the ticking clock to see almost five minutes wasted. "It really fucking hurts. I think I got it good."

He twisted my finger back and forth. It wasn't the worst-case scenario with only a chuck of my skin hanging off my finger like a piece of chicken skin. If I had to get stitches, I might as well kiss the title goodbye.

"I don't think stitches would be needed, however, if the bleeding doesn't stop, I recommended going to the hospital. But I'm certain in a few minutes the bleeding will die down, but take it easy and get your head in the game," the medic stated, enveloping a white cloth over my finger, and harsh tape.

It's impossible to focus on cooking when all my thoughts keep drifting to Ambrose. Did he get in an accident on his way here? Was work holding him up? Had he spammed my phone with his reasoning on why he hadn't arrived yet? Ambrose promised me. He never broke a promise. Something had to be wrong.

"Okay. All done," he announced, and I instantly jolted over to the oven, pulling out my baking sheet of potatoes.

As I placed them on the cooling rack, I dumped all the ingredients that could've been exposed to my blood and opened a new package of celery. Quickly, I added the cooked macaroni, chicken, and celery into the cooling cheese sauce and started the burner again. Once everything blended like a family, I poured it into a baking dish and coated the top with green onions and blue cheese crumbles. Then, before dropping it into the oven for twenty minutes, I drizzled the top with red hot sauce.

Over an hour gone by and I completed almost one dish.

Sounds like an accomplishment to me.

Nearly dropping a potato as I danced over to the kitchen, I cut each of them and scooped out some of the centers. Using a pastry brush, I rubbed melted cheese and boiled them in the oven for another five minutes until they were golden brown. Then, for my favorite part, I stuffed them with multiple types of cheeses and bacon.

I took a whiff of the black garlic in order to gain a better sense of what I was working with. "I don't like this." My face cringed, and I swallowed the urge to gag. "Honestly, it kinda seems like balsamic," I said to the camera.

As I result, if it gave off a balsamic odor, then anything I would put that it would work with the black garlic. To complement the acidity flavor, I'm going to turn it into a jam and balance the savory flavors with the sweetness of raspberries. The jam was going to be the filling in a graham cracker french macaroon and I'll top it with chocolate garnish and marshmallows. 

While my eggs folded in a blender, I mixed all the dried ingredients in a bowl; sugar, almond flour, cinnamon powdered sugar, and graham cracker crumbs. The key to a successful macaron was finding the exact right consistency before I piped them out. A soreness spread through my arm as I mixed, mixed, and mixed, struggling to get it just the way I like it.

Finally, I dropped the spoon in the bowl. "Mama got it, right!" I winked at the camera, trying to hide behind my flirtatious personality. "If the macaroon batter doesn't look like this." I showed the bowl to the camera. "Then you cuties have to put more arm strength into it."

After my batter is made up, I piped them out onto Silpat. Macaroons had to form a skin on them before they could go in the oven, so the tops didn't crack. It needed around fifteen to twenty minutes for drying time before they could go in the oven. Before I let them sit, I banged them against the counter to release any air ducts.

The black garlic sent shivers up my back from its soft, unusual texture. "Hey, Wesley! How did you chop this?"

"You smash it with your knife," he replied, dashing over to my station for a second. "Don't chop it because you don't want any chunks."

I sent him a thumbs up. "Thank you."

Crushing the black garlic was like scraping charcoal on a piece of paper. In my jam, I'm going to have equal parts raspberry and sugar in a saucepan. For zest flavor, I added lemon juice and cooked it until it came to a boil.

"Hey, Davina." Felicia came over to my kitchen. "Seems like you had a little mishap earlier. How's everything going now?"

I smiled. "Great! I'm currently trying to figure out how much black garlic should be in the jam. I definitely want the judges to taste it, but also keep it from overwhelming the dish."

"Let me get a taste," Felicia said, opening her mouth with anticipation in her eyes.

I nodded. "One sec." I scooped a bit of jam into the spoon and shoved it in her mouth. "Give me your honest thoughts. Everything is at stake."

Her eyes widened as she released a satisfied moan. "I'm digging it. Gosh, sometimes I wish I was a judge instead of the host so I can eat everything."

"Don't worry, I'll save you some." I winked.

"So what would you do if you won the final prize of five-hundred thousand dollars?"

My heart pounded at the sounds of drums at the thought of Ambrose. "Probably invest in Ambrose's restaurant. We're experimenting with the idea of owning a restaurant together. A nice cozy one for families with tons of comfort food. With the rest of the money, I'll donate to charity and share some with Wesley. He's a talented chef and deserves to achieve his dreams."

Felicia poked my cheek. "Wow! The size of your grin is adorable at the mention of Ambrose. Who would've thought this wasn't just a cooking show, but a matchmaker too."

I laughed. "Yeah, I never expected to find my soulmate on this show either, but I'm blessed. He should be in the crowd somewhere."

The cameras bounced over to the crowd, to the empty seat still missing Ambrose. My chest swelled with a dull ache. "I guess Ambrose went to the bathroom. Oh well, good luck Davina! I'm rooting for you."

Time simmered until the bell rang, alerting us of completion. As I admired my masterpieces, I couldn't help a stripe of doubt pop into my head. Macaroons were delicious but extremely risky to do. Normally, after a macaroon was baked, it's recommended to go in the fridge overnight so it could soften up. But I'm hoping the flavors wild them enough that the crunch isn't too big of a deal.

Wesley's three-course meal suffered through the deliberation first as I relaxed in the waiting room, watching the judge's expressions, comments, and manners. His cajun chicken Alfredo received raved reviews about the flavors. Wesley's barbecue pulled pork egg rolls lost a few points from the pork being dry. Last, his hot chocolate panna cotta with smoked gelatin, graham crackers, and marshmallows was exquisite except for the harsh marshmallow on top.

My fingers trembled as I pulled the door open to the judging hall, and my breathing became ragged.

Wes walked towards the exit with two thumps up. "Good luck!"

I returned the same gesture. "Thank you."

Before Wes could exit the door, he grabbed my hand and inspecteed my left finger with the ring. "Why are you wearing Lana's ring?"

My eyes grew wide. "Lana's ring? What are you talking about?"

His expression softened. "Ambrose proposed to Lana with this ring. I remember finding it when I cleaned his closet in his weird Lana shrine. Why do you have it?"

My heart felt like it was going to shatter. "Um..."

"Davina, it's time!" Elton exclaimed, having one of the stagecreww push Wesly out of the door.

The competition was last thing on my mind now. Was Wesley telling the truth? Did Ambrose think he could get away with giving me Lana's ring? The entire proposal felt tainted now because the real girl he loved owned this ring first.

I'm just sloppy seconds like always.

"Hey, Davina," Marcus stated, smiling brightly.

"Of course, I got blessed with black garlic. I made for you a graham cracker french macaroon with a black garlic and raspberry jam filling. A scratch marshmallow toasted topping, and then a little bit of chocolate sea salt on top of the macaroon. For appetizers, I went for something delicious during the Super Bowl which is potato skins, and for the main course, I constructed a buffalo chicken mac and cheese bowl garnished with five kinds of cheese and green onions," I said, so quickly my mouth went dry.

Ingrid sent a distressed glare. "Macaroons take a little bit of time to mature, generally speaking overnight."

Shit.

Ingrid was a bitch. In front of the tv and off it. I applauded her for keeping the same personality, but she terrified the living hell out of me. Ingrid was the main bitch of this squad of judges. If she didn't love my dish, she would make it known, and advocate for my opponent. Since the other judges are a bunch of followers, they would follow her advice and vote for whoever she liked.

So, everything rode on her.

I nodded. "You're right."

"I'm a little concerned that when I bite into it, it's going to still have that crispiness instead of that beautiful soft interior that macaroons are known for," Ingrid explained, cautiously pressing her fork against it. 

"Hopefully it's tasty!" I laughed.

As they cut into the macaroons, the crunchiness fractured the silence in the room, and I felt my palms grow moist. The dull ache intensified in my chest as I glanced over at Ambrose's vacant chair. It's probably cold, just like me.

Ingrid's face soured after one bite. "These are not anywhere near matured enough. They're still so crunchy and so crispy on the outside that they're basically just amaretti. If you wanted to combat that maturation time, you could've under-baked them a little bit." She pushed the plate away. "I just wish I could taste this to-."

"Tomorrow," we both said.

Marcus cleared his throat. "This jam is the bomb!" he banged on the judge's table. "The jam is fire! Like the black garlic works with it. It just kind of has a beautiful fermentation sort of acidic quality and the raspberry plays so beautifully with that." 

Ingrid took one poke of her buffalo mac and cheese and planted her fork down. "Now... this..."

As her comments turned into whirling winds in my ears, I watched my chances of winning slip from my hands and all I wanted was a hug from my fiance.

But Ambrose wasn't here.

Poor Davina !!! It just wasn't her day! Hopefully she can still pull out the win tho or do you guys want Wes to win? Let me know your thoughts ❤️❤️❤️❤️

Love you guys!!!