"What the fuck, Elliot?" I knew my voice would carry down the hallway and reach the audience—but I couldn't wait until my dressing room door was closed.

"Béa, please," they said, scrubbing their face as they fell into one of the couches. They weren't wearing as much makeup as usual, which should have been a sign to me earlier, when they were acting weird.

"Don't. I've known you for too long for you to try to placate me right now." I leaned against the closed door, my breaths hitching, heat swarming up to my face. "You knew about this, didn't you? Zane coming on to the show? The way Grace and Archie fucking invited him after he publicly humiliated me?"

Elliot set their elbows on their knees, their hands holding up their trembling chin. "They swore me to secrecy, Béa."

"You mean they threatened your job." It was the only way they'd ever get Elliot to hide something from me, and I loathed them for doing that. Elliot loved their work, but they relied on the steady income. Unlike me, they weren't famous and in high demand for their makeup skills, though I thought they should have been.

"Yeah, even when I begged Grace to have a fucking heart, for once. She snarled at me." Elliot shook their head. "She and Archie were so into this, so excited with what Zane would bring to the table."

I banged a fist to the door. "I can't believe this is happening."

"And of course, when I told Grace you'd slept with him—"

I pushed off the door, fire in my veins. "You told her? You—" Betrayal turned the fire to lava, and I felt like it washed over me, burning me to a crisp. "Why would you do that? Why would you give Grace any details about my private life?"

"It slipped." Elliot averted their gaze, keeping their chin down. "I saw his name on the list of upcoming chefs, and I recognized it—unlike you, I remember insignificant details."

I pointed a shaky finger in their direction. "Don't you dare push right now."

"I tried to warn them, conflict of interest shit and all." Elliot let out a lengthy sigh and melted into the couch, their gaze on the ceiling. "But they actually thought it was funny. She slept with him? Oh, this is too good, they said, and Grace rubbed her hands in delight."

I almost spat at the image of Grace greedily using my personal life for entertainment. I'd been warned about her—by Luca, even by my book agent—and informed that she was ruthless in this industry and did everything for ratings. But I'd been so eager to get this show on the road that I'd ignored the comments, turned a blind eye to those who'd told me she would ruin me.

"They insisted it would make for great TV, high stakes, drama, all that shit." Elliot got up and swung their arms as they paced, tension in their posture, their normally graceful legs wobbly.

"So they're enjoying this, is what you're saying." Forgetting about my intricate up-do, my makeup, I shrank to the ground, crouching, as I ran my hands through my hair, gritting my teeth. "As I sit next to this dude that I haven't been able to stop thinking about for days, and whose body absolutely haunts me?"

"Come here," said Elliot, grabbing my wrist to haul me off the floor. They yanked me to the makeup chair and threw me in it, though not unkindly. "You're melting, and I need to fix this before you go back out there."

I grimaced at my mirror-image—smeared lipstick, hair a mess, rage in my eyes. "I can't go back out there. No, I can't."

I tried to get up, but Elliot pushed me down, using their surprising strength—hours of holding makeup brushes and spraying setting products gave them incredible arm muscles. "You have to." They swept a wipe over my lipstick, powdered the area, lined my lips, and reapplied the bright red shade I'd been wearing earlier. "The best way to stick it to those assholes is to go out there, put on a show, and move on."

"But he—"

"—he is a dick," said Elliot, pulling the lipstick away and standing back to admire their work. "Accepting to come on the show after sleeping with you? Who does that? Money-hungry pricks, that's who. He's broke after opening his place, from what I found out. I did some digging."

I squinted at them. "Of course you did."

While Elliot might have betrayed me, I knew they only ever had my best interests at heart. I imagined when they saw Zane's name and associated it with our one-night-stand, they discreetly looked through paperwork and pre-screening interviews to find out more about him.

Zane had told me he needed the money; but why go so far, why bulldoze over others in the process?

"He's not in a good place financially. And until his restaurant starts raking in the dough—which numbers show it will, soon—he's pretty desperate." Elliot gestured at me to get up. "So give him what he wants and send him on his way. You don't need him in your life. I know you're turned on by jerks, Béa, but this one," they snickered, "don't let him get to you, okay?"

They flipped me around and marched me to the door, shoving me out of my own dressing room with a smack on my ass. When I flipped around, they blew me a kiss and slammed the door in my face.

"Fuck." I perked up, rolled my shoulders, and wished I had a flask of rum or vodka somewhere for liquid courage.

But I didn't. This was all on me. My reputation was on the line; if Zane wanted to screw up his, that was his issue, not mine.

I returned to the stage to a small round of applause, but most guests were still focused on Zane's handiwork. The smells wafting over from his side of the room were tasty, but I didn't recognize them.

I checked the clock above the audience, counting down his remaining time—fifteen minutes.

Wow, had I been gone that long?

I sat in my chair, almost hoping the clock would...go on. That he'd stay in that pristine kitchen and keep cooking, keep going, pass the day there without me having to speak to him again.

When I was away from him, I was able to build up my hatred for him. Without his toxic, annoyingly handsome presence, I grew stronger, more stubborn.

Elliot was right; he was a jerk, and I didn't need someone like him messing up my very tidy life.

Maybe he'd regret his attitude. Maybe he'd serve me something so delicious, with so many hidden ingredients, that I could send him off with tons of money; enough to shut him up and ensure he never bothered me again.

And then I could have a sit-down with Grace and Archie and remind them the terms we'd spoken of when I signed a contract with them. We'd never explicitly said no exes, and technically Zane didn't qualify as an ex, but...I was going to get that added into a separate clause in huge, red lettering.

No exes or people I've slept with on the show.

One of the cameramen waved at me, motioning at the prompter.

"Oh, looks like we only have one minute left, folks! Let's hope Zane is ready to show me something good!" I hated the lilt in my voice, the fakeness I had to infuse into it to pretend like I was okay, like I could do this.

The final DING DING echoed around the room, and I uttered my soon-to-be-famous motto of "utensils down, gloves off, let's eat!"

The air was loaded with the scent of roasted vegetables, herbs. A whiff of summer, a hint of French Provence, and I—

I cringed as I passed the metallic separator and saw the dish Zane had put atop the platter awaiting me for tasting. He stood beside it, hands clasped behind his back, his black apron painted with peels of something green, and dark stains smeared onto the fabric.

And he smiled, the little rat. A sheepish, I-did-something-bad smile that raked its claws down my back and prepared me for the worst.

The meal he'd concocted in an hour smelled, to be frank, delicious. But anyone who knew me, who'd read any of my books, knew better than to even attempt to serve me this. It was composed of not a single element I'd agree to eat. I'd refused to touch it whenever it was unfortunately served to me in the past.

"Ratatouille?" My eyebrows raised as I kept my distance from him but got close enough to recognize the purple-hued eggplant, the rich red tomatoes, the faded green zucchini.

He gave me a nod, his face illuminating with a sense of pride. "Wow, you know it?"

"It's one of the most famous recipes in the world, so yes, I do." I remembered we weren't alone and twisted my neck to the audience. "Shocker, I know how to cook it, too."

Everyone laughed, absorbed in our banter. If Grace wanted a show, I'd give her one—but what was about to happen wouldn't go down well in the history of Food Me!

"The issue is: this goes against the show's rules." I set my hands on my hips and tsked. "You made no effort whatsoever to hide any of the elements I dislike."

The crowd let out a generalized, low ooooooh.

Zane narrowed his gaze on me, his funny little facade of snarky pride evaporating. "What do you mean?"

"You do know the point of this show, right?" I turned away from him, facing the audience, my gaze slipping to Grace and Archie. They'd gotten off their chairs—bad sign. "To cook something with elements I dislike inside, and well hidden, to fool me into not knowing they're there?"

"Yeah," said Zane, and I heard him wiping his hands on his apron, then removing it. It fell to the ground; a light sound I shouldn't have been able to hear in the studio, but the area had gone so eerily quiet that I would probably detect a pin drop in a stack of hay. His footsteps approached, and I dared a glance to my side to see that he'd stormed up, fists tightened. "And I think it's stupid."

I gawked at him while the audience gasped. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." He snickered as he gestured at the ratatouille he'd made.

I couldn't help but twirl around to get a better look at it, up close. It looked lovely; colorful, flavorful, everything a ratatouille was supposed to be.

But my mouth wouldn't come within inches of it. I couldn't stand any of its elements, and that was why I mentioned it in all my books as my most abhorred dish. I respected its history, the techniques used to cook it—and it was true, I'd learned how to cook it—but I refused to eat it myself.

"I'm not cooking you something where I have to hide the best ingredients. A ratatouille," he crossed his arms, "hides nothing."

I swerved towards Grace and Archie again, needing guidance. Obviously, I wanted to kick him off the show—I hadn't wanted him here in the first place—but this was an executive decision I didn't feel comfortable taking. We had rules.

A chef comes on the show, cooks something sneaky, I taste it. If I finish it, they get fifteen thousand, if I don't finish it but am truly fooled, they get ten thousand. And if I'm not fooled and won't eat it, they get the baseline five thousand, to thank them for their attempt.

What Zane did...didn't fit into any of those categories.

Staring straight at Grace, I mouthed, "what do I do?"

We'd never gone over this possibility. We were innocent newcomers in the TV business and hadn't anticipated that someone would blatantly defy the rules during a more or less live taping of the show. There was no script, no prompt for this. No one had done this before.

I guessed this was a tad more drama than Grace had signed up for.

Grace said something to the cameramen, then waved me to the edge of the stage. Her hair was pulled back, but strands had come loose, and a film of sweat dotted over her forehead. Her eyes were dark, dangerous; and her squared shoulders told me she was pissed. For once, not because of me.

"Wrap it up," she said, her voice lowered. "Don't try his food, give him the minimum prize, and thank him for his time."

"He'll argue," I said, resisting the urge to turn around and see him standing there, waiting for me to tell him he fucked up.

"Don't care." Grace snapped at the cameramen again. "He knew the rules when we invited them, and he openly disobeyed them. He's lucky I'm even considering giving him money at all."

She prowled back to her seat. Archie, beside her, looked perplexed, but there was a vague hint of amusement in his expression that made my blood boil. While Grace seemed to be calling the shots, it was all Archie, all the time. It wouldn't have surprised me if he'd secretly whispered at Zane to do exactly this, to amp up the dramatic effect.

I wouldn't let myself go down that rabbit-hole now; I had a show to conclude, and another one to film later, too.

I swung to Zane, approaching him with my arm outstretched. "Well, Zane, thanks for coming on."

He studied me, lips thinning. "You're not even going to try it?"

"It's ratatouille," I said, doing my damndest to keep the loathing from my voice.

"And?" He uncrossed his arms, and I took a step back. "I cooked for you. I came on your show. Shouldn't you sample the food?"

My smile was so forced, so painful, my lips trembled. "I don't eat ratatouille. Had you followed the rules and disguised it, you might have fooled me, and won yourself ten thousand dollars. But this?" I motioned at the dish. "I'm not touching it, no matter the effort you put in. I appreciate it, but no. You get the five-thousand-dollar base prize." I extended my arm again, insistent. "Thank you for coming on."

The air was so tense, so thick with disdain, I worried we'd need to cut filming, to take a break. The snarl he offered me was chilling, and had we been alone, I'd have stepped even farther back, out of reach.

The editors would have a hard time weeding through this conversation and making it appropriate to put on TV.

In truth, I hoped they'd decide against airing this episode altogether. It was a waste of time, of money, and who would want to showcase this blunder? It would ruin Zane's career—I despised him, but I didn't like cursing other chefs—and would make me look like an ass.

He finally shook my hand, and when his hot skin met mine, I shuddered. All the physical feelings I'd been reigning in surged towards me full force, and I was nearly knocked backwards. Rage and lust swirled in a mystifying mix that made my stomach churn.

Electricity shot up my arm, and I removed my hand from his immediately.

I couldn't give him one last look—I turned around, hopped down from the stage, and barreled towards the studio exit.

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