Chasing His Kickass Luna Back

Chapter 0210

Abby

Applause begins to ripple across the studio audience, but all I see is Karl, sitting in the back, staring

down at me. He’s wearing a blue surgical mask, but I know it’s him. I can tell by his eyes, by the way

that my wolf stirs ever so slightly just from looking at him.

“Wow, Abby,” Sarah says, drawing me back to the present, back to the interview. “That was lovely. Your

staff must be really grateful to have you.”

I shake my head. “No. I’m lucky to have them.”

“Well, that’s all, folks,” Sarah says, turning back to face the crowd. “Everyone give a big round of

applause for Abby, the owner of La Belle Vie Bistro!”

Another wave of applause washes over the room, smattered with a few cheers. The cameraman gives

me my cue, and I stand, waving as I jog off stage. Once backstage, the assistant from before gives me

a nod and a thumbs-up, then points for me to head back to the greenroom.

As I head down the hall to the greenroom, I feel like I'm floating on air. So that was it; that was the

interview. I did it!

The greenroom is a modest room, furnished with a couple of sofas, a coffee table littered with fashion

magazines, and a snack bar.

The walls are adorned with photos of previous guests who came on the show, from famous musicians

to local artists. There’s a bathroom in the back, and feeling like I’ll be sick now from the nerves of it all, I

head to the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face.

I lock the door behind me and let out a sigh, knowing that this is just one step in the process.

Tomorrow, I’ll be headed to the cook-off, and that will be an entirely different beast. I feel as though theNôvelDrama.Org: owner of this content.

real fight has only just begun.

As I splash some cool water on my face to calm myself, I look up into the mirror. The makeup still jars

me, but I can still see myself: just Abby, the small chef, the woman with an army of amazing friends

behind her.

After a few moments, I’m about to head back out to grab my things when I suddenly hear a voice in the

other room, and I freeze.

“No, you don't understand, this is a serious competition. I’ve been training for months, and I can’t afford

to be distracted by—by amateurs!”

I recognize the voice instantly: Daniel. My ears perk up. Amateurs? In a room full of accomplished

chefs, who could she possibly be talking about? I tell myself not to eavesdrop, but then she says it.

“Hah! Abby? She’s a complete non-factor. No, seriously, have you seen her so-called ‘restaurant’?

What a joke.”

There’s a pause, as though he’s listening to someone, likely over the phone. My heart feels like it’s

about to pound out of my chest as she continues.

“Look, she’s nothing but a fangirl with no real experience. You know what she is? She’s nothing but a

silly little homemaker who can barely cook halfway decent food without the help of her male chefs—

one of whom is a dirty homeless man!”

The air in the room gets thick; his words are a punch to the gut.

Here I am, in a field dominated by men, and being beaten down once again. He’s attacking not just me,

but the essence of La Belle Vie, where everyone, regardless of their background, is part of a

community.

Our resident ‘dirty homeless man,’ as he so insensitively put it, is one of the most gifted chefs I’ve ever

met.

“Oh, please,” Daniel continues, his voice fading. “I’m not worried about her. Not in the slightest…”

With that, Daniel’s voice fades away. I can hear his shoes clicking on the hallway floor, and then they

fade into nothing. Only then do I finally turn the bathroom door knob with shaking hands, letting out a

shuddering breath as I slowly step out of the room.

The room, although it’s empty, feels like it’s shrinking. I stand here for a moment, and it’s as though I

can still hear Daniel’s words bouncing around in my head like an awful, haunting echo.

Fangirl. Amateur. Homemaker. Silly.

My heart feels like it’s dropping into my stomach. How can a fellow chef speak about another

professional like that? I knew that this was a male-dominated field, but it still stings.

For a second, I even consider walking out and confronting him, really laying into him for belittling me

and my team like that.

I take a few tentative steps toward the door, my hand reaching for the door knob, but then I freeze.

My hand trembles, hovers, then drops back to my side. I can’t do it. I feel like I’ve lost my voice.

I’m not entirely sure why I’m hesitating, but it’s as if my feet are glued to the floor. Am I scared that

confronting him will just prove him right? That in some twisted way, I might actually be the talentless

hack that he’s making me out to be? That his words actually had an effect on me because maybe, just

maybe, they might actually be true?

“God, get a grip, Abby,” I mutter to myself, feeling the hot tears starting to form. I turn away from the

door and sink down onto the couch, burying my face in my hands. I can’t hold it in any longer, and a

couple of tears escape, trickling down my cheeks.

I know I’ve faced worse than this. I’ve dealt with fires, critics, bad customers, the works. I’ve dealt with

divorce, losing friends, gaining friends. Hell, I’ve dealt with resentful women before, like the Lunas who

used to be a part of my circle and now see me as a servant. I’ve dealt with Gianna, who set up an

entire conspiracy to get Karl to break up with me.

And yet, this feels different somehow. It’s almost as if I had this image in my head of what this cook-off

would be like; as if my participation in this cook-off somehow makes me worthy of respect, even from

my rivals. I guess, in my own naive sort of way, I thought that it would be nothing but friendly

competition and equal respect.

But it’s not. Not at all.

I wipe away another tear as a wry chuckle escapes my lips.

“I can’t believe I’m crying over this,” I whisper to myself, shaking my head. Spotting a tissue box on one

of the vanities at the back of the room, I stand and walk over to it, dabbing at my tears in the mirror.

The perfect mask of makeup that the artist so painstakingly created now has cracks and fissures in it,

like the TV-ready Abby is finally giving way for the real, raw, emotional Abby.

Suddenly, before the tears have even had a chance to dry, there’s a knock on the door. I open my

mouth to respond, but before I can, the door opens.

And in the reflection of the mirror, I see Karl step in, his surgical mask pulled down, and a bouquet of

flowers in his hand.