Chasing His Kickass Luna Back

Chapter 0232

“On it,” he responds, jogging toward the pantry. He returns a few moments later, and we swap places.

“Make sure to turn the duck and sear it evenly,” I call out as I begin to mix the ingredients together to

make the dough. “Use the red wine for moisture. Yeah, just like that, perfect…”

…

When the buzzer blares, signaling the end of the round, I step back and take a look at my dish.

It’s beautiful—each element perfectly executed, just like I rehearsed a million times in my head. The

plate practically glows under the stage lights, and I can’t help but feel a surge of pride course through

my body.

The judges make their way around, forks poised, eyes narrowed in concentration. I watch as they

reach Daniel’s station. He stands tall, his chin held high, as they taste her creation. My heart pounds in

my chest, each thud echoing my mounting anxiety.

Finally, they come to my station.

“Hello, ladies and gentlemen,” I say, pushing my plate forward. “I hope you enjoy my rendition of duck

pâté en croûte. I incorporated a hint of black pepper into the pastry, which I believe adds a savory kick Content bel0ngs to Nôvel(D)r/a/ma.Org.

in a subtle way.”

The first judge takes a bite and nods approvingly, her eyes meeting mine in a silent communication of

respect. The second judge, too, gives a nod.

But then, there’s Logan—the Logan—chef extraordinaire and owner of some of the most renowned

restaurants in the world. His gaze is piercing, almost disconcerting, as he takes a bite of my dish.

The seconds stretch out like hours as he chews slowly, deliberately, his face unreadable. And then, a

small grimace. My blood runs cold.

“The texture’s off,” he says, setting down his fork. “And you could have used more seasoning. The

black pepper isn’t hiding your inadequate flavor.”

I feel like I’ve taken a punch to the gut. The judges move on, but I feel like I’m stuck in a haze, my

throat collapsing in on itself. This is only the first round, and yet I already feel like I’ve been tied to the

whipping post, and Logan is doling out punishments over black pepper and texture.

Karl, sensing my disappointment, gently squeezes my arm. “Hey, it’s just one judge. His opinion

doesn’t define everything,” he whispers as we return to our station.

“I know, Karl,” I whisper. “But what if I make it to the next round and he hates my food again? It’ll only

get harder from here.”

Karl’s eyes lock onto mine. “Abby, you’re a brilliant chef. One comment doesn’t erase all the work

you’ve put into this. Don’t let it mess with your head.”

Despite his comforting words, the worry clings to me, sticky and persistent. What if Logan’s opinion

sways the others? What if his critique is just foreshadowing the rest of the competition?

But then, finally, the judges return.

My heart is in my throat as I look around. Bryan seems cool and composed, silent as usual. Daniel is

standing with his arms folded, chin held high. Frederick is fidgeting slightly in his spot. New chąpter

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And me? I feel like I’m about to jump out of my skin.