Caleb seemed faintly displeased by my remark. The hint of a sneer beneath his smile wasn’t pleasant.

Too young, he thought, a flicker of disdain on his face. Too impulsive. All ambition and no patience—she wouldn't last in this city. Five years in the business and she expected to be on top? Did she think this was a Hollywood movie? Success took talent, not connections. Sleeping her way to the top? That trick only got you so far. The culinary world was ruthless, not a charity. Still, she should try again next time. Next time, he’d make it right. If there was a next time.

With that thought, he moved to console her. "Clara, the after-party is at Per Se. You should come."

"No, thank you." I declined politely. "I'm heading home."

Caleb frowned. I wasn’t the type to refuse a networking opportunity. It was a crucial part of survival in this industry. But before he could dwell on it, Sloane had already looped her arm through his.

Meanwhile, I called an Uber. As I slid into the back seat, I gazed out at the cold, glittering panorama of the Manhattan nightscape.

Before I even got home, the hashtags were trending on social media: #CalebBlackwood, #SloaneSterling, #CulinaryGoldenCouple. Each tag was a blaze of red, screaming that they were trending.

Caleb had a cookbook in the works, a three-year project for the restaurant. He was now rushing to name Sloane as the sole author. If I had been at that after-party, I bet my expression would have been anything but graceful.

When my phone screen went dark, my own reflection stared back. I looked tired, pale. The woman in the reflection was anything but happy.

Just as I closed the app, a text from Caleb arrived.

"Don't wait up. Going to be a late one."

I didn't reply, just swiped the message away. The dim blue light of the screen cast shadows on my face as I recalled his justifications.

“That girl from the CIA is a diamond in the rough… We need buzz, Clara. It's business. When will you grow up?”

My questions had dwindled over time.

At first, it was, “Who is she?”

Then, “Why her?”

And finally, silence.

As I scrolled through his long, detailed messages about Sloane, I realized he hadn't noticed that I’d long since stopped asking about the rosemary tattoo he got for me—the one his watch always seemed to cover lately.

All that remained was the cruel, two-word confirmation: Message Read.

The last straw had come three months ago. It was a simple matter of priorities.

That day, Sloane had nicked her finger with a paring knife in the back kitchen. At the same moment, I slipped while carrying a pot of boiling lobster bisque, the entire contents spilling across my arm. Her injury was a tiny cut that barely drew blood; my arm was severely scalded. One kitchen, two worlds apart.

Caleb's concern for me was a brief, "Did you run it under cold water?"

Meanwhile, he fussed over Sloane, personally driving her in his Porsche to the best private hospital on the Upper East Side. He was so worried that he posted on social media: "Urgent! How to prevent scarring on delicate skin?"

In the photo, Sloane sat in the passenger seat of his Porsche, looking fragile but glamorous. And there I was, lying alone in the staff lounge, the cloying scent of burn cream heavy in the air.

I watched Caleb banter with friends in the comments, his replies breezy and charming, while my texts went unanswered. His indifference stung more than the searing pain in my arm.

After a sleepless night, I went to his office, my arm wrapped in thick bandages. I found him engrossed in tasting a macaron Sloane had just made, his brow furrowed in concentration. The texture of a single macaron was a thousand times more important than my third-degree burn.

"Hang on, Clara. The almond flour ratio is a bit off."

He didn't even turn around.

I stood outside the glass door, watching as he guided Sloane in adjusting the recipe. For two hours, I watched him, finally understanding that a single, trivial cookie mattered more to him than I did.

Framed on the glass door was the Best New Chef award he’d received from Food & Wine magazine last year.

At one point, his assistant, Olivia, came over and whispered, "Clara, Caleb is still discussing the menu with Sloane. It might be another two hours..."

She watched my face for a reaction. "Why don't you come back later?"

I stubbornly shook my head. "I'll wait."

Olivia looked troubled.

"You might be disturbing them if you stay."

Suddenly, a sharp, nauseating pain shot through me, and my body buckled. Olivia caught me just in time.

The commotion drew Caleb’s attention from the other side of the glass. He glanced in my direction, his expression unreadable.

"Please escort Clara to the break room."

He spoke with the detached authority of someone removing a disruptive employee. Then, his gaze lingered on my contorted posture, his lips parting slightly as if to ask if I was okay.

"Caleb, should the frosting be sweeter...?"

Sloane's soft, sweet voice pulled his attention back to the macarons. That flicker of concern vanished, dissipating like a mirage.

The message was clear: Stop the drama. Be professional. Get out before you embarrass me. Once he was done, perhaps he would generously send me a copy of the tasting notes he'd made with Sloane as "compensation."

The air conditioner hummed its monotonous drone. Only a wall separated us. He was the one controlling the temperature, while I shivered, caught between the July heat of Manhattan and the biting chill of the AC.

I pulled my sleeves down, turned, and walked toward the elevator.

Five years ago, we graduated from the CIA together, vowing to conquer this city.

Now, I had to accept the painful truth: the man who once shared a chef's knife with me was gone forever.

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.