Chasing His Kickass Luna Back novel Chapter 244

Abby

I feel frozen to my spot as the judges make their way toward Daniel’s station. The grin stretched across his face almost makes me feel sick, and it’s all I can do not to run off the stage right now.

“Wow,” Vanessa says as she takes the first bite of Daniel’s dish, which looks leaps and bounds ahead of mine just by presentation alone. “Really, Daniel; wow. Despite everything, you created a phenomenal dish.”

“Thank you so much,” Daniel says, his eyes flickering toward me. “You know, with my sous chef’s wrist in so much pain, it was difficult. But we made it.”

Next, the judges begin making their way toward me, and I feel like I’m going to be sick. They stop in front of my station, and I can feel the cold weight of Logan’s gaze on me already.

“Hello, Abby,” Vanessa says, her gaze sweet as ever despite the circumstances. “Your performance in the second round was lacking, but you’re here now. How do you feel?”

I swallow. “I feel…” I pause, my throat cracked and dry. “I feel… Hopeful,” I mutter. Vanessa nods in response along with the third judge, but Logan—his face is as inscrutable as ever.

As the judges begin their taste test, times feels as though it’s moving in slow motion. All eyes are on me, Abby, the chef with the ‘violent’ partner. I wish that Karl was here now, if only to have his presence by my side, but he’s not. Right now, this stage feels even more vast and cold than it ever has.

“Oh… Abby,” Vanessa finally says, her voice low. “This… This isn’t what I expected from you.”

I feel a tightness in my chest as panic begins to set in. “I... I tried to bring the flavors together, to—” I start to explain, but my words falter under her gaze.

She nods, but it's not one of understanding. “I see what you tried to do, but it’s not coming together on the plate. I’m sorry, Abby.”

My gaze flicks to the second judge, Xavier, a chef of few words. His eyes meet mine, and I see it there before he even speaks—a profound disappointment.

“It’s unbalanced,” he adds simply, his voice final.

I want to argue, to defend my dish, to say that the circumstances were against me, but I swallow the words. They know the chaos that unfolded. They saw Karl being taken away, and yet they seem to expect the impossible from me.

But it's Logan’s voice, clear and authoritative, that slices through the tension. “Abby, what we have here is a fundamental problem,” he states, his cold eyes meeting mine.

I clutch the edge of my station, my knuckles whitening. “Please, enlighten me,” I say, hoping that the quiver in my voice isn’t too obvious.

He raises an eyebrow. “Well, to put it plainly…” He pauses, as though for dramatic effect. “You didn’t follow the instructions, Abby. This dish is not what we asked for.”

My breath hitches, and I find myself gasping for air. “But I—I don’t understand," I stammer, my composure shattering. “This is farro mafaldine with black truffle butter and mushrooms. It’s exactly what was asked of me.”

“But that’s where you’re wrong,” Logan says with a disappointed shake of his head. “This is not farro mafaldine with black truffle butter and mushrooms.”

My eyebrows raise, but Logan is already digging through the dish with his fork. I watch in horror as he stabs a piece of black truffle and holds it up in the light, turning it this way and that.

“I do apologize, Abby,” Logan says, taking a step away from my station. “But this is not what we asked for.”

The silence that follows is almost deafening. I feel like I’m tied to the whipping post for all the world to see, the victim of a terrible sabotage. Suddenly, everything I’ve been through: the journalists, the fire, the food poisoning, and now this… All of it feels somehow connected in a way that only makes sense to my aching heart.

As the judges walk away, my body seems to turn to stone. I don’t even dare to look over at Daniel, although I can feel his eyes boring holes into the side of my head. I can picture his sneer without even glancing at him. All I can see now are my own tears clouding my vision.

“Well, ladies and gentleman,” the announcer states, as the show must go on, “that was an emotional rollercoaster, wasn’t it?”

The crowd murmurs in agreement, and I feel like a spectacle. But the announcer continues, because I am not a person; I am a pawn on a TV show, a slice of cheap entertainment, a woman in a mask of makeup, nothing more.

Maybe I was never meant to win. Maybe all of this has been rigged against me, and I’m a fool for playing into it.

“And for now,” the announcer says, “we will be taking another break. And when we come back…”

I feel my chest wrench suddenly, but not from tears. I wince and glance down at my hands, which are balled up into fists at my sides. And when I finally uncurl my fingers, I can see a tiny trickle of blood beginning where my nails were digging ruthlessly into my palms.

“...We will announce the winner of this year’s Alpha party cooking competition!”