THE TASTE TEST (#1 STEAMY CHEF SERIES)

◘ nine ◘

The very morning that I found out that Zane's episode was going to air, despite my demands and me putting my foot down, I was asked to film the aftermath episode. The one where I apologized for his attitude, explained my accidental one-night-stand with him.

Elliot said nothing as they finished my makeup, knowing well that if I didn't scream, didn't audibly express my rage, it meant I'd gone beyond the normal range of frustration. If I was quiet, it was never good.

But when I went to confront Grace and Archie on their shitty back-stabbing move, to my surprise, they weren't in their producer seats. Nor was Nicholas around—he'd enlisted one of his executive assistants to call the directing shots for him today.

Such an important episode for them, to witness me crumble and confess to sleeping with Zane to the entire world, and they weren't even there to give me crappy feedback on it?

No, they'd opted to stay away, knowing I'd be so enraged at them that I might quit on the spot.

I sat in my chair, waiting for my cue—we were starting the episode with me sitting, instead of making an entrance, for dramatic effect. As I waited for the teleprompter, I realized that after that email, I'd been more tempted than ever to tell them all to go fuck themselves.

I built this damn show. The concept was mine, a chunk of the funding was mine, and yet they dared call such irreparable shots? They had no clue how detrimental it'd be for me to tell the viewers who Zane really was, and what really happened, and why he really defied me. A scorned one-night-stand viewpoint? It would destroy me. It would destroy Zane, too, though at this point I was too pissed to care much about his reputation.

"I know, you're wondering why the zoom-in on my face for a cooking show," I announced, after being cued in and seeing the teleprompter flash with my speech. A speech I hadn't had a chance to review and approve of. "And you're wondering why we left you with such drama, last time."

The audience was so silent, I swore I could hear their breaths, their hearts pounding in their chests. They knew what was coming—they were briefed by an assistant before every show. And so, they waited, curious how I'd word this, how I'd admit to everyone what had happened.

"Zane Rose was my one-night-stand," I said, and the crowd ooooh'd and some whistled and some clapped.

My cheeks heated. I hated this, hated this, and yet I had no one to complain to. The higher-ups were cowering behind their rushed, cruel decision to humiliate me, and I couldn't walk out. I couldn't improvise. The assistant director had strict instructions, and with the way she grinned at me, hands clasped, drinking in all the drama, I knew I had no choice.

It was this—follow the script, embarrass myself internationally—or lose the show altogether. If I didn't film this stupid skit, if I continued to refuse for Zane's episode to air, they'd replace me. They'd take my show and give it to someone else. Someone who had no idea what being picky felt like, and who hadn't built a monument of a legacy about picky eating.

"Yes, chefs have sex-lives, friends," I said, cracking a real smile at this; I wondered how adults would feel about their kids watching this show. It wasn't necessarily family-friendly, but there was no cussing—a pissed off or a damn here and there, but not much else. This would be the first time I'd said the word sex. "And mine is messy because, hey, that's one area I'm not picky with."

I glared at the assistant director, which made the audience guffaw. It wasn't acting—I was livid, and had no one else to shower my rage on, since everyone was conveniently gone. How could the show even run without them? Jerks.