Billionaires Dollar Series

I’m done for.

No, Maddie. There’s nothing I can do now but cook. I repeat the mantra in my head-nothing to do but cook. And for the coming hours, cook I do. The chefs around me become irrelevant, even as I hear someone cursing as flambéing goes awry, or hissing at the scalding heat of boiling water.

My hand, wrapped tightly in gauze, doesn’t slow me down-not even as it begins to sting from the pressure I put on it.

My damn eyes can’t stop glancing over at the audience chairs from time to time, but Liam doesn’t show.

I push the disappointment away.

“Thirty minutes left!” a judge calls out. The energy in the air rises to fever pitch, tension practically rivaling oxygen for space.

All around me, chefs race to complete their dishes.

I stare down at the duck breast I’m cutting. I’ve never had duck this tender before, Liam’s voice flits through my mind. Did you beat it into submission? A crooked smile on his lips. Or did it surrender, seeing you?

I tranche the duck with sure strokes of my knife and ignore the way his unexplained absence hurts, like a betrayal, like a slap.

When I glance back up, Alma is pulling on her jacket.

She shoots me a thumbs up and a mouthed you got this. I grin back at her. Thanks, I mouth, waving at her to go. She has the prep shift at the restaurant.

Everything goes downhill after that.

The fish burns while I’m busy finishing the tapenade. Three of my ravioli unravel in the pot. A glance at the clock and I accidentally pour too much salt into the mash.

Sweat drips down my back and my legs ache from standing up, from tension.

“Keep going,” I murmur to myself, fighting against the pain in my hand. “Come on, just get those dishes out.”

And I do.

God knows how I manage it, but by the time the clock runs out, there are five dishes plated and prepared on my station.This content © Nôv/elDr(a)m/a.Org.

I push away from the station and breathe, my chest heaving with effort. The duck isn’t plated perfectly. I know for a fact that one of my sauces didn’t emulsify correctly. But I did it.

My triumph is short-lived, though, as the judges start to do their rounds.

I tear off the apron and stuff it into my bag with more force than is warranted. Applicants do the same all around me, but I don’t pay them any heed.

The judges didn’t say anything negative-but they didn’t say anything positive, either. Only scribbled on their notepads and frowned after tasting each of my dishes, like they were trying to figure out what was wrong with them.

Marco had been the paragon of neutrality. He didn’t even acknowledge that he knew me.

The only person in the room who got a positive comment? Jason, of course. He got excellent steak from one of the judges.

You could have heard a needle drop in the silence that followed amongst the chefs and the audience.

And they’d said nothing to me.

And I knew for a fact that my fish was overdone.

And why the hell had I gone with a balsamic reduction instead of an orange sauce for the duck?

I rummage through my bag, fighting against the sudden lump in my throat. Because worst of all, Liam had known how important this was, and he hadn’t come.

A patronizing voice behind me. “You actually did quite well, Maddie. I saw your dishes.”

“Screw you.” Any more, and I’ll snap.

Surprised silence. “There’s no need to-oh.” Jason’s voice grows terse. “Well, you’re a bit late.”

The cool voice that follows is just as familiar, causing my heart to ache. “If I want your opinion, I’ll ask.”

My hands tremble as I zip up my bag. I can’t find the energy to greet him. Liam doesn’t greet me either, a tall shadow waiting in the wings, knowing a storm is brewing.

“How did it go?”

I shoulder my bag. There is no way this conversation is happening here. As I walk toward the exit, he falls in line next to me, long strides easily matching mine.

“I’m sure you did great.”

“I’m not. I overcooked the fish, my mash was salty, and there was too much tarragon in the pasta sauce.” An angry tear falls down my cheek and I wipe it away.

“But there’s no such thing as too much tarragon.” Liam’s voice is guarded, like he’s waiting for the explosion. “When do you get the results?”

“In a week. Where were you?”

He blows out a breath, the silence stretching between us. He holds open the door to the institute and we emerge onto the sunny street, people passing by as if this was an ordinary day. As if I hadn’t just had the most difficult culinary challenge of my life.

“I drove to Albert Walker’s cabin,” he admits.

My feet stop on the sidewalk, like they’ve been rooted to the ground.

Defiant green eyes meet mine. “He drove up last night, apparently. Wasn’t returning my calls. So I got in the car to follow him.”

I swallow against the hurt that rises up in my throat. It comes out anyway, lacing my words. “And? Were you successful?”

Liam shakes his head. “He wasn’t in the mood to be convinced.”

“Shocking.” My fingers tighten around the handle of my bag. “What did he say?”

His jaw works. “A lot. Most of it unflattering.”

The laugh that escapes me isn’t happy at all. Exhaustion is lacing my limbs, my hands shaky with the release of tension. “Four weeks I’ve prepared for this test,” I tell him. “You knew what it meant to me, and you couldn’t even text me to let me know?”

Green eyes meet mine. “I know. I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

“But you’re not really, though, are you? Because you’d make the same decision again in a heartbeat.”