The challenge from Wang Lei was not just an attack.
It was a gift.
It was a chance to change the narrative.
To pivot from the humiliating, messy drama of tabloid gossip to the one arena where she was untouchable.
Her kitchen.
Or, in this case, a brightly lit, sterile television studio that passed for a kitchen.
The days leading up to the cook-off were a special kind of hell.
Her phone was a relentless source of anxiety, buzzing with a toxic cocktail of support from friends and vitriol from strangers.
The media scrutiny was suffocating.
Paparazzi were camped outside her restaurant, their long lenses like vultures waiting for a kill.
Every delivery, every staff member arriving for their shift, was documented and dissected on social media.
The pressure inside Phoenix Rising was just as intense.
Her staff was on edge, a mix of nervous energy and barely concealed excitement.
They were fiercely loyal, but the scandal and the high-profile challenge had unsettled the delicate ecosystem of her kitchen.
Some of the younger line cooks looked at her with a new, star-struck awe.
Others, the older, more seasoned ones, looked at her with worry, concerned that her personal drama was jeopardizing the reputation they had all worked so hard to build.
"You need to focus," Mei Ling told her, shoving a bowl of congee into her hands on the morning of the competition. Yu Zhen hadn't eaten a proper meal in two days.
"I am focused," Yu Zhen snapped, pushing the bowl away.
"No, you're not," Mei Ling countered, pushing it right back. "You're obsessing. You're replaying every conversation with him. You're doom-scrolling through comments from anonymous trolls. That's not focus. That's self-torture."
She's right.
Damn it.
In the quiet, lonely hours of the night, her anger at Wang Lei felt pure and clean.
But in the light of day, it was hopelessly tangled with thoughts of Chao Wei Jun.
Why did he defend me?
Was it a strategy?
Why does the memory of his hand on my cheek make my stomach do this stupid little flip?
She was trying to frame this competition as a noble defense of her craft, a stand for culinary integrity.
But she knew, in a secret, shameful part of her heart, that she was also performing for an audience of one.
She wanted to prove to Chao Wei Jun that she didn't need his help, that she was a force in her own right.
She wanted to prove it to herself.
"Eat," Mei Ling commanded, her voice leaving no room for argument. "You're a warrior going into battle. Warriors need fuel."
Yu Zhen finally picked up the spoon.
The warm, comforting rice porridge was exactly what she needed.
It was the kind of food her grandmother used to make.
Simple.
Honest.
Real.
It was everything she was fighting for.
Her resolve hardened.
Today was not about Chao Wei Jun.
It was not about the gossip or the scandal.
It was about the food.
It was about reminding Wang Lei, and the entire city of Beijing, exactly who she was.
She was Lin Yu Zhen.
And she was not a commodity.
The television studio was a sensory assault.
The lights were blindingly bright, hot, and artificial.
The air hummed with the nervous energy of a live audience, a sea of faces staring down at the two culinary gladiators.
Cameras, black and menacing, swooped and glided on mechanical arms, capturing every bead of sweat, every flicker of doubt.
This was not her sanctuary.
This was a spectacle.
And at the center of it, looking insufferably smug, was Wang Lei.
He was older than her, with a stern, handsome face and a reputation for rigid, uncompromising traditionalism.
He saw her modern, artistic approach as a gimmick, a betrayal of classic Chinese cuisine.
He walked over to her station as the floor manager counted down to airtime.
"Chef Lin," he said, his voice oozing with false cordiality. "An honor to finally share a kitchen with you. I trust you're not too... distracted... by your recent social engagements?"
The insult was perfectly delivered.
A stiletto knife wrapped in silk.
"Chef Wang," she replied, her voice as cold and sharp as her favorite paring knife. "I'm always focused on what's important. The food. I trust you can say the same."
His smile tightened.
"Indeed. Today, we will see if true artistry can withstand the fleeting trends of the moment."
Before she could retort, the host, a bubbly woman with a microphone, announced the start of the competition.
The theme was revealed with a dramatic flourish.
A single, humble ingredient.
Tofu.
Yu Zhen almost laughed.
It was perfect.
An ingredient so simple, so versatile, that it was a blank canvas.
It would be a true test of creativity and philosophy.
Wang Lei would undoubtedly do something classic, technically perfect but utterly predictable.
A mapo tofu, perhaps.
Or a perfectly executed stuffed tofu dish.
She had other plans.
As the clock started, the chaos of the studio faded away.
The audience, the cameras, Wang Lei's smug face—it all dissolved into a low, meaningless hum.
There was only her, her station, and the block of silken tofu in front of her.
She entered her zone.
Her movements became a blur of efficiency and grace.
She worked on multiple components at once, her mind a supercomputer of timing, temperature, and texture.
She was making a deconstructed, multi-layered creation.
A crispy, deep-fried tofu skin base.
A silken tofu mousse, light as air, infused with ginger and scallion.
A rich, savory "soil" made from fermented black beans and shiitake mushrooms.
And a clear, intensely flavored dashi broth to be poured over it all at the last second.
It was a story on a plate.
A dish that played with expectations, that was both comforting and surprising.
It was her.
She glanced over at Wang Lei's station.
As predicted, he was making a classic. A flawlessly prepared, intricately carved tofu dish that looked like it belonged in an emperor's court.
It was beautiful.
It was impressive.
It was dead boring.
She was so lost in her work, so consumed by the creative fire, that she didn't notice him at first.
But then, a subtle shift in the energy of the audience, a collective intake of breath, made her look up.
And there he was.
Chao Wei Jun.
He was walking down the aisle to a seat in the very front row, a seat that had clearly been reserved for him.
He moved with his usual, infuriating grace, a king arriving to watch the gladiators perform for his amusement.
He wore a dark grey suit that probably cost more than the entire prize purse for this competition.
He looked directly at her.
No smile.
No expression.
Just an intense, unreadable gaze that seemed to see right through her.
Why is he here?
To watch me fail?
To see if his potential 'investment' can handle the pressure?
Her heart hammered against her ribs.
The entire studio, which had faded into the background, came rushing back in sharp, overwhelming focus.
The lights felt hotter.
The audience felt closer.
The ticking clock on the giant screen seemed to mock her with every passing second.
His presence was a weight, an anchor of pressure pulling her down.
She took a shaky breath, forcing her attention back to the delicate tofu mousse she was whipping.
He doesn't matter.
He's just a man in a suit.
Focus on the food.
But it was a lie.
He mattered.
And his being here, watching her, changed everything.
The competition was in its final, frantic minutes.
Yu Zhen was working on her most delicate component: a paper-thin tuile made from sesame and squid ink, designed to shatter over the dish like a wave.
It was a high-risk, high-reward element.
If it worked, it would be spectacular.
If it failed, it would be a soggy, ugly mess.
The temperature of the pan had to be perfect.
The timing, down to the second.
She poured the batter, spreading it thin.
Too thin.
It was starting to burn at the edges before the center was cooked.
No, no, no.
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through her.
She didn't have time to make another batch.
This was it.
This one element could cost her the entire competition.
Her hands started to shake.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him.
Chao Wei Jun.
He wasn't looking at her anymore.
His gaze was fixed on someone across the studio, a man with a headset who looked like a floor manager.
Wei Jun's expression was blank, but he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
A tiny, barely-there inclination of his head.
The man with the headset spoke into his microphone.
Suddenly, the competition host's voice boomed through the studio.
"Hold on, chefs! We seem to be having a minor technical issue with the main clock! We're going to pause the timer for just a moment while our technicians sort it out!"
The giant clock on the screen froze.
What?
Yu Zhen stared, her spatula hovering over the burning tuile.
A technical issue?
Now?
It was too convenient.
Too perfect.
It gave her just enough time to scrape the failed tuile into the trash, wipe down the pan, and start again, her hands steadier this time.
Her mind was racing, a chaotic storm of confusion and suspicion.
Did he just... help me?
Did he just manipulate a live television broadcast to give me a few extra seconds?
The thought was insane.
And yet...
She glanced at him again.
He was looking at her now, his expression as unreadable as ever.
Was this his way of showing support?
Or was it something else?
A different kind of power play.
A way to make her indebted to him, to prove that even in her own arena, she couldn't win without his invisible hand pulling the strings.
The uncertainty was a poison, seeping into her concentration, more distracting than his outright hostility had ever been.
The clock started again.
She nailed the tuile this time.
It was perfect.
But the victory felt... tainted.
She finished her plating with seconds to spare, her hands moving on autopilot while her mind was a whirlwind.
Her dish was a work of art.
It was everything she had wanted it to be.
But was it entirely hers?
"The winner... by a unanimous decision..." the host announced, drawing out the suspense for the cameras, "is Chef Lin Yu Zhen!"
The studio erupted in applause.
Confetti cannons exploded, showering her in glittering paper.
Wang Lei's face was a mask of thunderous disbelief.
Yu Zhen felt a surge of pure, triumphant relief.
She had done it.
She had faced her rival, her reputation on the line, and she had won.
But the victory felt hollow, ringing with the echo of that frozen clock.
She accepted the oversized trophy, smiled for the cameras, and shook Wang Lei's limp, resentful hand.
All she wanted to do was escape.
She made her way off the stage, adrenaline and confusion making her feel lightheaded.
She needed to find Mei Ling.
She needed to breathe.
But as she pushed through the backstage curtain, a figure blocked her path.
Chao Wei Jun.
He was standing there, away from the crowds and the cameras, waiting for her.
"Congratulations, Chef," he said, his voice a low, calm island in the sea of backstage chaos.
She didn't thank him.
She didn't smile.
She walked straight up to him, her eyes blazing with a new fire.
"Did you interfere?" she demanded, her voice low and furious.
He didn't even have the grace to look surprised.
A small, infuriating smile played on his lips.
"The better chef won," he said smoothly, completely avoiding the question. "Isn't that all that matters?"
"No!" she hissed, poking a finger into his solid, expensive chest. "It matters how I won! I don't need your help! I don't need you to rig games for me! I can fight my own battles!"
"I have no doubt that you can," he said, his smile fading, his eyes darkening with an intensity that made her breath catch. "But this was never just your battle. From the moment my company made you an offer, it became mine as well."
He took a step forward, backing her against a stack of equipment cases, his presence overwhelming, boxing her in.
"You think this is about help?" he whispered, his voice a low, dangerous growl that vibrated through her. "This is about protecting an investment. I saw a variable that could have negatively impacted the outcome, and I controlled it. It's what I do."
"I am not your investment!" she spat, her face inches from his, her heart hammering against her ribs for a reason that had nothing to do with anger anymore.
The air between them was electric, charged with the adrenaline of her victory and the raw, explosive chemistry that had been simmering since the moment they met.
The noise of the backstage area faded away.
There was only the two of them, locked in a battle of wills that was rapidly becoming something else entirely.
"Aren't you?" he murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips.
And he leaned in.
This time, there was no phone to save her.
No interruption.
Just the overwhelming certainty that he was going to kiss her.
And the terrifying, undeniable truth that she was going to let him.