While Vincent and his fans were celebrating, not everyone shared the excitement.
Across town, in a high-rise office that gleamed with steel and glass, Adrian Moretti stood in front of the massive flat-screen television. On the screen, Vincent was raising his plaque and certificate high to the roaring crowd, the words National Culinary Master of the Year stamped boldly across the stage backdrop.
Adrian's jaw tightened. His fist clenched around the remote before he hurled it with all his force. The crash of shattering glass echoed as the screen went black.
"He won the title?" His voice was low, guttural, as if dragged from deep in his chest. "That… street rat? That run-down truck cook? He is the face of culinary mastery?"
He turned sharply, his eyes like blades locking onto his assistant. "How could a nobody rise this far?"
Asher, ever composed, adjusted his glasses. "Sir, I'll admit, it's… unprecedented. But the judges crowned him fairly. The crowd adores him. His popularity is—"
"Popularity?" Adrian spat, cutting him off, pacing like a predator in a cage. "Do you know what popularity does, Asher? It breeds influence. And influence topples empires. My empire." He slammed a hand down on his mahogany desk, rattling the crystal decanter resting there. "Do you think investors will keep looking at me when that boy is out there dazzling the nation with a plate of rice?"
Asher hesitated, then spoke carefully. "But sir… now that he carries the Culinary Guild's official title, dealing with him won't be easy. Every eye is on him."
Adrian laughed bitterly, the sound sharp as broken glass. "Every eye? Good. Let them watch. I'll burn him slowly enough for the world to enjoy the show."
Asher frowned. "You want me to dig up dirt?"
"Dig?" Adrian leaned in close, his voice a venomous whisper. "I want his life flayed open. Find his weaknesses—family, debts, enemies. If they don't exist, create them. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, sir," Asher replied, though his tone carried unease.
Adrian straightened his cuffs, regaining his veneer of composure. "Asher, there are several ways to kill a fly. Poison it. Swat it. Or… let it fly into a flame it cannot resist." His lips curved into a cruel smile. "Vincent Locke will not bask in this victory for long. I'll turn that title of his into a curse."
- - -
In an underground building, the TV in the corner flickered with Vincent's triumphant smile, the crowd's roar spilling faintly into the room. Confetti rained on the screen as the words National Culinary Master of the Year shone bright.
Alicia leaned back in her chair, arms folded, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. "I knew he was a tough one," she murmured, eyes narrowing with interest.
Logan let out a low chuckle, though there was no humor in it. "Tough doesn't even cover it. That kind of win puts him on a whole different board." His gaze lingered on the screen as if calculating pieces on a game only he could see.
Riev said nothing at first, chewing slowly, his expression unreadable. At last, he muttered, "One victory doesn't make him untouchable. But it does make him noticed."
- - -
Several blocks away, in the city hospital.
The hospital room was quiet except for the steady rhythm of the heart monitor. Alvaro sat at his daughter's bedside, her small hand curled inside his palm. The television mounted on the wall showed Vincent standing tall beneath a storm of applause, plaque and certificate in hand, the words National Culinary Master of the Year plastered across the screen.
Alvaro's jaw tightened. "He… actually did it," he whispered, half in awe, half in disbelief. He had suspected Vincent might pull something remarkable, but this? Winning the title outright—it was beyond what he thought possible.
His mind flicked back to that morning after the kidnapping. Adrian Moretti's office—cold, sterile, suffocating. He remembered Adrian's eyes boring into him as the deal was laid bare: Work for me. Feed me what I need to know about Locke. Or watch what happens to your family.
Alvaro had tried to resist. He had clenched his fists, his pride screaming no. But when Adrian dropped a file onto the desk—a file with photos of his daughter on the hospital bed, his wife shopping at the market, his reputation outlined and ripe for ruin—his resolve had shattered.
"I'll do it," Alvaro had said at last, the words tasting like poison. He remembered the look of satisfaction on Adrian's face, the way Asher had smirked in the corner.
Now, watching Vincent on the screen, his chest tightened with guilt. Vincent wasn't just a chef anymore—he was a symbol. People cheered him, believed in him. And yet, Alvaro was about to betray him.
- - -
Back home, the door to Vincent's small apartment clicked open, and for the first time all day, he let the silence embrace him. No roaring crowd, no cameras, no spotlight — just the dim hum of the ceiling fan and the faint scent of cooking oil that lingered in the air from countless late-night experiments.
He stepped inside slowly, as though afraid the moment might slip away if he moved too fast. In his left hand, the framed certificate gleamed under the light; in his right, the heavy plaque weighed down his arm, the golden emblem of the Culinary Guild glinting with authority. Behind him, propped awkwardly against the wall by the door, was the absurdly oversized cheque — $50,000, his name written bold across it like proof that none of this was a dream.
Vincent kicked off his shoes and set the plaque on the dining table with a careful reverence, running his fingers over the gilded lettering. "National Culinary Master of the Year," he murmured aloud, as though saying it would make it real. A laugh bubbled out of him then — tired, incredulous, overflowing with relief.
He carried the certificate to the shelf above his counter, brushing aside worn notepads to clear a spot. He slid it into place with both hands, straightening it once, then again, until it stood proud and centered. For a moment he just stood there, arms crossed, staring at it.
"Look at you, Vincent," he said to himself with a crooked grin. "From making burgers and rice combos on a food truck… to this."
His phone buzzed — dozens of notifications from fans, messages from old acquaintances, even numbers he didn't recognize. He ignored them. Tonight, he wanted the win to belong to him alone, not the noise.
The oversized cheque caught his eye again, and he chuckled. "Where the hell am I supposed to put you?" He leaned it carefully against the wall near his couch. "Don't get too comfortable — you're heading to the bank soon."
The adrenaline of the competition was fading now, replaced with a warm ache in his chest. He padded into the kitchen, pulled out a glass, and poured himself water.
He raised the glass in a mock toast to the empty room. "To fried rice. To rebellion. To never giving up."
Tomorrow would bring new battles — restaurant hunting, the system's looming deadline, enemies he didn't even know yet. But tonight… tonight he was the National Culinary Master.
Vincent lay down, the plaque and certificate safely set aside where he could see them. For the first time in a long while, he felt completely at ease. His eyes closed, and he drifted into a deep, peaceful sleep — the kind he had been needing for so long.