They studied recipes together in a public kitchen Raymond rented for her practice.
While she cooked, she told him everything...
Growing up as the only child of chefs.
How she started in Christ Divine Church.
How her relationship with Fred began.
How they broke up and came back together after her parents died.
How her friends stole from her and ran away.
How she started again from scratch.
How she agreed to work with Fred in Carter Organization.
Everything.
It was so easy to tell him everything.
And then she watched him taste each dish, one after the other.
His brows lifted in quiet admiration, the kind that made her heart steady.
"What happens if I don't win this competition?" she asked softly.
Raymond rose from his seat, stepped behind her, and gently removed her chef's cap.
"Martha, this isn't about winning or losing,"
he said with a calm certainty. "Me encouraging you to enter this competition is about you finally doing something you love. Something you want."
He settled back down, straightened a notepad, and gestured for her to proceed.
"Now," he said, "take me through the twenty recipes you intend to present. Professionally. As though you're pitching to the judges."
Martha inhaled slowly, her voice shifting...steady, confident, almost becoming her late parents, both master chefs who taught her everything before the accident that changed her life.
"Alright, Chef Smith," Raymond teased lightly. "Impress me."
She nodded, then began like a seasoned culinary artist. "Dish One- Coq au Vin. A classic French stew...chicken braised slowly in red wine, layered with mushrooms, lardons, and pearl onions. The depth comes from caramelizing each element separately before combining them.".
Raymond raised a brow. "Technique?"
"Burgundy-style," she replied. "Long, slow reduction. Everything depends on patience."
"Good. Next."
"Dish Two- Bouillabaisse. From Marseille. A traditional Provençal fish stew. The soul of the dish is the saffron broth and the mix of both bony and tender fish."
Raymond nodded. "Explain the flavor balance."
"A balance of sea saltiness, citrus brightness, and the aromatic push of fennel. It's rustic but elegant."
She continued, flowing effortlessly:
"Dish Three: Ratatouille Niçoise."
"Dish Four: Duck Confit."
"Dish Five: Gratin Dauphinois."
"Dish Six: Tarte Tatin."
"Dish Seven: Cassoulet."
"Dish Eight: Sole Meunière."
"Dish Nine: Florentine Soufflé."
"Dish Ten: Bœuf Bourguignon."
She went on, naming all twenty...each with the precision, history, and method that only someone deeply trained could offer.
Her voice was steady, authoritative.
She explained cooking times, classical techniques, ingredient chemistry, and presentation standards.
With every dish, Raymond's admiration grew.
When she finished the twentieth recipe, she exhaled, almost surprised by her own fluency.
Raymond tapped his pen thoughtfully. "You speak like someone who has lived in a French kitchen all her life."
"I did," she said quietly. "Through my parents."
He smiled. "And now it's your turn, Martha. Your turn to deliver excellence...your own way."
***
Gabriella stepped into Fred's office without knocking, her eyes fixed on him.
"You," she spat.
Fred didn't bother looking up.
He exhaled lightly and kept typing.
"What do you want, Gabriella?"
"How have you been?" she asked, the bitterness beneath her voice hard to miss.
"I'm fine. Clearly." He finally paused, hands still resting on the keyboard.
She folded her arms. "Are you done with her?"
Fred's jaw tightened. "That's none of your business."
"Fred," she pressed, moving closer. "What about us? I miss what we had… especially our nights together. And I heard Martha isn't even sleeping with you anymore."
He slowly turned to face her. "Shouldn't you be focused on work? Are you even back on track? Because from what I hear, the boss is still furious we reinstated you."
Gabriella's eyes flashed.
Without another word, she spun around and stormed out of his office.
***
From his parked car, Dave Benson watched Martha walking home beside the young doctor who had rescued her from him.
They were laughing...comfortably close, fingers intertwined.
He had never seen her look that happy.
The doctor stopped at her gate, gently draping a shawl over her shoulders.
He said something softly and she giggled, waving as he crossed the road to his car.
The moment he drove off, Dave stepped out of his own vehicle and approached.
Martha froze, panic flickering across her face.
"What are you doing here?"
He winced, almost childlike. "I...I missed you. I can't even think straight."
"Dave, please. Leave me alone."
But he moved closer, tilting his head to the side in that unsettling, manic way.
"I can't live without you…"
He didn't finish.
A loud crack sounded as something struck his head from behind.
Dave staggered, crashing to the ground.
Martha gasped and looked up.
Mrs. Whitmore stood there, trembling with fury, holding a wooden spatula like a weapon.
She immediately stepped in front of Martha, shielding her.
Dave blinked, trying to rise.
"Who… who are you?"
"I'm her mother," Mrs. Whitmore snapped. "And it's my duty to protect her. Get away from here!"
Dave stared at her in confusion.
"Her parents are dead…"
"I don't know what you're talking about," she shot back. "All I know is this: I am her mother."
Dave's expression twisted.
Desperate.
"What if… what if I get everything Fred Thompson has? Will you still accept me?"
He glanced at Martha pleadingly, then stumbled back to his car and drove off.
Silence settled.
Martha turned to Mrs. Whitmore, her eyes glistening.
Their gaze held for a long moment before Martha stepped forward and hugged her tightly.
"Thank you… so much," she whispered.
Mrs. Whitmore held her close. "Martha, you may not have a blood family. But you have a home here...with me."
***
The Palais Gastronomique buzzed long before the competition began.
The hall's high glass ceiling caught the morning light, scattering it across rows of polished steel stations arranged in a wide arc.
Each station looked identical
...copper pans hanging like disciplined soldiers, burners gleaming, marble prep slabs waiting for miracles.
The air smelled of fear, ambition, and the faintest hint of simmering stock from the back kitchens.
Martha Smith walked in quietly, tying her apron with steady fingers.
She didn't feel steady, but she looked it.
Around her, nine men set up their stations...older, heavier with experience, some casting quick, dismissive glances her way.
She ignored them.
She had no reason to shrink.
Not today.
By 9 a.m., the gallery filled with food critics, culinary historians, investors, and chefs who had come to watch the world's best compete.
Among the crowd, unnoticed by her, Raymond Whitmore slipped into a seat with calm, steady eyes.
A few minutes later, the host, Camille Roussard, stepped onto the raised platform.
Her voice carried effortlessly across the hall.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Grand French Culinary Masters' Competition. Ten chefs. One hall. Three hours. Only one will emerge champion."
Warm applause rolled through the room.
Martha swallowed.
The judges entered next...three figures with reputations so massive the crowd seemed to inhale at once.
Chef Pierre Martel.
Chef Amélie Giroux.
Chef Bertrand Lavigne.
Legends.
Unreadable, unbending, impossible to impress.
Camille introduced each chef in the competition.
When Martha stepped forward, the hall shifted...not loudly, but noticeably.
She was the only woman among them.
She bowed lightly and returned to her station.
A bell rang.
Three hours began.
Instant chaos erupted...knives striking boards in fast, furious rhythms, flames flaring, steel clattering.
Yet beneath it all was a strange orchestration, a controlled madness only true chefs understood.
Martha moved steadily, her motions clean, confident.
Every technique her parents taught her lived in her hands.
The judges began circulating an hour in.
They watched her reduction simmer, examined her knife precision, questioned her timing.
She responded with calm, professional clarity.
By the second hour, tension cracked through the room.
A chef at Station 4 cursed under his breath as his pastry collapsed.
Another over-reduced his sauce and had to restart, panic written on every movement.
Martha stayed centered, plating components with a quiet focus that felt almost spiritual.
Her signature dish...her parents' cherished Coq au Vin...slowly came to life, rich with depth and memory.
The final ten minutes were suffocating.
The hall fell into a pressured silence, the kind that made every sound...every stir, every click of a pan...echo.
Martha's hands were steady as she placed the last garnish.
The plate looked like something that belonged to the world she had once dreamed of.
"Hands off the tables!" the marshal shouted.
The room went still.
The judges began tasting.
Station by station.
One by one.
Their faces revealed nothing.
No raised brows.
No approving hums.
No disgust.
When they reached Martha's dish, they tasted in silence.
Chef Lavigne inhaled her broth for a long moment.
Chef Giroux examined textures with the back of her spoon.
Chef Martel closed his eyes briefly, then opened them with the same unreadable calm.
They moved on without a word.
Martha's heart thudded against her ribs.
She felt suddenly small, unsure, foolish for believing she could stand beside men who had commanded kitchens across continents.
After the tasting, the judges disappeared into a deliberation room.
The hall filled with murmurs and predictions.
Martha stood with her hands clasped in front of her, fighting the urge to pace.
Raymond watched her quietly from his seat, his expression unreadable but encouraging.
When the judges returned, the host stepped back onto the stage holding an envelope.
The atmosphere sharpened.
"After careful evaluation," Camille began, "and after intense deliberation over technique, flavor clarity, balance, timing, and classical execution…"
Martha's breath stopped.
"…the 2025 Master of French Cuisine is…"
Her entire world shrank to one pounding heartbeat.
"…Chef Martha Smith."
The hall erupted.
Gasps, applause, cheers.
Martha lifted shaky hands to her mouth as tears pooled instantly.
She had done it.
She...who started from nothing, who rebuilt her life twice, who doubted every step...had won.
The first words that escaped her were whispered only to herself...
"Thank You, Lord."
She stepped down from the stage clutching her award, still stunned, still trembling.
People reached for her hands, her shoulders, her attention, but she scanned past them all.
And then she saw him.
Raymond.
Standing in the back of the room, hands in his pockets, eyes warm, steady, proud in a way that made her heart land fully in her chest again.
She moved toward him instinctively.