Jace tried to stop Tyla, but she slipped past him. With quiet determination, she walked to the table and faced the waiting executives.
"The name of the dish," she began, her voice steady, "is Souvenir d'Enfance—Childhood Memory. It's designed to soothe the mind, to strip away the weight of adult life and let us feel, even briefly, the joy and simplicity of childhood. My late father taught me this recipe before I left for the Bon Appétit competition in France. That dish won me the gold medal, and tonight I wanted to share it with all of you—so you could taste that same lightness, that same freedom from daily burdens."
A deep, resonant voice rose from the table. "Impressive."
Tyla's heart stuttered. She knew that voice instantly—Julian? He was here?
She looked up, searching the faces, but he turned his head away just as her gaze found him.
Mr. Jackson Crestwood leaned forward, studying her with sudden recognition. "Tyla Parker," he said warmly. "From the Bon Appétit competition in France. How could I forget? What happened? You haven't been cooking publicly for years."
"I have my reasons, sir," Tyla replied respectfully.
Mr. Crestwood's expression shifted as he turned to Jace. "Mr. Jace, we came here to finalize a contract. You told us Edna would be the face of the new restaurant—the head of the kitchen. So why was she trying to steal someone else's moment? The press is already circling for a story."
Jace opened his mouth, but no words came. Edna spoke first.
"She convinced me to stay out of the kitchen," Edna said smoothly, nodding toward Tyla.
A ripple of whispers spread through the room. All eyes turned to Tyla.
She hadn't expected this turn. Keeping her composure, she smiled faintly. "Edna fractured her wrist. I was asked to step in for her—as I've done before."
The whispers grew louder. Cameras flashed. So this isn't the first time?
Mr. Crestwood's brow furrowed. "You've been covering for her before?"
"Yes, sir," "This isn't the first time." Jace cuts in
He flashed a playful smile, as though lightening the mood. "Best friends shouldn't pick on each other like this—not when we have such an important deal on the table. Tyla isn't being fair here."
He turned to her, voice dripping with false disappointment. "You offered to help because you wanted to expose her? That's not right. You're my fiancée, Tyla. I have no reason to distrust you, but this behavior… If you're jealous that your friend is finally rising, you shouldn't handle it this way."
He paused, letting the words sink in. "You were so drunk last night that you pushed her down the stairs. That's how she broke her wrist. And now you volunteer to cook in her place—just to rob her of her own victory? Come on, Tyla. That's not nice."
Gasps and murmurs swept the hall. The narrative had flipped entirely; suddenly Tyla was the villain. Insults began to fly.
"She's heartless."
"Calls herself a friend and does this?"
"Trying to outshine her own best friend—pathetic."
Julian sat motionless, his face a mask of calm, but inside he was seething. He clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to intervene.
Edna allowed herself a small, wicked smirk. The plan had unraveled, but Jace had turned it perfectly to their advantage.
Mr. Crestwood looked at Tyla with open disgust. "Why would you do such a thing? If you want to build your own career, do it honestly—without dragging your friend down. I'm deeply disappointed."
Tyla stood frozen. This wasn't what she'd planned. Had Jace anticipated every move? Or had she simply been naive? Tears slipped down her cheeks unchecked.
One of the press photographers shoved a camera in her face, recording mercilessly. "You insolent bitch," he sneered. "Green-eyed monster. Attention-seeking little—"
A cold, commanding voice cut through the chaos. "Do you lack manners when speaking to a CEO?"
Every head swiveled. Julian rose from his seat and strode forward with lethal grace. The room fell silent under the weight of his presence.
He stopped in front of the photographer. "Your name?"
The man trembled. "M-Marcel."
"Marcel," Julian said, his tone icy, "you are forbidden from working anywhere in the United States from this moment forward. Your media page will be taken down—permanently."
Gasps echoed through the hall. They all knew who he was now: Julian, the industry devil.
Marcel dropped to the floor, begging, but Julian ignored him. He turned to face Jace with a disgust look on his face and then to Edna, if you fractured your wrist, while not sit back when someone else steps in for you? Rather you choose to come out with your friend's dish as though it was yours. He didn't say further in order not to raise suspicion. For a fleeting second, his eyes met Tyla's—intense, unreadable—before he turned and walked out of the restaurant without another word.
The room remained hushed, pity now directed at the ruined photographer.
Tyla stood tall amid the wreckage, a quiet pride warming her chest. He had protected her. That was what a man should do for his woman. Perhaps the rumors were true—he ruled through fear rather than love. Machiavelli would approve, she thought.
Her phone vibrated. A message appeared:
When you're coming home, let me know.
—Julian
A small smile touched her lips as she slipped the phone back into her pocket.
As she moved toward the exit, her gaze met Edna's and Jace's across the room. She held it steadily, her voice silent but clear in her own mind:
You think you've won today. But tomorrow is another story.