My hands stop shaking.
I pull the duck from the oven and set the pan on top of the stove. I grab aluminum foil and tent the duck tightly, creating a sealed environment that will hold the heat. Then I move it to the warmest part of my station, near the burners where I’m cooking the rice.
Trust the heat. Trust the process. Trust myself.
I plate everything with careful precision once the resting time is done. Sticky rice molded into a neat mound. Quick-pickled vegetables arranged artfully. And the duck—sliced to reveal the interior—perfectly pink, perfectly cooked, the miso glaze glistening under the lights.
“Time!”
I step back from my station, my heart still racing but not from panic anymore. From hope. From the realization that I just adapted under pressure, solved a problem, trusted my instincts and my training.
The judges make their rounds again. When they reach my station, Chef Kim cuts into the duck and examines the interior closely.
“Perfect medium-rare,” he says, and I could cry with relief. “The miso glaze is excellent—sweet, savory, well-balanced. And the duck is tender.”
Chef Dubois nods. “Good flavor profile. The pickled vegetables provide nice contrast.”
Chef Wells makes notes on her clipboard. “Impressive problem-solving with the oven failure. Showed real composure under pressure.”
They liked it. Even with the oven breaking, even with the crisis, they liked it.
I look out at the audience and find River. He’s on his feet, clapping, his smile so bright and genuine it makes my eyes burn with unshed tears.
He’s proud of me. I can see it written all over his face.
“Another thirty-minute break!” the announcer calls.
Kiki and Tobias rush over again, both of them talking over each other about how amazing the duck looked, how they can’t believe I pulled it off with a broken oven, how the judges seemed so impressed.
We head outside for the second break, and I eat a barbecue sandwich that Tobias insists I need for energy. The whole time, I’m scanning the crowd for River.
But I don’t see him anywhere.
When we head back inside for the final round, he’s in his seat again. Front row. Waiting.
My skin tingles. He keeps disappearing during the breaks, but he’s always back when it matters. Always there when I need to see him.
A man approaches my station. “We fixed your oven during the break. We’re so sorry for the inconvenience, but you really came through. I’m rooting for you.”
“Thank you.” I’m touched. He leaves, and I turn back to look at River sitting in the audience. Seeing him is grounding somehow.
“Welcome to our final round!” The announcer’s voice is electric with excitement. “For dessert, our competitors will be working with...” The cloth gets whipped off. “Black pepper!”
My brain short-circuits.
Black pepper. For dessert.
I stare at the small jar of black peppercorns sitting on the display table, my mind completely blank. How do you make dessert with black pepper?
Panic claws up my throat. This is it. This is where I fail. This is where all my practice and preparation fall apart, not because of some exotic ingredient, but because of simple black pepper.
I look out at the audience again, at River. He’s leaning forward, his eyes locked on mine. And he mouths those three words again:You’ve got this.
The panic recedes. Not all the way, but enough that I can breathe. Enough that I can think.
River believed in me from the beginning. He gave me mystery ingredients and challenged me to adapt, to think creatively, to trust myself. He told me I was going to win this competition. He said I was smart and talented and capable of anything.
And he’s here. After everything. After I pushed him away because I was scared. He’s here, supporting me, believing in me, even when I couldn’t believe in myself.
