“On it,” he responds, jogging toward the pantry. He returns a few moments later,

and we swap places.

“Make sure to turn the duck and sear it evenly,” I call out as I begin to mix the

ingredients together to make the dough. “Use the red wine for moisture. Yeah,

just like that, perfect…”

When the buzzer blares, signaling the end of the round, I step back and take a

look at my dish.

It’s beautiful—each element perfectly executed, just like I rehearsed a million

times in my head. The plate practically glows under the stage lights, and I can’t

Enter title…

surge of pride

make their way around, forks

Daniel’s station. He stands

taste her creation. My

echoing my mounting anxiety.

they come to

I say, pushing my plate forward. “I

croûte. I incorporated a hint

the pastry, which I believe adds

and nods approvingly, her eyes meeting mine in

communication of respect. The second judge, too, gives

then, there’s Logan—the Logan—chef extraordinaire and

the world. His

he takes a bite

stretch out like hours as he chews

then, a small grimace. My blood

he says, setting down

seasoning. The black pepper

punch to the gut. The judges move on, but I

haze, my throat collapsing in on itself. This

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