Chapter 1 

Harper

I tap my gloved fingers against the stainless-steel counter, counting under my breath as the mixture in the saucepan thickens. “Come on…eight, nine…ten.” Precision is everything, especially in this experiment. The second my watch hits ten seconds, I flick off the induction burner and whisk vigorously. The gloppy, shimmering sauce turns silky, just as I hypothesized. A wave of relief washes over me. There’s nothing quite like the moment when theory matches reality—when the numbers in my notes translate to actual flavor.

I’m in my personal lab-style test kitchen, hidden away in a historic building in downtown Chicago. Think tall ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows that let in crisp sunlight, and steel countertops with everything color-coded and meticulously labeled. The producers of The Great Food Hack visited once—back when I was just a guest consultant—and were positively giddy about how “sterile” my space looked. As if that’s a bad thing. I like my domain uncluttered, so I can focus on the data. I’m a food chemist, not a short-order cook. My rules: No extraneous spoons scattered about, no sticky drips on the tile floor, and definitely no rummaging through cabinets at random. Everything has a place. Everything is in order.

Or at least, it’s supposed to be. Right now, order is an elusive concept, because my phone won’t stop buzzing in my lab coat pocket. I’m half tempted to ignore it, but a little voice in my head reminds me I’m waiting on a call from Modern Gastronomy Weekly. They wanted an interview about my latest article—some technical piece about substituting agar for gelatin, hardly headline news, but hey, it’s my brand. I sigh and set the saucepan aside carefully. One drop of chocolate sauce on my marble countertop would drive me insane. Then, I slide off my gloves and dig for my phone.

But it isn’t Modern Gastronomy Weekly calling. Instead, my screen lights up with an unfamiliar number, suspiciously preceded by an LA area code. I hesitate, biting my lower lip. California. If it’s a telemarketer, I’ll politely but firmly end the call. If it’s a conference invitation, I’ll at least hear them out. On the off chance it’s the Nobel Committee (hey, a girl can dream), I’d hate to miss it.

“Hello?” I balance the phone between my cheek and shoulder so I can scribble a note about the sauce’s temperature. Must document everything.

A cheery voice practically bursts through the speaker. “Hi, is this Dr. Harper Sanders?”

“Speaking.” I’m automatically on guard when the voice is that enthusiastic. It’s like they’ve found the cure for the common cold and can’t wait to tell me. Or sell me something.

“This is Karen from Chef’s Flame. I’m so sorry to bother you out of the blue, but we’ve got an exciting opportunity, and we really hope you’ll consider it.”

“Chef’s Flame? The cooking competition show?” My eyebrows shoot up. I know it, of course. It’s that high-drama, high-ratings phenomenon where chefs compete in weekly challenges that are borderline sadistic in complexity. Kitchen sabotage, bizarre twists, and tearful confessionals. Definitely not my usual scene. “Yes, I’m aware of it,” I say, careful to keep my voice neutral.

Karen laughs, a bubbly sound that almost echoes. “Yes! That’s the one. Listen, we’ve been running a very successful series for years now, but this time, we’re changing the format a bit. We’re doing pairs.”

“Pairs,” I echo. Not sure if I’m confused or intrigued, so I let the single word dangle. A droplet of chocolate sauce threatens to drip from my whisk, so I quickly lick it off—purely for scientific reasons, of course. The sauce is still a bit bitter, so I’ll need to adjust the sugar ratio next time.

“You’ll be partnered with another chef, competing as a team,” Karen says. “We love the synergy of different styles. And your background in molecular gastronomy is exactly what we’re missing.”

I set the whisk down. Carefully, so it doesn’t topple over and ruin my table. “I appreciate the thought, but I’m not exactly a fan of reality TV. I prefer the…quiet side of cooking.”

She hums sympathetically. “I get that all the time, but Chef’s Flame is huge. Millions of viewers. It’s not just a chance to win a major culinary title, but it’s also prime exposure. If you’re looking to expand your personal brand—workshops, a potential cookbook deal, maybe a syndicated show of your own—this is a golden ticket.”

I can practically hear her smile through the phone. My heart is pounding, but I remind myself to remain cool. I do enjoy a challenge—why else would I have gone into the complicated world of food science? And yes, I’ve sometimes toyed with the idea of taking my brand from niche to mainstream. But cameras following me around? The idea of having no control over editing or how I’m portrayed sets my teeth on edge.

“How soon do you need a yes or no?” I ask, hoping she’s not going to say “Right now.”

“Ah, well, filming starts a week from now,” Karen says, injecting another dose of cheer into her voice. “We’re in the final stages of casting, so we’d need an answer in the next day or two. We’re sorry for the short notice. We had someone drop out unexpectedly, and you were at the top of our wish list to replace them.”

A day or two? That’s barely enough time to get my finances in order, never mind preparing for a potentially life-altering experience. I clench my jaw. “May I ask how you got my name?”

“Your agent recommended you,” she chirps. “We’ve also seen your guest spots on various food-science segments. Your approach is refreshingly innovative. Chef’s Flame is all about drama meets talent, so we need someone with real skill—and we think that’s you.”

My agent. Right. I swallow a groan. “I see.”

“Before you decide, let me just add that the producers are extremely excited about the partner we have in mind for you,” Karen continues. “It’s sure to be…explosive.”

The way she says “explosive” makes my stomach tighten. In the Chef’s Flame universe, “explosive” often translates to “catfight central.” But I’ve never made waves in the cooking world, at least not personally. Professionally, sure, I’ve challenged a few traditions with data-driven approaches, but it’s not like I have any arch-nemeses out there. “What do you mean by explosive?” I ask, stepping away from the messy counter. I’d rather not risk flinging sauce around if I get riled up.

Karen lets out a mysterious laugh. “Well, that’s part of the surprise. Let’s just say you won’t be bored. And we’ll be sure to send over a contract for you to review ASAP.”

“Right. Thank you,” I say faintly. “I’ll keep an eye out. Have a good day, Karen.”

The moment I hang up, I lean my forehead against one of my shiny cabinets and exhale. This is insane. Why would a science nerd like me sign up for a show that thrives on tears and tantrums? Despite my skepticism, there’s a soft hum of excitement gathering in my chest—like the low buzz of an electric stove that’s just been turned on. The memory of me in front of a camera, wearing my crisp white lab coat on that morning show, floats to mind. I was so nervous, but at the same time…thrilled. There’s a kind of rush you get from showing people something new, from proving you can do the unexpected.

My phone buzzes again. I glance down, expecting Karen to call back, but the name on the screen is Angela, my agent, otherwise known as the reason behind half my migraines and a significant portion of my success.

I answer, voice still shaky. “Angela.”

“Harper, hi!” she greets me in that professional, brisk tone. “I assume you heard from Chef’s Flame? I gave them your number after you said you were open to new possibilities.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I said I was open to new academic possibilities. Like seminars or conferences. Not a reality show with sabotage boxes and meltdown montages.”

Angela huffs. “Harper, you need to expand your brand. You can’t stay in your test kitchen forever, analyzing pH balances in hollandaise sauce. People want to see you break out. You have star quality, you just don’t realize it. Chef’s Flame is massive. It’s the biggest platform you could ask for.”

“Yeah, but a competition? A pairs competition at that?” I’m pacing now, stepping around my squeaky-clean counters like they might spontaneously combust. “They’re not going to, you know, hamper me with some incompetent fool, right? Because that will be a disaster.”

There’s a brief hesitation on the other end. “The producers are known for being strategic about their pairs. Sometimes they pair complementary styles, sometimes they pair clashing personalities. Who knows what they’ll do. But trust me, they’re professionals. They want good TV, so obviously they’ll pick someone who can keep up with you.”

“I guess that’s reassuring.” I sigh. “Though the rumor is they love drama more than actual cooking.”

Angela’s tone softens. “I know you worry about being cast as the ‘stuck-up scientist’ or the ‘nerdy know-it-all.’ But this could be a chance to show your sense of humor—be yourself, you know? I wouldn’t have pitched it if I didn’t think you’d rock it.”

I stare at the swirl of sauce congealing in the saucepan. “Angela, if this goes horribly wrong, I’ll hold you personally responsible. You know that, right?”

“Of course,” she replies, not missing a beat. “I live for your unwavering faith in me. Look, they’ll send the contract. Give it a read. Sleep on it if you need to. But I’ve already told them you’re 90% on board.”

“What?” I nearly drop my phone. “Angela, how could you—”

She laughs lightly. “Oh, calm down. You can back out if you want. But I know you, Harper. You’re not the type to pass up a challenge. Especially not one that might lead to something bigger.”

“Fine,” I grumble, running my fingers through my hair. “I’ll read the contract. No promises, though.”

“Good. I’ll let you get back to your…whatever it is you do with chemicals and saucepans,” she says with a playful note in her voice. “Let me know the second you sign, and we’ll get you set up with the producers for next steps.”

She hangs up, and I’m left with a quiet that’s far too loud for my comfort. My mind is a chaotic swirl—numbers, equations, risk-benefit analyses. I automatically slip on a fresh pair of gloves, determined to tackle the next iteration of my sauce experiment. If I can focus on something tangible, maybe it’ll slow down the pinball machine in my brain.

But it doesn’t work. My mind keeps drifting to Chef’s Flame. Maybe it’s not so crazy. My background is fairly unique, bridging the gap between science and cooking. People might actually like that. It’s also terrifying—I’d have to share a living space with some total stranger or, even worse, someone I do know but never want to see again. The show thrives on forced proximity for maximum drama, after all. My chest tightens at the thought, though I can’t pinpoint why. Probably just performance anxiety, I reason.

I breathe out slowly and check the time. The sauce has cooled enough for me to test the mouthfeel, so I dip a clean spoon in and taste it properly—letting it coat my tongue, analyzing the texture, the sweetness, the aftertaste. It’s good. Very good. Still, I jot down a note: “+ 2g sugar next time.” If I end up on Chef’s Flame, the difference between winning and losing could be a single gram of sugar. It’s not that I want to go all Type-A perfectionist on national television…but wait, that’s exactly who I am. I live for that single gram’s difference.

I let the spoon clatter into the sink, feeling a strange burst of adrenaline. Maybe the show is right up my alley. It’s high-pressure, meticulously judged. They’ll want flair, but I can back up flair with science. I could prove to the entire world that cooking is an art and a science. That you can measure success by turning ephemeral taste into quantifiable brilliance. The thought makes the corners of my mouth lift, just a tiny bit.

Yes, I might actually survive—and thrive—on Chef’s Flame. If I can handle the cameras, the drama, the unpredictable partner. The partner. My heart skitters at the reminder. I can’t control who they assign me. Could be some flamboyant pastry genius, or a barbecue pitmaster, or a…someone. I guess I’ll find out, if I say yes.

I pull off my gloves and head to the tiny, windowless office connected to my test kitchen, where my laptop waits on a metal desk. Sure enough, there’s an email from Chef’s Flame with the subject line: “Your Contract & More.” My stomach turns a flip. I open it. The contract details a four-week filming period, intense daily challenges, a guarantee of national coverage, a modest (but not insubstantial) participation fee, and a chance at a big prize if we win. Also, a line that reads: You and your partner will be required to reside in designated show housing for the duration of filming. My worst nightmare. Not even my college roommate got to see me in my raw, caffeine-fueled, data-obsessed glory. It’s not pretty, trust me.

My phone chimes with a text from Angela: You’re going to kill it. I just know it.

I can practically see her beaming. I roll my eyes but can’t help a small grin. Then I flip back to the contract. This is real. If I sign, I’ll be stepping into chaos. But if I don’t sign, I might always wonder what could’ve happened if I’d taken the risk.

I glance at the saucepan in the sink. A swirl of leftover sauce circles the drain, refusing to go quietly. “Alright,” I say out loud, though there’s nobody here but me. “Let’s see where this leads.”

There’s a brisk knock on my test kitchen door. I jump, startled. My best friend and sometimes-assistant, Bree, pokes her head in. Her eyebrows arch at the scattered utensils. “Everything okay? You look like you just discovered the meaning of life and you’re not sure you like it.”

I wave her in. “I got a call from Chef’s Flame. They want me for the new season. It’s a pairs format. And they’re apparently super excited about the possibility of…my involvement.”

Her eyes widen. “Shut. Up. Are you serious? I watch that show religiously. The drama, the sabotage, the random alliances. It’s like a culinary Game of Thrones without the dragons.”

“Sounds like a real dream,” I mutter, swallowing thickly. The idea of sabotage meets my adrenaline with a weird jolt of excitement and terror. “I’m leaning toward saying yes. Angela practically signed me up already.”

Bree sets a Tupperware container on the counter (probably my lunch, or some snack she’s saved me from her own concoctions) and leans forward, eyes sparkling. “Oh my God. If you do this, you’ll be a household name. People will see you as not just the nerdy behind-the-scenes scientist, but a legit star. You can show them how sexy molecular gastronomy can be.”

My cheeks burn. “I’m not trying to be sexy. I’m trying to be…accurate.”

She nudges me playfully. “Accurate can be sexy. You’ll see.”

I rub my temples. “Thank you for the pep talk, but I can’t do the show for the sake of vanity.”

“Not vanity—opportunity. This is your chance, Harp. Maybe even bigger than you realize.”

She’s right, I know. I glance again at my phone, at the contract open on my laptop. “Filming starts next week, so if I say yes, I’d better get used to fast decisions.”

Bree gives me a sly grin. “Fast decisions might be good for you. You can’t measure out your entire life with beakers and weigh boats, you know.”

“Watch me try,” I joke, but my heart is hammering. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to sign. At worst, I get some name recognition. At best…I win the entire thing.”

“And you’ll get a partner,” Bree points out, wiggling her eyebrows. “Someone you might really connect with, if you catch my drift.”

I roll my eyes so hard I nearly strain a muscle. “It’s a cooking show, not speed dating. Besides, they’ll probably stick me with someone who can’t even properly calibrate a scale.”

She shrugs. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll get partnered with an ex-boyfriend. That’d be ratings gold.”

I freeze, a peculiar wave of memory threatening to bubble up. Old associations with a certain name. A certain face. Dark hair, a half-smile. But I squash that memory before it fully surfaces. “Doubtful,” I say quickly, ignoring the churn in my gut. “I’m not that interesting.”

Bree studies my face, eyebrows knit. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I lie, mustering a faint smile. “Just nerves.”

“Here.” She nudges the Tupperware container closer. “Eat something. You’re going to need the fuel for all the big decisions you’re making today.”

I open the lid and take a whiff—spicy, aromatic. Her homemade curry. My stomach growls in appreciation. “Thanks.”

She heads for the door. “Text me when you sign, okay? We have to celebrate. I’ll bring confetti or something.”

“Sure,” I say softly. But the second she’s gone, the reality hits me all over again: Chef’s Flame is calling my name, promising a shot at stardom and a hint of something dangerously out of my comfort zone.

I take a bite of Bree’s curry, letting the warmth spread through me. Then, with a shaky inhale, I click open the contract on my laptop. The words blur momentarily, but I force myself to focus. Page after page, I skim the clauses about confidentiality, filming schedules, promotional obligations. It’s daunting. And yet I feel that little spark of adrenaline-laced excitement again. Like the moment you pour a carefully measured reagent into a solution, waiting to see if it fizzes, smokes, or combusts.

Isn’t that what discovery is all about? You measure, prepare, plan for every variable—but in the end, something unexpected can happen, and sometimes that unexpected thing is wondrous. This might just be my chance to break free from the safe bubble of my test kitchen, to show the world (and maybe myself) that I’m more than a data-obsessed scientist in a pristine lab coat.

All I have to do is press “sign,” and I’ll be launching myself into the flames—literally and figuratively.

I set down my fork and place my fingertip over the digital signature box. My reflection in the laptop screen looks determined, a far cry from how I feel inside. “Okay,” I whisper to no one in particular. “Here goes everything.”

I sign.

And in that split second, the swirl of chocolate sauce left in my sink feels like a metaphor for my life—messy, maybe, but brimming with the potential to be deliciously extraordinary. The moment I hit “Send,” my phone buzzes again. A notification from Chef’s Flame, no doubt. It’s official.

I push out a breath. Strange how it’s only now that I realize I’ve been waiting for something like this—some big push to test my limits. Maybe I’ve yearned for excitement, for real growth, even if I refused to admit it. I muster a small, bracing smile and murmur to myself, “Time to step into the fire.”

I feel that old thrill—the sense that I might be on the cusp of an incredible breakthrough. Not just in the kitchen, but myself. Whatever happens, it’s going to be one hell of a ride.