Chapter 1

Monica

I adjust my chef's coat for the hundredth time, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from the crisp white fabric. The mirror reflects back a woman who looks more confident than I feel inside.

"My innovative approach to fusion cuisine combines traditional techniques with unexpected flavor combinations..." I practice the pitch, then shake my head. Too rehearsed. Too stiff.

My small apartment bathroom isn't the ideal rehearsal space, but it'll have to do. Landing this catering gig for Leo Blackwood's birthday would be a game-changer. Not just because he's a tech billionaire, but because Olivia Blackwood and Celia Saint-Pierre are culinary royalty in New York at this point. And if they see something special in me, then that has to mean something.

"Focus on the food, Monica. Focus on the damn food," I tell my reflection. "You've got this."

I take a deep breath and start again. "The menu I've designed celebrates Mr. Blackwood's appreciation for both innovation and tradition. Each course tells a story—"

My phone buzzes on the counter, making me jump. The time display shows I have forty-five minutes until the interview. My stomach knots.

"The amuse-bouche features a compressed watermelon cube with..." I trail off, running my fingers through my curls before securing them into a fresh bun. "Damn it."

The truth is, I know my food. I know every flavor combination I've planned, every technique required, every plating detail. It's not the cooking that has me second-guessing myself—it's the pitch. One shot to impress two of the most influential women in New York's culinary scene.

I straighten my shoulders and lock eyes with my reflection. "I'm Monica West, and my food speaks for itself. Each dish I create is a reflection of my journey, my passion, and my commitment to pushing boundaries while honoring classic techniques."

Better. More natural. More me.

I grab my portfolio containing detailed menu proposals and plating sketches. These women understand the language of food. That's what I need to focus on—not rehearsed speeches, but the stories my dishes tell.

As I tuck my portfolio into my bag, Benjamin's voice echoes through my mind.

"A fancy chef? Come on, Monica. You're good at cooking, sure, but let's be realistic here." The memory of his condescending smile in our old apartment kitchen makes my jaw clench. "Stick to what you know. Maybe open a little soul food place or something."

I zip my bag with more force than necessary. That night, I'd served him my first attempt at a deconstructed seafood boil - butter-poached lobster with corn foam, compressed potatoes, and andouille oil. He'd barely looked at it, ordered pizza instead.

"You're trying too hard to be something you're not," he'd say whenever I experimented with new techniques. "No one wants that fancy shit from you."

But that only made me work harder. Every dismissive comment became fuel for late-night practice sessions, for the burns and cuts earned mastering French techniques, for the endless hours studying flavor profiles and plating designs.

I pull out my sketches one last time. The first course is a play on my grandmother's black-eyed pea fritters - but mine are transformed into a delicate crisp, topped with pickled watermelon rind and smoked pepper aioli. The main is my pride: sous vide duck breast with collard green kimchi and sweet potato puree spiced with gochugaru. Every element tells my story - Southern roots meeting global influences, tradition dancing with innovation.

"This isn't just food," I whisper, tracing the plating diagram with my finger. "This is my voice."

Each dish I've designed for this interview weaves together threads of my heritage with techniques I've fought to master. The dessert especially - a dark chocolate cremeux with bourbon-soaked corn cake and salted caramel popcorn - it's something that could only come from me. Sophisticated yet playful, familiar yet unexpected.

The portfolio feels heavier in my hands as I stare at my designs. What if they hate it? What if they think I'm trying too hard? What if—

No. I close my eyes and grip the edge of my bathroom counter. I've seen what Olivia's done with Flavor Fusion, turning classic techniques on their head while incorporating her heritage. And Celia? The woman practically invented a new genre of cooking with her West African-Japanese fusion.

"They started somewhere too," I remind myself. "They had their first big breaks."

I flip through my portfolio again, studying the progression of courses. Each one represents hours of testing, of failed attempts, of burning myself and cutting myself and starting over until it was perfect. Until it was me.

Opening my eyes, I look at my reflection again. "Olivia Blackwood worked her way up from line cook to head chef before she was thirty, and then she amassed enough capital to start Flavor Fusion. Celia Saint-Pierre worked as a bartender and sous chef before she got her big break."

Their stories are legendary in New York's culinary scene. I've read every interview, watched every cooking segment. The way they transformed the landscape, proved that innovation doesn't just belong to white male chefs with classical training—they're the reason I believed I could do this.

"And now they're going to critique my food." The thought sends electricity through my veins, equal parts terror and excitement. This isn't just about getting a catering gig. This is about being seen by the women who changed what's possible in a professional kitchen.

I think about the articles I've saved, the Instagram posts I've studied. Olivia's signature plating style that somehow makes classic French dishes feel modern and alive. Celia's fearless combinations that shouldn't work but create something entirely new. They're not just chefs—they're artists, revolutionaries.

And today, they'll decide if I have what it takes to join their ranks.

I give myself one final look in the full-length mirror by my front door. The black pants are pressed crisp, no wrinkles in sight. My chef's coat gleams white against my skin, the collar perfectly starched. I've paired them with sensible but stylish black leather shoes that can handle hours in a kitchen while still looking professional.

My portfolio tucked under my arm, I pat my pockets - phone, keys, small notebook. Everything in its place.

The hallway light flickers as I lock my apartment door. I take the stairs instead of waiting for the ancient elevator - can't risk getting stuck today of all days. My footsteps echo in the stairwell, keeping rhythm with the mantras running through my head. Each dish, each technique, each flavor combination.

The underground garage is dim and cool, smelling of concrete and motor oil. My little Honda sits in spot 23B, not the fanciest ride but reliable. I run my hand along its hood as I walk to the driver's side.

"You've got this," I whisper, sliding into the seat. The leather is cool against my back, grounding me. I place my portfolio carefully on the passenger seat, making sure it won't slide during the drive.

The garage door rumbles open ahead of me, revealing a slice of bright New York morning. My chest feels lighter than it has in weeks. All the practice, all the testing, all the late nights perfecting each element - it's led to this moment. Whatever happens in this interview, I know I've put everything I have into these dishes.

I start the engine, and my favorite cooking playlist automatically kicks in through the speakers. The first notes of Nina Simone float through the car, and I can't help but smile. It feels like a sign.