Clementine Bell could make a soufflé so fluffy people swore cumulus clouds were an actual ingredient; she couldn't, however, pay rent. This was a rather surprising fact considering the word "can't" had never been a part of her vocabulary. Sure, she'd been told she couldn't many times in her twenty-five years of life. She was told she couldn't get into L'Académie de la Pâtisserie. She was then told she couldn't graduate at the top of her class. Even after she started a runaway hit baking vlog from her mom's kitchen, Clementhyme Bakes, people still said she couldn't open a bakery in New York City.

"Mister Sopov, I can't pay my rent today," Clementine said as she slid a raspberry millefeuille dusted thoroughly with confectioners sugar across the counter to her landlord. The bakery, with its pristine black and white checked floor, and pale pink and gold gilded shelves, was completely empty. Unless you counted the dozens of unsold pastries. To be fair, the location of the shop wasn't ideal. A back alley on the Upper West Side wasn't even close to where she'd hoped to find a storefront, but as it turned out, back alleys of side streets were all she could afford. Well, Clementine could have afforded it if she'd had any actual customers. The first few months after the launch, fans of Clementhyme Bakes turned out in droves to try her pastries in person, but with a fan base spread so thinly across the country, the steady stream dwindled to a trickle. And fast. Now she was lucky if she got two fans to stop in over the course of a week.

Mr. Sopov ran his hands over the front of his well-tailored jacket and eyed the layers of golden puff pastry and the generous ripples of cream filling in-between.

"I can't be paid in desserts," he said, even though he couldn't seem to take his eyes off his favorite pastry. "Not anymore. My wife will have a fit if I have to take my pants to get let out again."

"Mr. Sopov," she pleaded, widening her large brown eyes in the hope that he would take pity on her if she looked like a fledgling bird. Again. "I just need one more extension. One itty bitty, one-month extension." She pushed the millefeuille an inch closer to him.

He sighed in resignation then pulled the plate the rest of the way across the counter. "I've already given you two months of extensions," he said with a sympathetic smile before sticking a fork into the layers of pastry. "You are young. I don't want you to get too far into the hole at your age."

Clementine bit her lip and pushed the wisps of brown hair back into the sleek bun pinned at the top of her head. The bakery had only been open for ten meager months and she was not ready to throw in the towel. Not even close.

"Can your parents help you out, Clem?" Mr. Sopov asked. He brushed the stray flecks of powdered sugar from his grey suit. "Your father perhaps?" His eyes watched her hopefully.

That was the trouble with being the daughter of famous pastry chef, Ansel Carlisle. Even though she deliberately used her mother's last name, people assumed she still had contact with him since she'd chosen to follow in his flour-dusted footsteps. In truth, she couldn't even remember a time when he'd been a part of her life and her mom's. Juniper Bell was the one who had taught her to bake, brunoise, and make a Béchamel.

Her mom had already paid her rent once before. Clementine would have been too proud to ask for help from her mom again had she not been mortified to be relying on Mr. Sopov's charity to keep the doors to Clementhyme open.

Juniper Bell, still wearing the foam spa sandals from her weekly pedicure, pounded on the locked bakery door within an hour of Clementine's "SOS" text.

    Clementine was elbow deep in cake batter for the next day's cupcakes when she heard the frantic rap of knuckles on the glass. Klaus, her sous-chef, rushed to the door to let her in.

"What does the SOS mean?" Juniper yelled from the threshold. "Is everything okay?"

"I'm fine, mom," Clementine called from the kitchen. "Come back here and help me frost cupcakes." That was Bell code for "I need to tell you something important."

Her mom, the daytime cable cooking show host and face that launched a thousand cookbooks entered the kitchen with all the drama Clementine had come to expect from the woman whose critics called her obnoxious and whose fans called her ebullient. Gordon Ramsey once told her mother that listening to her show was like listening to nails in a blender.

Bangles aclatter, she pulled Clementine into a Chanel-scented hug. "Where's a piping bag?" she asked as she released Clem and went to the sink to wash her hands.

Clementine scooped rose buttercream frosting into a pastry bag and passed it to her mom along with a tray of cooled cupcakes. "What is it, baby?" Juniper asked as her hands moved the angled tip of the pastry bag to form perfect rose petals.

"I can't pay my rent."

Her mom didn't look up from the rose before moving on to the next. Clementine wasn't sure what she would say. When she'd first expressed her wish to open a bakery, her mom had begged to help out with the rent for a property in a better location, one with more foot traffic. But Clementine had refused. She wanted to do things on her own, to reach her goals by the work of her own two hands and not by her parents' names. Juniper had always begrudgingly respected that.

"This place is in a terrible location. It seems to me you have a customer problem rather than a rent problem," she said. "Why don't you let me plug the bakery the next time I'm on one of the New York morning shows?"

Klaus came over and pulled up a seat beside Juniper. He spoke mostly German, but he was always enamored with Clementine's mom. She loved it, but Clementine knew Klaus and his culinary school friends had turned her show into a drinking game where they took a drink anytime she said something was "scrumptious."

"No," Clementine said, though the offer was tempting. "I need customers to come, but you know how much it means to me to do this on my own."

Her mother looked up from the buttercream rose with a frown. "You know you don't have to do it on your own, don't you?"

"I know," Clementine replied as the pit of sadness deep in her chest seethed. She tried not to think what her dad would say if he knew her mom had bailed her out of her failing bakery. His was the voice in the back of her head telling her she wouldn't succeed, that she wouldn't make it in this industry.

Juniper turned her attention back to the roses. "So does that mean you'll consider my other offer?"

Clementine knew her mother's offer to move the bakery to the Upper East Side would always stand, but she could feel it deep in her bones that her fight was not lost. "My answer is still no. I want to make this work, but I also don't want there to be any doubt that I belong in this business, that I've gotten anywhere by anything more than talent and hard work."

"Then I might have a proposition for you. You're going to hate it, but you know, it might be just what your business needs."

"What is it?"

"Well, one of my producers is leaving to do some brand new baking competition show with the Food Channel and she mentioned the prize is $250,000."

"A baking competition?" Clementine could hardly disguise the condescension in her voice.

"Didn't you hear what I said about the quarter of a million dollar prize?"

"But a televised baking competition?"

"I told you you'd hate it."

"I do..."

"But you're tempted," Juniper said with a cackling laugh.

"Yes! That amount of money would tempt anyone."

"I'll set up a meeting with my producer. Just talk to her — she might change your mind."

Clementine scooped batter into the cupcake tray with more force than was necessary and as a result, ended up splattered with half of it. At the sight of the mess, Klaus scurried away to find a towel. "I won't have time to film a show, I haven't even been able to post a video to my website in months."

Her mom shrugged the idea off with a wave of her hand. "I can watch the shop, cover your rent while you're gone, and Klaus knows all your recipes."

"Where is it filming?" she asked.

An amused grin spread across Juniper's face. "Southern France."

Clementine hadn't been to France since pastry school and the thought of going back made her pulse quicken. "I guess it couldn't hurt to talk to the producer."

Date: June 12, 2016 1:17am

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: DID YOU SEE THIS?!?

Body: Clem

    It's me, mom. I saw the new video and your hair looks wonderful! Are you using that new shampoo I bought you? I was reading the comments and I saw Adam Li's comment. Did you see it? He says, "Those are some flawless looking macarons. Glad to see you're still on top of everything we learned in school."

He was always such a nice boy. Do you stay in touch? He's cute. I've seen him around the Food Channel studios before.

Which reminds me, Brie says she'll meet you for brunch on Tuesday. I gave her your number to coordinate details.

    LM

Date: June 13, 2016 5:00am

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

RE: DID YOU SEE THIS?!?

Body: Mom

    You don't need to say it's you in an email, you're not leaving a voicemail. I can see who it's from by the email address. Ugh. Please ignore all comments from Adam Li. That is actually an underhanded insult like all the rest of his comments. He basically said I haven't learned anything new since pastry school which is absolutely not true. I learned plenty of new techniques when I was working at the Waldorf. He just thinks if something isn't "rustic", it isn't "authentic".

    Really, mom. I won't be reaching out to Adam Li anytime soon.

    LC

Date: June 13, 2016 9:47am

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

RE:RE: DID YOU SEE THIS?!?

Body: You know what I always say. In chef-speak, "Rustic" is code for "this looks like a hot mess but I'm going to call it rustic so you can't say it lacks finesse."

"This is amazing!" Juniper's producer, Brie, exclaimed as Clementine sat down at her table in a buzzy downtown brunch spot. "I can't believe I didn't think to ask your mom to introduce us. You can probably guess, but it is not easy to find media-savvy chefs willing to step out of their kitchen to appear in a baking competition. I mean Top Chef has done wonders for the genre and for many chefs' careers," she said. "But baking shows have a little more way to go before we get decent ratings."

    "I'm interested, but I'll confess, I'm not familiar with the format of these kinds of shows."

    "It's really so simple," Brie said with a confident flick of her hand. "We have twelve contestants, ten themed episodes and a finale to film, and one winner who, of course, walks away with a quarter of a million dollars. It will take a day to film each episode and a couple days for the finale. Each episode will have a theme and a two-part challenge. You'll get a list of the themes once we sign a contract, of course it's all hush-hush until then, but you will get the chance to prep and bring a recipe for all your Showcase desserts in each theme."

    "And what's the second half of the challenge?" Clementine asked.

    "That's where the fun comes in. Each contestant must do a dessert of the judges' choice."

"That's not so complicated."

"No, and for the first six episodes the best Showcase dessert will earn the baker immunity for the judge's choice round."

Clementine smiled. This would be easier than she thought. She hadn't met a dessert yet she couldn't master. "Interesting," she said. "So who's competing? Or can't you tell me?"

Brie pursed her lips as she seemed to decide what to reveal. "So far it's a mixed bag. Some home cooks, a couple of bloggers, and a few pros. One in particular though... if you've inherited any of your mother and father's talent then he'll be your biggest competition."

"He? Who is it?" Clementine asked, her interest piqued.

"Competitive aren't you?" Brie chuckled.

Clementine shrugged. She wasn't sure where her need to win came from, but her mom certainly hadn't been happy when she was kicked off her high school's field hockey team for being "overzealous and Machiavellian" on the field. She didn't know what had come over her, but she felt the familiar jump in her stomach at the thought of competition.

Brie's sly grin made her think she had something she was dying to share with her.

"You can tell me," Clementine said as she leaned across the table to avoid being overheard. "I won't tell a soul."

    Brie poked her eggs benedict with her fork before flashing Clem a wry smirk. "I believe you were in the same class in pastry school."

    Clementine's stomach dropped and she nearly spilled her coffee as she sat it back in its saucer. There was only one guy in her pastry school class whose skill matched hers.

    "I'm sure you've heard of Adam Li?" Brie watched her in earnest for her reaction.

    Adam Li. Clementine's pulse raced as she recalled the smarmy, insufferable boy who had tormented her and sailed his way right to the top of their class five years ago. They'd been lab partners and Clementine blamed him and the fact that he'd skipped half of their candy labs to make out with his equally insufferable girlfriend for the only "B" she got in her entire school career.

    "Oh," she said. "I've heard of Adam Li."

@ChefAdam: Filming starts next week for a new project. You're going down, @Clementhyme

@Clementhyme: Not before you, @ChefAdam

THANK YOU ALL FOR READING! This my entry for the #onceuponnow contest sponsored by @wattpad and @target so please, if you are enjoying this story, please consider clicking the little star at the end of this chapter!

And in case you were wondering, this is a millefeuille (Meel-Foy):