The panel, Chefs Who Write Good Food, came along faster than I'd have hoped. But the sooner we got it over with, the sooner I'd be able to breathe.

Every moment in this ginormous building made me feel smaller, the walls smaller, the air thicker. And only because I'd seen Zane, knew he was there; I didn't even bump into him again until it was time to line up backstage for our panel.

As we waited for the audience to take its seats, and the moderator—Sally Po, a New York-based chef I'd met in my earlier days, and whom I couldn't tell if she liked me or not—the chefs chatted backstage.

The vegan chef, Ariel, thanked me for my usage of vegan-friendly ingredients, and my vegan dishes. She was kind, appreciative of being here, and told me she couldn't wait to buy my next book when it came out.

The food-truck chef, Vai, introduced themselves as they/them and shook my hand vigorously as they asked about alliances.

"Alliances?" I squinted at them, at their cropped white-blond hair and striking icy blue eyes. They were tall, svelte, wearing a suit similar to mine but in a shade of deep crimson that offset all their paler features.

"You know," their eyes traveled to Zane, who was nearby, then to me, "alliances. Against enemies."

I choked on a laugh. "Ah," I said, "no, please, don't worry about that."

"I do worry." They lowered their voice. "Everyone in the culinary community worries. You're a pillar, someone we all look up to, who built her way up in the industry. And he's screaming and stepping on toes, which is indeed another method, but we...don't want you to be crushed."

I fixated on Zane, who was laughing with Ariel. My fists tightened; I wasn't sure why. I didn't care who he spoke to, who he flirted with—

I spun to ask Vai what they meant, and they were gone. Vanished.

The vegetarian chef, Milo, hardly said three words to me before heading towards the doorway through which we'd walk when we were announced. I'd never met him—only heard of him making waves in Florida, where he was based—but he acted so frigidly with me that I wondered if I'd shunned him at some point in my career.

I made a mental note to ask Luca and Wendy about that.

The crowd clamored from the other side of the wall. An assistant wearing a headset came to find us, gathering us in a line to prepare to go on stage—and of course, Zane and I were next to each other.

"This is the order you'll enter, when Sally calls your name," said the assistant, her voice rushed but gushing with excitement. "This is also your order for sitting at the table. Good?" She gave us all a thumbs' up, which I was the only one to not return. "Awesome. Should be about five minutes."

The one thing I'd asked for—aside from not attending this thing altogether—was to not be near Zane. And these organizers had sat us next to each other. They'd put us right in each other's faces when that was the last damn thing I wanted.

Zane was unfazed as ever, adjusting his fancy suit and collar and cuffs as he fidgeted in place, waiting for our entrance. I, on the other hand, was sick and tired of my life being thrown around with him always nearby.

Why did everyone expect the drama, chase it, create it between him and I? Why did they want it? Why couldn't they leave it alone?

Why couldn't they leave me alone?

Zane twisted to me so fast I had no chance to back away to avoid connecting with his sharp, dark eyes. "You're wondering why they keep pairing us, huh?"

I gawked at him. "I'm wondering why you're talking to me right now."

"It's kind of a Cinderella and evil step-mom thing, I think." He unbuttoned another button of his shirt, and my gaze dipped down, catching a flash of his tanned skin, the tiniest of outlines of those defined pectorals I'd grabbed and squeezed while I came. "You being the evil step-mother, that is. Trying to hide me in closets while I speak my truth."

"Your truth," I spat out in a hissed whisper, "is all about bashing me when I never, ever did anything to hurt you. Of course I want to lock you in a closet."

He was about to respond, but the assistant gave us a quick clap for attention, and next we knew, we were being called to the stage.

Sally announced us one at a time, giving a brief bio as we arrived, waving to the claps of the crowd. Alice, Vai, and Milo entered to mild applause; then Zane showed up and the people went wild. Wild. There were cat-calls and wolf howls and screams from fan-girls.

An entire room who'd come for him. To see him bring me down.

Why was I there? Why was I—

"And last, but not least, our biggest star of the day. With two cookbooks and two nonfiction novels under her belt, and another in the works, along with tons of restaurants across the globe, and a brand new cooking show called Food Me! please welcome our most esteemed and honored guest, Béatrice Balzac!"

When I heard the applause for me, my nerves quit their ruckus. My heart thrummed in my chest, absorbing the admiration. Those same cat-calls and wolf howls echoed, but they were doubled in number and volume. The same screams, but louder, reached my ears like a melody I'd always yearned to hear.

The fans had come out for Zane, but in truth, they were all here for me.

I sat beside Zane, beaming, which I knew threw him off as he turned back to the audience. He'd been watching me with that smug, I'm-better-than-you look, and I'd proved him wrong. His book was cruel, but I could be crueler. Fame could be crueler. And he wouldn't win at this game.

We went down the table, the moderator asking us to discuss our most recent book release, and anything else we'd been working on. Alice had a new cookbook, praised by vegans. Vai had a sort of how-to on opening and operating a food-truck successfully. And Milo had written a short nonfiction on why everyone looked down on vegetarians and how to fight back.

When it came to Zane's turn, the room grew silent. They all knew what his book was about—me—and the tension in the air was so thick you wouldn't dare try hacking at it with the sharpest of axes.

"It came out today, actually," said Zane, clasping his hands in front of him, hiding them behind the name-plate that said Zane Rose, L.A. chef, Gastrognome. "I know it's been buzzing for weeks, and I'm glad about that, but this is the most important moment. And to share too much now...I can't. It's about my experience cooking in L.A. That sums it up."

I wanted to snort and cackle at his bullshit, but with hundreds of faces turning towards me—and who knew how many more tuning in from online—I had to play my cards with deftness.

"And you, Béatrice? Oh dear," Sally flushed, "I've known you for a while, and I'm still not sure I'm pronouncing your name right."

I offered a wide smile. "You can pronounce it however you'd like, as I'm both French and American." I almost nudged Zane to force him to say my name the French way, since he'd done it so well, but it'd only turn me on. This wasn't the place for that, for my mixed emotions and violence and lust.

And if I heard him say it one more time today, I'd melt.

I couldn't melt.

I tensed in my seat, gluing my ass to the plastic, planting my feet on the floor. "I'm working on a new nonfiction, and it's in production now, moving along rapidly. Hard to share much, as it's complicated, but I can't wait for you all to find out more, soon."

Sally continued to move us on by asking basic questions. What got us started, why did we decide to write about our cooking or share our recipes, what our favorite dishes were.

When it got to that last question, everyone stared at Zane, then at me. He said ratatouille and I said Revised-a-touille.

The awkward silence from earlier returned.

Crickets. Eyes on me, on Zane, on Sally to see if she'd brush past this and continue with her questions.

But she didn't. A smile drew over her painted lips as she peered at Zane. "How does that make you feel, Zane? That Béatrice's favorite dish is yours, but deprived of all the lovely vegetables you pride yourself on cooking?"

I glared at Sally, almost in an I-thought-we-were-friends way, before remembering she and I weren't, in fact, friends. We were more like acquaintances who'd boosted each other's careers from time to time, but not on a level where I could convince her to side with me today.

No, she wanted that drama, too.

"Sad," said Zane, so relaxed in his seat that I wished to knock him off it. "Bland. Béatrice is...well, I won't get further into details about how I feel. This isn't the time or place. My book will tell you everything you need to know."

Some in the crowd laughed, some booed. Alice scowled at Zane, Vai shook their head, Milo looked annoyed that he wasn't part of the drama.

"And Béatrice," Sally cleared her throat, "how do you feel about Zane writing a book mentioning you?"

"Mentioning?" I raised my eyebrows. "I should be getting royalties from its sales with how often I'm featured in his chapters."

More laughs, a few gasps. Sally let out a nervous giggle, and I got a deep nod from Vai, who seemed to approve of me fighting back. Alice and Milo said nothing.

Zane shifted in his seat, but I couldn't peep at him; not now. Not when I was building my courage up and getting ready to hurl it at him and take him down a notch.

What he'd done, how many times he'd humiliated me, wouldn't work. Not today, not here. And if everyone was complicit—I wasn't masking my words anymore.

Thankfully, Sally broke some of the tension by letting Milo vent about his misadventures. Then Alice discussed the benefits of converting to veganism. Vai recounted tales of traveling the country with their food truck, when they were starting out.

I thought I was out of the woods until Sally announced fifteen minutes of fan questions, and they were all directed at Zane or me.

"Have you guys seen each other again since your first incident?" asked one fan, glancing between us, not even saying our names.

I gritted my teeth, fearing what would come out of Zane's mouth. The truth was that we had seen each other; we'd fucked, we'd insulted each other, and three months later, he wrote a book about it.

"Occasionally bumped into each other," said Zane, his voice less high-and-mighty than it had been earlier.

"Something like that," I added, going along with his story. I wasn't approaching that question even covered in a bee-keeper's suit. Lying to fans wasn't my thing, but in this instance, it was necessary.

I could tell the fan wanted to press us for more, but the microphone moved to another person.

"Why don't you two cook together to decide if you can overcome some of your issues with one another?"

A smart question, but one Zane and I both wrinkled our nostrils at.

"Is he going to come back on Food Me! to apologize for what he did?"

Thanks for that, fan.

"Are you ever going to try his damn ratatouille so you can bury the hatchet?"

Zane applauded that one, creating a movement across half of the audience.

I was seconds away from walking off the stage. It was clear the attendees were a fifty-fifty split; those who'd come to defend me, those who'd come to defend Zane. I felt awful for Alice, Vai, and Milo, who'd been caught in the middle of our drama. It wasn't fair to them, to their careers, that this whole panel concentrated on two enemies who'd fucked twice and still loathed each other.

In a bold—and completely uncalculated—move, I stood up. Silence spread about the room as I took a deep breath and lifted my microphone to my mouth.

"I want to address this, right here, right now." I glanced at Sally to gauge if she was going to stop me, but she watched me with the same awe as the audience. "Zane Rose and I? We don't have a past. We met, we had an...accident, and then my producers thought it'd be funny to invite him to my show. It wasn't." People laughed anyway, no matter how serious I thought I was being. "He's a skilled cook climbing the ladder of the culinary world, and I'm already at the top."

Cheers echoed out from my fans, boos from Zane's. It wasn't supposed to be a competition, but everyone who'd set this up—producers, writers, directors, assistants, damn moderators—had made it so. So I'd go along with that and get the last word in.

"Zane should be successful, but not at the detriment of others." Applause from most of the crowd. "I'm a successful woman myself, and I've never stepped on anyone. But I'm different from other chefs, and that makes many people uncomfortable. Including," I side-glanced at Zane, who sat in his chair rigidly, face reddening, "him. Believe his book or not, it doesn't change the fact that I'm not going anywhere." Vivacious claps. "I will continue to cater to picky eaters across the globe, and I will never force anyone to eat something they don't like. Period."

It was an absolute mic-drop moment, enhanced by Sally closing the panel with no room for further questions.

I'd gotten my last word in.

Zane got up and stormed off. Alice and Vai shook my hand, Milo shrugged and rolled his eyes.

I sauntered over to my booth where I'd be signing copies of my published books, with not a single regret about demeaning Zane in front of hundreds. Thousands. More watching the panel online.

After all, he'd done it in front of millions, printed it on paper, hiding behind a picture of him half-naked in a kitchen.

Fuck Zane Rose.

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