My fuck Zane Rose stint got me a lot of publicity—a fifty-fifty mix of positive and negative reports on me, my cooking, my fame, even my goddamn sex life.

The good press came from feminist advocates who appreciated that I'd spoken up for women in the culinary industry. By bashing Zane—however indirectly it was—I was telling the male-dominated profession to change. I was telling the males to go fuck themselves. I'd pushed boundaries by rebutting Zane's claims, by not letting him step on me.

Some people stated I was defending my human right to like or dislike certain foods. Why should I be blamed for having tastes that were different? Why would a man write an entire book about a woman because she didn't want to try his ratatouille? It was infantile, and I appreciated those who spoke up against Zane's behavior and immature reaction.

But then there were those who called me an angry woman and made memes out of me. Of course, audience members had been filming the panel. With their footage they made me into a caricature and created GIFs of me, red-faced and sputtering, whenever they needed to use something to express their rage. It was the second time I'd found my face all over the internet for all the wrong reasons, and it boiled my blood.

Luca told me the bad press would die down, eventually; but the good press would linger.

"Everyone will see how Zane was the one who used you, not the other way around," he shared with me, a few days after the conference, while we discussed the situation with Food Me! still being up in the air. "Those who read his book will either do so because they agree with him, or because they'll want all the facts to better defend you. But bad publicity is still publicity, and this might convince Hollywood execs to renew Food Me! so... it should all work out, okay?"

I tried to let his words echo in my head, but all they did was distort into all the cruelties I saw online about me. The mocking of my food preferences, calling me catty and bitchy and fame-hungry. The low blows to my ego by saying my dishes weren't that good anyway and my show wasn't that entertaining and my books weren't that well written.

Of course I spiraled into scrolling way too much and lost my mind in the process. I went back to being a recluse, refusing to leave the house unless necessary. I binge-ate and binge-watched TV, doing everything to divert my thoughts away from all the critiques.

Binge-eating wasn't normal for me; I never kept snack foods or bubbly drinks at home to prevent this from happening. But in such desperate times, the over-salted chips and the sugar-packed cookies were the only things between me and a fit of panic attacks.

The snacking didn't quite stop me from the doom-scrolling. I still fumbled across my social media platforms to make sure I hadn't been canceled—I hadn't, nothing I'd said was that bad—and that the Zane-lovers hadn't left me awful comments about how I sucked for embarrassing him and for not broadening my horizons. They tagged me in trashy posts, posted the GIFs about me all over the place, and I popped up in New York City Comic Con goers feeds, too. Even those who hadn't attended the panel.

It was a nightmare.

Then came the more personal critiques, the ones targeting me as a person, where I came from, how I got to where I was.

"She's let her fame get to her head. Now she berates audiences everywhere for reading a book that may or may not have some distorted truths about her in it. Who cares? She needs to chill."

"She made it all about her, when in truth, it's about Zane Rose. HE was denied the type of success she has because he doesn't come from money."

"Béatrice's father is a filthy rich French pastry chef! She could afford to go to Parisian culinary schools and buy buildings to set up her not-so-fancy restaurants. Then she publicly demeans a man who comes from a poorer background? Who had to put out loans to get his own restaurant, and then had to write a book to continue to finance it?"

That last one prompted me to growl and nearly pick up the phone to call my dad, to see if he'd read it.

While he was indeed a pastry chef in France, he wasn't filthy rich. He'd made a name for himself, and yes, some of his money had gotten me into culinary school in Paris, but I paid for the rest. I took on odd jobs around France to pay for my education. In reality, the most Dad did for me was use his name to grant me more chances at getting in.

That, I hoped the public would never know about.

"She's big money, and wouldn't even make the effort to help a fellow chef out. Isn't that what she's all about? Helping other chefs in her area? What made Zane different? Because they slept together? Who cares anymore? It's 2023, people, and this rich woman's screams need to be ignored."

"I met her once. Not as nice as portrayed. #TeamZane."

Yes, there was a hashtag made about us. TeamZane, TeamBéa, Team get them in a room alone together so they can hash it out. Because naturally, there was a small percentage on both sides that was desperate for us to hook up again.

"Let them fuck it out again," said one thread online, by a chef on the east coast. "They need to release their anger and get over it. It's a pointless fight between two people who are both valid, and we need to focus on other, more important issues."

They were correct, I thought. Still, all the negative posts brought me down, and the positives did little for my ego, for my mental health. I started to see what they were saying—that I was privileged. That despite being a woman in a male-dominated industry, it didn't give me the right to put down a man who'd worked his ass off to get where he was.

I binge-ate more. I binge-watched more TV. No one heard from me for several weeks—including my agents, my producers, who'd all tried to reach me.

I wanted to be alone.

The only thing that woke me up a bit was the phone call I received from my mother, about a month into my seclusion.

"Béa," she said, in her fractured French, then reverting to her native English. "Sweetheart, what is going on with you?"

She'd read the news. Her and Dad were technologically savvy, kept up to speed on everything about me and my accomplishments and failures. Normally, when I was feeling down and doubtful, I called her. But this time, I hadn't. In fact, I hadn't reached out to my parents at all in the past month, and while I didn't call them every day, it was rare for us not to speak.

And she knew I had nothing else going on while I waited for my book to finalize.

"Pressure," I said to her, setting the phone on speaker as I started chopping vegetables. Weeks of eating like crap had finally gotten to me, and I was so bloated I needed to eat something healthy. "And bad press."

"Oh, honey," my mom's voice laced with a sweetness I couldn't bear and didn't think I deserved, "it'll pass. You've been through this before, and it always goes away, hm?"

"It doesn't feel like it will this time," I said, recalling vividly some of the incidents she was referring to. The first time I came out as a picky eater, I was destroyed by the press. "A chef can't be picky!" they said, or "she's lying for clout, trying to reach the millennials!"

Mom was right; it had blown over, but I still felt the angst in me on a regular basis. Still sensed the weight of my achievements and how they were turning negative.

"This feels more personal."

"They accused you of making a name for yourself. So what? Everyone has their own way of getting by." Her tone turned firm. "You have to get yourself out of this hole, Béa. Your father and I are worried. You've never gone this long without calling us. We're not liking all the press, but we're concerned that it's hitting you too hard."

"I was wallowing," I said, hissing as I almost chopped off my own finger. That wasn't good—if I was being so inattentive, it meant I was deeply affected by all this. "Still am."

I heard my dad groaning in the background, demanding that Mom pass the phone to him.

"Béatrice," he said, his deep voice humming into my ears and making me smile for a moment. Dad spoke English perfectly, but with such a heavy accent that it always made me think of those caricatures of French folk in movies and cartoons. "You need to get your head out of your ass," he added, in French this time, which told me he meant business.

"Papa," I said, putting the knife down before I ended up fingerless. My slicing had gotten spastic, almost angry; chopping vegetables wasn't supposed to be that kind of therapeutic. I switched to my rusty but still grammatically correct French. "It's not in my ass. I'm hibernating."

"Bullshit, you're not. Hibernating is comfortable. You? You're hiding." While Dad was a smaller man with broad shoulders, he sounded like a big burly dude who guarded the doors of up-and-coming nightclubs in Paris. "The haters don't know where you live, and they don't care that much. Your mother is right; this will pass. Get out there and do your job."

He was a hands-on pastry chef, a skilled baker, and an excellent cook. Most of what I'd learned came from him; except for my pickiness.

"I don't have the energy for it, Dad." I pushed away the cutting board with half-cut cucumbers and celery. "Every day there's a new comment, a new post making fun of me. It's exhausting."

"At least they're talking," he said, and I envisioned his eyes like glass and his enormous hands curling into fists. Hands chafed with years of rolling dough and sprinkling flour and burning his skin in the oven and on pans. "Tell them to fuck off."

"Dad!" He cussed often—especially in the kitchen—but I'd never heard him speak so bluntly of my criticizers.

"Come home," he said, softer, a hint of nostalgia in his voice. "Resource yourself for a few weeks. You haven't traveled over here in so long. You'll get a break over here."

I squinted at my counter, considering. It was tempting to hop on a flight to France, and wouldn't take much effort.

I winced. "Everyone hates me in France, too. Because I'm always bashing French foods I don't like. If anyone over there watched the show..."

"Yes, they probably watch the show, but don't you remember how the French operate?" Dad laughed. "When they don't like you, here, they ignore you. If you take a trip to Paris, you'll be left alone."

I was half-convinced when we hung up at last—after another round with my mother, promising me I'd get through the negativity soon enough. But I still debated whether I could pull it off. I had no plans for the foreseeable weeks, as we were still waiting on Food Me! being renewed, and my book was still processing. But the mental energy it took to travel, to switch to my other native language, to readjust to the French way of life...the thought alone tired me.

"I think you should go," said Elliot, after having dragged me out of the house and off to get drinks at one of our usual haunts. They were the only person who'd showed up at my house and given me no choice but to get out and breathe.

And the bar we visited was low-key, quiet. We were regulars, and the staff ensured we weren't disturbed.

"But the effort," I said, sipping on my Mojito—a switch-up from my normal glass of wine. "Packing, calling the jet company to see if they have a time-slot for me, being around people, ugh."

"Béa," Elliot narrowed their gaze on me, "your billionaire is showing, watch out."

I rolled my eyes. "My point is do I have time to treat myself to a vacation in France? Won't the haters freak out more if it looks like I'm running off to nurse my wounds with Mommy and Daddy?"

"You're not running off." Elliot smacked their lips as our charcuterie board arrived. "You're taking a well-deserved vacation. You wrote a book, you hosted a TV show, you went to a huge convention—realistically, you're within your rights to be tired! You're human, dammit, not a robot."

A few bites of the cheese and crackers on the board, and I missed home. Missed their cheese, the freshly baked baguettes and the juicy jams, the crunchy nuts and the dark red wine to accompany it all. The view of busy Parisian streets as I sipped on a glass of exquisite pinot noir.

Elliot saw my pinched expression as I washed down a hardened Camembert with some Mojito. "See?" They gestured at the food, then at my face. "You need this. Go, visit your family, resource yourself. Take some time away from the bad press."

"But what if—"

Elliot reached over the table and pressed their soft palm to my mouth. "No what-ifs, no buts. Go, please. If anything happens here, we'll handle it."

By we, they meant them and Grace, which made me frown deeper, but I hurried to wipe the discontent off my face.

They were right. Mom and Dad were right.

I needed to go home.

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