I couldn't really kick Zane out and resume celebrating after all that. So we went back downstairs, and I officially introduced him to everyone there—Elliot and Nita and other friends who'd showed up while I was upstairs. I got a few interesting looks from those two, who smirked at me as if they knew what Zane and I had done; what were likely about to do when the party died down.

It was different to witness Zane mingling with my friends, my peers. To watch him from afar as he took sips of champagne and laughed and spoke with ease; no tension, no flashes of furious frowns from across the room. No under-the-breath quips to destabilize one another, no insults.

No mortal enemy bashing my name because he felt like it. Just Zane Rose, skilled chef, and man I'd stopped pretending to not be attracted to.

We demonstrated that attraction again later, at my house. Yes, my house, where I never took my conquests because I never wanted to show any vulnerability. But Zane...well, he wasn't a conquest anymore, was he? Had he ever been one?

I wondered what he was now, what he'd become.

Then I glanced at him, caught his gaze, and realized it didn't matter. Not yet.

We barely made it inside before he started spreading his hands all over me, unfastening hooks and throwing off shirts and unbuttoning jeans. Our tongues remained intertwined during the whole process. We couldn't stop kissing as we stumbled, mostly naked, into the living room and fell onto the couch.

Next came the wandering hands and breathless whispers. The fumbling for condoms and laughs about not seeing much—I hadn't flipped on the lights. The groping and caressing, the moans, the begs, the need.

Then he was inside me again. It was that same filling, incredibly intriguing sensation I'd felt the very first night with him. Only now, it felt like more. More intense, more significant.

He fucked me senseless on the couch, and I was so grateful my property was large enough that no neighbors would hear me scream his name. No one would look in from the backyard windows and see my legs wide apart and his thrusts between them. His throbbing cock sliding in and out of me as if it was always meant to do that. As if it belonged.

We gathered ourselves enough to meander upstairs, but not before I poured us a glass of rosé and gave him a naked tour of the house. I showed him the wine cellar, gestured at my swimming pool and jacuzzi through the windows, explained some of the paintings on the walls along the stairs up to the second floor.

When he saw my giant bed, he snatched my glass, set it down, and hefted me into his arms to throw me onto the mattress.

"I've always wanted to do that," he said, a sheepish smile on his face as he took his dick in his hands and stroked it, watching me as I watched him, licking my lips.

"Toss me onto a large bed?" I arched an eyebrow as I tiptoed my fingers to my still wet center, grinning as his eyes rounded when I found my arousal.

"No," he leaned forward and started crawling towards me, his gaze on my pussy, "fuck you on a large bed."

We woke the next morning, in each other's arms. No sneaking out, no insults, no passive-aggressiveness.

To see him in the early light filtering through my curtains—blissful. He was so serene, his eyelashes fluttering as he wavered in that world of not-quite-awake but coming to. I admired the curves of his chiseled chest and the dip down to his hips, the pronounced and so defined abdominal muscles that I wanted to touch—

So I touched them. He stirred a little, but didn't open his eyes. I wanted him awake, so I knew what to do.

I trailed kisses down to his cock, his morning erection already in full gear. I took him in his mouth, and admired him as his eyes opened at once, his chin tipping to see me between his legs, sucking on him.

"Well," he smiled, running his tongue over his lips, "that's not a bad way to wake up at all."

I could only mumble, too busy lathering the sides of his dick with my tongue.

"If I'd known," his smile faded for a split second, "I'd have never let you walk out that first morning."

***

Food Me! was done. No more renewals, no more tapings.

My epiphany with Zane led me to more epiphanies, one of them being firing Grace and Archie. My speech to Zane about asking for help inspired me to do the same: to have a serious talk with Luca about revisiting my production team, and the show as a whole.

He was on board immediately. He'd seen my treatment, heard my complaints, and had his legal staff on the situation within days. The recently renewed third season was canceled, and Grace and Archie were forbidden from speaking to me. That put a damper on my friendship with Elliot, at first; until they came to their senses and dumped Grace, unable to be in a relationship with someone who was out to ruin their best friend. Me.

I'd expected the legal stuff to take weeks, but they dissolved the contract within days. I was freed from any obligations towards that show, and able to rebuild one of my own, with my chosen team, chosen producers.

Food Me! unfortunately didn't belong to me; it never did. Grace and Archie did more than dictate the whole thing for drama. They'd bought it, made it their own. So I had no issue walking away from them and their toxic set and their inane ideas of how to entertain an audience.

So I brainstormed. And brainstormed. Between sessions of sex with Zane, and a few dates—yes, dates, going to public places with him to demonstrate our real and not fabricated truce—I worked hard on new ideas, new formulas. I still wanted to host a show, and still wanted it to be about my pickiness and other chefs coming to persuade me otherwise. But I needed something else.

I researched. I invested. Phone calls and emails and meetings, interviews, mood-board sharing and traveling across the globe and signatures; and it was done. I found that something else, and everything fell into place quite quickly after that.

***

"Today's special guest on The Taste Test is someone you've seen before," I said to my viewers, who all gawked at me as if I'd magically appeared on stage.

It was a similar stage to Food Me! down to the decor, the same upgraded kitchen, the same big metal wall between my sitting area and the cooking area. But the concept was modified. I chose the guests; I vetted them and spoke with them ahead of time and made sure they knew the rules. They signed contracts and NDAs, and I promised them to be fair.

Those I invited were well-renowned chefs I'd made contact with over the years, or others who were lesser known but talented, climbing the ladders of success. Some who needed a push, some who needed a challenge.

On my current list, I had my friend Olivier, from the French set-up restaurant where Zane took me; as well as some of those we'd met on the panel at the Comic Con.

I scouted the world for these folks, and I was the one calling the shots. My new producers—an up-and-coming enby who planned to change TV and cinema for the best, and a woman who was a real feminist, not a poser like Grace—let me do whatever I wanted. They didn't come at me demanding views. They wanted genuine connections and truth.

"The Taste Test is yours, Béatrice, and we trust your vision."

Hearing those words, I almost cried.

These guests were still to introduce me to a dish with one element I disliked. But instead of hiding it—which they could, I didn't care—they were to try to convince me to eat it and like it, without forcing me. If they managed to trick me into one bite, they won money. If I ate the whole thing, they won more. And if I liked it, then they won the jackpot. Chefs who were more famous and didn't need the cash would donate to charities.

"It may surprise you to see him here, but I have to warn you in advance, he and I have buried the hatchet. And not into one another, thank goodness," I said, to a chorus of laughter from the audience. "Many things have happened in the past few months, and it was high-time to make some changes. So, without further ado, please welcome Zane Rose!"

The fun part about this new concept was that the crowd had no clue who the guest chef was. I found that notion much more fun than them knowing who to expect, bracing themselves for drama.

Their gasps and applause and shocked faces told me that starting the show with Zane was a smart idea.

He walked in in his olive chef's shirt and pressed black pants, holding an apron and wielding his expert smirk to woo the crowd; but he wooed me.

If any memes came out of this first episode, it'd be of my beaming, stupidly glowed up face as I watched him hop up on the stage and stand beside me.

We sat and chatted about the past few months—our clashes, our disagreements, and how we both had to fight to escape constricting contracts that muffled our creativity, that concealed our truths.

"And here we are now," I said, gesturing towards the metal wall. "You're going to cook for me again, and I can't wait to see what you do."

I should have known. Zane had apologized so many times—with words, and with his tongue between my legs—but his true nature would never leave; the one that yearned for me to eat his food, to open my horizons, to test my boundaries.

So when, after the buzzer went off, he presented me with a ratatouille, I wasn't surprised in the slightest.

But it wasn't his ratatouille. There was something different about it.

"Can you tell us what you did with this? It," I gulped, "doesn't look the same."

Zane turned to the spectators. "This is a revised ratatouille recipe. A mix of my traditional one, and..." he switched to me, "yours. To make it a bit easier for you to consider trying a bite."

While I selected the chefs, I didn't want to know ahead of time what they'd cook for me. That part I liked to be surprised with.

I gulped again, rehashing this same scene from months ago in my mind. His ratatouille, my disgust, his insistence, my anger.

There was none of that now; only a silent crowd leaning in to see if I'd accept to eat one bite. If I'd throw another fit. If things had changed.

I picked up the provided fork, and held it aloft for a few moments. I saw the elements I disliked right there, glaring at me; but I detected my modified ingredients as well, and something about their presence reassured me.

It's all going to the same place. It'll all mix in my mouth.

I plunged the fork into the dish. The audience let out a collective gasp.

It'll be okay. No one is pressuring me to do this. It's my show. I can stop if I want to.

I side-glanced at Zane.

And he knows better than to push me.

I tried to get a bite with everything on it, though my stomach knotted at the idea of putting most of it into my mouth. I closed my eyes, opened my mouth—

I ate three bites before some of the flavors got to me. But they weren't the worst. They didn't make me gag, didn't hurt me.

I survived.

And had this been served as a side with something else, I might have eaten more. If I had a glass of wine to accompany it, I might have eaten more.

I might have eaten more.

The crowd applauded as I set my fork down and took a bow. "Three bites," I flipped to Zane, "that's the best you're going to get."

Laughter echoed, and even Zane cracked a smile and dipped his chin into a nod.

I gently wiped my lips with my napkin—Elliot would murder me if I removed my lipstick—and from the corner of my eye I caught Eve, one of my producers, waving at me.

We'd discussed this. Zane's appearance on the show would set the tone, and I needed to do something big for him, for me, for my viewers.

"Three bites means the middle prize." I studied his face, watching as his cheeks flushed.

The middle prize was twenty-thousand dollars, and I knew how badly he wanted and needed the money.

After the fiasco with Isaac, his restaurant was still closed. He was working for various restaurants in town, and crafting another book, but his income was still stilted. He'd managed to keep his apartment, and his new agent worked around the clock to ensure he had jobs and would soon be able to resume the life he wanted, but it was tough.

And I'd been so busy with expedited production on this show, I hadn't been able to help as much as I said I would.

That ended today.

"Zane Rose," I slid my hand into his, "we're not giving you the middle prize."

His eyes widened, and that same fear from months ago spread over his features. That look of confusion, wondering why he wasn't being given the money he'd absolutely earned. "Huh?"

"Instead," I squeezed his hand, "I'm reopening your restaurant. Paying off all your debt. And," I twisted to the audience, my face growing too hot to peer at him, "secured you a book deal with my publishing company. So you can write whatever the fuck you want."

His hand shook in mine, and I twirled around to see him immobile, not breathing, not swallowing.

"Zane?" I worried I'd gone too far, overstepped too many lines, crossed too many boundaries.

But his lips quirked into a smile, and his eyes charged up with tears. "Béatrice," he whispered, using his free hand to wipe the water as it fell down his cheeks. Actual tears, from the once cold-hearted Zane Rose. "You...you did..."

"I owed you," I said softly, wiping his other cheek.

"I'm gonna do something crazy," he said, hardly moving his lips.

I'd just done something crazy, so I doubted he could top that. "Try me."

"Taste me," he said, and next I knew, his mouth was on mine. The cameras were rolling, and I heard the gasps and the shock and the pleasure in the audience.

I didn't tell anyone to stop. I didn't push Zane away. He kissed me, in front of everyone, thanking me for what I'd done, and I let him.

The first episode of The Taste Test would be quite revealing.

◘