Lila Harper's hands shook as she stepped off the train at Hyde Park, the Culinary Institute's campus looming ahead like a dream she wasn't sure she deserved.
The autumn air was crisp, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and distant woodsmoke, but it did little to calm the knot in her stomach. Today was the practical exam—her chance to prove she belonged among the polished chefs-in-training who'd probably never scrubbed a penthouse floor to pay their bills. Her caprese tart recipe was tucked in her bag, alongside a carefully packed container of ingredients, but her mind kept drifting to Elliot Voss—his fingers brushing her cheek, his fierce words: You belong anywhere you want to be.
She shook her head, adjusting the strap of her bag.
"Focus," she muttered, weaving through the crowd of commuters.
She couldn't afford to think about Elliot—not his warm gray eyes, not the mixer he'd gifted her, not the way her heart had nearly leapt out of her chest when he'd almost kissed her.
He was a distraction, and today, she needed to be sharp.Her future depended on it.
The Culinary Institute's campus was a sprawling mix of brick buildings and manicured lawns, buzzing with students in crisp white chef coats.
Lila felt out of place in her jeans and sweater, her sneakers scuffing the path as she followed signs to the exam hall.
Inside, the kitchen lab was a gleaming fortress of stainless steel—industrial ovens, rows of knives, and counters that made Elliot's penthouse kitchen look cozy.
Five other candidates were already there, their faces a mix of confidence and nerves, their aprons branded with logos from restaurants Lila had only read about.
"Ms. Harper?" A woman with a clipboard and a severe bun approached, her voice clipped.
"Station three. You have one hour to prepare your dish. The panel will taste and score based on creativity, technique, and presentation. Begin when the timer starts."
Lila nodded, her throat tight, and headed to her station.
She unpacked her ingredients, the familiar routine grounding her. Dough, tomatoes, burrata, basil oil—simple, but hers.
As she kneaded the sourdough crust, she pictured her mom's kitchen, the way they'd danced to old jazz records while baking.
The memory steadied her hands, but not her heart.
What if she failed? What if her lack of training showed? What if she was just a maid playing at being a chef?The timer beeped, and the room erupted into controlled chaos—knives flashing, ovens humming, candidates muttering to themselves.
Lila worked fast, rolling out her crust, roasting tomatoes until they caramelized, blending basil oil until it shimmered green. But halfway through, disaster struck: her burrata tore, oozing messily as she tried to slice it.
"Crap," she whispered, her pulse spiking. She could hear the panel circling, their clipboards scratching, their eyes judging.
"Focus," she told herself, salvaging the cheese with a careful scoop.
She layered the tart, her hands moving on instinct, and slid it into the oven with ten minutes to spare.
As she cleaned her station, she caught a glimpse of another candidate—a guy with a chef's jacket embroidered with Le Bernardin—plating a dessert that looked like modern art. Her stomach sank.
Her tart was good, but it was simple. Too simple?The timer buzzed, and the panel called for presentations.
Lila plated her tart, drizzling basil oil in a delicate swirl, her hands steady despite the panic clawing at her chest.
She carried it to the judges' table, where three chefs—two men and a woman—sat with unreadable expressions.
"Lila Harper," she said, her voice wavering. "Caprese tart with sourdough crust, roasted tomatoes, burrata, and basil oil. Inspired by my mom's recipes."
The woman, Claire Nguyen from the admissions call, took a bite, her eyes closing briefly.
The men followed, their forks clinking against the plate.
Lila held her breath, her heart pounding so loud she was sure they could hear it. Claire scribbled a note, then looked up.
"Simple, but well-executed. The crust is excellent—crisp, flavorful. The flavors are balanced, though the presentation could be more refined. Thank you, Ms. Harper."
Lila nodded, her face burning as she returned to her station.
Balanced was good, right? But more refined stung.
She cleaned up in a daze, the other candidates' dishes—a molecular gastronomy foam, a deconstructed ravioli—making her tart feel like a kid's science project.
As she packed her bag, Claire approached, her expression softer.
"You did well, Lila. We'll be in touch about the results."
"Thanks," Lila said, forcing a smile.
She left the kitchen, her legs wobbly, and stepped outside, the cool air a relief against her flushed skin.
She'd done her best, but was it enough? The doubt gnawed at her as she headed for the train, her phone buzzing in her pocket.
It was a text from Elliot: How'd it go? Bet you blew them away.
She smiled, her chest warming despite the uncertainty. Not sure.
Didn't set anything on fire, so that's a win. Thanks for the vote of confidence.
His reply came fast: You're a rockstar. Dinner to celebrate? My place, 7 PM.
I'm ordering pizza—don't tell your tart.She laughed, the knot in her stomach loosening. Only if it's not burnt grilled cheese. See you then.
The train ride back to Manhattan felt lighter, Elliot's text a lifeline in the sea of her doubts. But as she reached the city, her phone buzzed again—this time with an email from an unknown sender.
The subject line read: A Friendly Warning.Her heart sank as she opened it:Ms. Harper,
You're playing a dangerous game with Elliot Voss.
He's out of your league, and you're risking more than your job.
Step back before you embarrass yourself.
—ConcernedLila's stomach churned.
The email was anonymous, but the sharp, polished tone screamed Cassandra.
She deleted it, her hands shaking, but the words lingered like a bruise.
Was she right? Was Lila fooling herself, thinking she could fit into Elliot's world?By the time she reached the Voss Tower, her nerves were frayed, but she pushed them down, climbing to the penthouse.
Elliot opened the door before she could knock, his grin wide and unguarded.
"You're early," he said, stepping aside. "Pizza's on the way. Tell me about the exam."
She forced a smile, stepping into the familiar warmth of the penthouse.
The living room was cozier than usual, a fire crackling in the sleek fireplace, the city lights twinkling beyond the windows.
"It was… intense," she said, setting her bag down.
"I didn't screw up, but the competition was insane. Fancy chefs with fancy resumes. I felt like a fish out of water."
"You're not," he said, his voice firm.
He gestured to the couch, where a bottle of wine and two glasses sat on the coffee table. "You're exactly where you're supposed to be. And I'm not just talking about cooking."
Her breath caught, the email's warning echoing in her mind.
She sat, tucking her legs under her, and accepted the glass he offered.
"Elliot, you don't have to do this. The mixer, the dinner… I'm just—"
"Don't," he said, sitting beside her, close enough that their knees brushed.
"Don't say 'just.' You're Lila. That's enough."
Her heart pounded, the air between them charged.
She wanted to tell him about the email, to ask if Cassandra was right, but the words stuck.
Instead, she sipped the wine, its warmth spreading through her.
"You're making this hard," she said, her voice soft.
"I'm trying to keep things… professional."He set his glass down, his eyes locking onto hers.
"I don't want professional. Not with you." He leaned closer, his hand resting on the couch, inches from hers.
"Lila, I know I'm your boss, and I know it's complicated. But I feel something when I'm with you. Something real."
Her lips parted, her pulse racing.
She wanted to lean in, to let herself fall, but fear held her back—fear of the email, of Cassandra, of losing herself in his world. "Elliot, I… I feel it too. But I'm scared. This could ruin everything."
He nodded, his expression torn but resolute. "I know. But I'm willing to risk it. Are you?"Before she could answer, the doorbell rang, shattering the moment.
"Pizza," he muttered, standing with a frustrated sigh.
As he went to the door, Lila's phone buzzed again—another email, same sender: Last chance. Walk away, or you'll regret it.Her hands trembled, but she deleted it, her resolve hardening.
She didn't know what Cassandra was playing at, but she wasn't backing down. Not from her dreams, and maybe not from Elliot. As he returned with the pizza box, his smile softening the edges of her fear, she realized she was already in too deep to walk away.