Chapter 2

The next day, I went to the main smokehouse. "The Brisket King" sat in the center of the floor, a monument to my past life' s failure.

It was a beautiful machine, crafted from heavy steel, with custom grates and a firebox I' d designed myself. The wood inside was the heart of it all. Rare mesquite and post oak, sourced by my father at great expense, each piece carefully seasoned with my blood and the family' s secret herb blend.

In my previous life, I had treated this smoker like a living thing. I talked to it. I polished it. I poured my soul into it.

Now, I looked at it and felt nothing but cold fury.

My apprentice, a young man named Leo who had always looked at me with open admiration, was carefully wiping it down.

"It' s almost ready, Jocelyn. It' s a masterpiece."

"Leo," I said, my voice flat. "Get the dolly. We' re moving it."

He looked confused. "Moving it where? To the competition trailer?"

"No. To the fire pit outside."

Leo' s jaw dropped. "What? But... why?"

"Just do it."

We wheeled the massive smoker out into the yard. The big, circular fire pit, usually used for burning ranch waste, was roaring with flames.

Andrew had rushed out, drawn by the commotion. His face was a mask of confusion.

"Jocelyn, what in God' s name are you doing?"

I didn' t answer him. I opened the firebox of "The Brisket King" and began pulling out the precious, seasoned wood. The wood I had bled on. Each piece was a memory of my own foolishness.

One by one, I tossed them into the roaring fire pit.

The wood hissed and popped, releasing a fragrant, smoky perfume that was a mix of mesquite, oak, and my own essence. It was the smell of my past life turning to ash.

Then, I started dismantling the smoker itself. I took a heavy wrench and began unbolting the custom parts. The steel plates groaned as I pried them apart. I threw them into the fire too. They warped and twisted in the intense heat.

Andrew grabbed my arm. His grip was like iron.

"Have you lost your mind? That' s your entry! That' s years of work!"

His voice wasn' t just angry. There was panic in it. A deep, barely concealed panic that I had never heard from him before.

I pulled my arm away and looked him straight in the eye, feigning a casual shrug.

"I wasn' t happy with it. The design was flawed."

I turned and walked away from the fire, leaving him standing there amidst the smoke and the ruins of my creation.

"I might not even compete this year," I called back over my shoulder.

The look of pure, undiluted terror on his face was all the confirmation I needed. My destruction of the smoker wasn't just an act of rebellion. It had ruined his plan.