Chapter 3

I stood outside Julian' s office for a long moment, my body rigid, my mind reeling from the revelation. The pieces of the puzzle clicked into place, forming a picture far uglier than I could have ever imagined. My grandmother, a woman I only knew through her worn recipe journals and the loving stories my parents told, had an enemy. And that enemy' s protégé was now my own.

My shock morphed into a cold, hard anger. I had to confront them. Not to beg or to plead, but to see the look on their faces when they knew that I knew.

I pushed the door open without knocking.

Chloe jumped, spilling a little of the coffee Julian had just handed her. Julian looked up, his expression of smug satisfaction turning into one of irritation.

"What is the meaning of this, Ava? Don' t you know how to knock?" he snapped.

"I wanted to talk to Chloe," I said, my eyes fixed on my former friend. She refused to meet my gaze, staring down at the coffee stain on the carpet.

"Whatever you have to say, you can say it in front of me," Julian said, stepping between us protectively. He was already playing the part of her guardian, her champion. The irony was sickening.

"Fine," I said, my voice level. "Chloe, I know you stole my grandmother' s chocolate raspberry torte recipe."

Chloe' s head shot up, her eyes wide with feigned innocence. "Stole it? Ava, how could you say that? I told you, it' s an old family recipe!"

"Really?" I challenged. "Because my grandmother, Eleanor Reed, won the Pinewood County Baking Fair with that exact recipe in 1985. There' s a picture of her with the blue ribbon and the cake in the local paper. I' m sure we could find it in the archives."

A flicker of panic crossed Chloe' s face. Julian, however, was unfazed. He let out a short, derisive laugh.

"Are you serious?" he said, looking at me as if I were a petulant child. "You' re accusing your friend of plagiarism over some county fair recipe from forty years ago? Recipes are shared, Ava. Ideas are similar. It proves nothing. You' re just upset that you lost, and you' re lashing out. It' s pathetic."

"This isn' t about losing," I said, my voice rising despite my efforts to keep it steady. "This is about a decades-old grudge you have against my grandmother. This is about you using Chloe to get revenge for your mentor, Chef Dubois."

The moment the name left my lips, I saw it. A flash of genuine shock in Julian' s eyes before he masked it with fury. He knew I had heard.

"That' s enough," he roared, his face turning red. "You are delusional. I will not have you harassing my student with these wild, paranoid fantasies. Get out of my office. Now."

"I' m not the one who' s delusional," I said, looking straight at him. The respect I once had for this man had curdled into pure contempt. "You' re a bitter, petty man hiding behind a facade of professionalism. You talk about art and soul, but you wouldn' t know the first thing about either. All you know is resentment."

His jaw clenched. For a second, I thought he might strike me. Chloe looked terrified, caught between us.

"Get. Out," he repeated, his voice a low growl.

I turned and walked out, my head held high. There was no point in arguing further. He would never admit it. I had to find another way. I had to find proof.

My mind went straight to my grandmother' s house. My parents had kept it just as she' d left it, a time capsule of her life. And somewhere in that house, I knew, was her recipe journal. Not just the one I used, but her old ones. The ones filled with her notes, her thoughts, her history. The answers had to be there.

My plan began to form, clear and sharp in my mind. The annual televised baking competition, the one that had been my downfall in my previous life, was in a few months. It was the biggest culinary event in the state, sponsored by a major food network. The grand prize was a hundred thousand dollars and a contract to open your own bakery. This year, Julian Vance was slated to be a guest judge.

In my past life, Chloe had entered and won, catapulting her to national fame. This time, I would be the one to enter. And I would win. Not with anger and clumsy sabotage, but with my grandmother' s legacy and my own undeniable talent.

I went home, packed a bag, and told my parents I needed to spend a few days at grandma' s house to clear my head. They were worried, but they agreed.

As I was leaving, I saw a news alert on my phone. It was a local food blog. The headline read: "Chef Julian Vance Takes Prodigy Chloe Davies Under His Wing, Announces Plans for New Artisanal Bakery." There was a picture of them, smiling for the camera, Julian' s arm once again wrapped possessively around Chloe. They were already moving forward, building her career on my family' s stolen foundation. Seeing their triumphant faces didn't fill me with despair. It filled me with fuel. The stage was being set. And this time, I would be the one writing the final act.