The Hands That Fed His Genius

Tessa's POV

Landon Rhodes and I grew up together, both dreaming of becoming top chefs. But I knew he was the one with a palate kissed by God.

So when Rowan Stone, this street-rat punk, got her claws into him, I took the drinks, the smoke, the slaps for him. When he wanted to skip the National Young Chefs Competition to stay with her drunk ass, I dragged him back to the culinary lab.

He won the championship, got recruited by a three-star Michelin restaurant, graduated and made millions. I became the most invisible prep cook in his kitchen.

Until Rowan wrapped her car around a pole during one of her episodes, and he lured me into a basement.

"This is all your fault! If you'd minded your own damn business, she'd still be alive!"

His foot came down on my right hand. Bones cracking. My fingers ground to pulp.

All those 5 AM trips to the fish market for him. All those nights watching stock simmer for forty-eight hours straight. All the praise he soaked up at final practicals. My sacrifices, and all I got in return was his hatred.

"These worthless hands that can only cut vegetables deserve to rot in the ground with her."

The pain swallowed me whole.

When I wake up again, I'm back to that afternoon when he said he was going to the bar to find her.

This time, I won't stop him.

"Tessa! Tessa! What the hell are you spacing out for? Are you even listening to me?"

His sharp voice cuts through my thoughts. I snap back, clutching my chest, gasping for air.

My vision clears. The bright first culinary lab at the Culinary Institute, the spotless stainless steel counters, and Landon standing in front of me in his crisp sophomore whites, brows furrowed.

I look down at my hands. Intact. Pale. Slender. Not mangled beyond recognition.

I'm back. Spring semester, sophomore year. One month before the National Young Chefs Competition campus qualifier.

The starting point of everything that went wrong in my last life.

"Are you listening or not?" Landon snaps when I don't respond. He rips off his chef's scarf and throws it on the cutting board. "Rowan's having a shit day. She's wasted at some dive bar. I can't just leave her there. I'm skipping the French consommé practical today. Tell Chef Williams I've got food poisoning or whatever."

Last time around, when I heard he was ditching class for chain-smoking, perpetually wasted Rowan, I almost cried. I grabbed his arm, begging him not to go. I told him how important Chef Williams's practical was. I told him the secondhand smoke and cheap liquor at the bar would ruin his palate. I even stormed over to the bar myself, tore into Rowan, and physically dragged him back to campus.

He aced that practical. I missed my own prep time helping him with his stock and barely passed. But he never thanked me. He just thought I was being a busybody and screwing things up between him and Rowan.

The memories crawl up my spine like ice-cold snakes. I stare at his young, arrogant, self-righteous face, and the whole thing suddenly feels ridiculous.

God, I was pathetic.

I take a deep breath, forcing down the rage and nausea churning in my chest.

"Okay," I hear myself say, voice flat and toneless.

Landon freezes. He clearly expected me to cry, to argue, to beg like always. He probably had his whole rebuttal ready. But all I gave him was one word.

"You... what did you just say?"

"I said okay." I pick up the rag and wipe down the already spotless counter. "I'll let Chef Williams know. Go on. Rowan probably shouldn't be alone right now anyway."

He's scanning my face, looking for some sign I'm playing games or about to cry. I don't even glance at him.

"You said it, Tessa. Don't go running to Chef Williams later trying to rat me out." He scoffs, turning toward the door like he needs to cover up some weird discomfort.

Right before he leaves, he stops and looks back, voice dripping with that same old condescension. "Oh, and for tomorrow's ribeye practice, prep the puff pastry for me. Butter needs to be at seventy-seven degrees. Don't screw it up."

I stop wiping. I look up and meet his eyes.

"Landon."

"What?"

"Are your hands broken? If you can't make puff pastry, just drop out. Stop embarrassing yourself."

His face flushes red instantly. He stares at me like I've grown a second head, his mouth opening and closing.

I don't give him the chance to recover. I turn and head toward the walk-in storage.

"Tessa, what the hell is wrong with you? You better watch yourself!" His voice cracks with frustration as the door slams behind him.

I lean against the cold wall of the walk-in and let out a bitter laugh.

What's wrong with me? Nothing. I just drained all the stupidity out of my brain from last time.

Let go of your savior complex. Respect other people's choices. Landon Rhodes, if you love the gutter that much, I won't stop you this time. I'll watch you sink, step by step, until you drown.

My youth. My talent. From this moment on, they're mine and mine alone.

The storage door swings shut, cutting off the noise outside.