Lila Harper adjusted her apron, the Culinary Institute's Hyde Park kitchen lab feeling both familiar and intimidating as she stood before a panel of three chefs.
The scholarship interview was her final hurdle—a chance to secure the financial aid she needed to make her dream a reality.
The air smelled of butter and herbs, and the gleaming counters reminded her of Elliot's penthouse kitchen, where their kiss two nights ago had turned her world upside down.
Her lips still tingled at the memory—his warmth, his hunger, the way he'd said, I want you, Lila.
But the anonymous email—Say goodbye to your dreams—loomed like a storm cloud, threatening to drown her hope.
"Ms. Harper," said Claire Nguyen, the admissions officer from her earlier calls, her expression encouraging but professional. "Today, you'll prepare a dessert that reflects your culinary voice, followed by a brief interview. You have ninety minutes. Begin when ready."Lila nodded, her stomach churning.
She'd chosen a lemon lavender tart—her mom's lemon curd recipe with her own twist of lavender-infused crust.
It was risky, floral notes weren't everyone's taste, but it was her—bold, heartfelt, a little unexpected.
She set to work, her hands steady despite the nerves. As she zested lemons, she pictured Elliot's grin, his text from this morning: You've got this. Make them beg for seconds.
His faith in her was a lifeline, but it also scared her. Crossing that line with him—kissing him, wanting more—felt like stepping off a cliff.
The other candidates, two men and a woman, worked at nearby stations, their dishes a flurry of technical precision—chocolate spheres, edible flowers, techniques Lila had only seen on cooking shows.
She felt like an imposter, her tart simple in comparison, but she poured her heart into it, blending the curd until it was silky, weaving lavender into the crust like a whispered prayer.
Halfway through, she fumbled a piping bag, a blob of curd splattering on the counter. "Crap," she muttered, glancing at the panel. One chef scribbled a note, his face unreadable.
"Focus," she whispered, salvaging the curd. She finished with minutes to spare, plating the tart with a delicate sprinkle of lavender buds and a swirl of whipped cream.
Her hands shook as she carried it to the judges, her voice steady despite her racing heart.
"Lemon lavender tart," she said.
"Inspired by my mom's lemon curd, with a lavender crust to add warmth and depth."
Claire took a bite, her eyes closing briefly. The other judges followed, their forks clinking.
"Bright and balanced," Claire said, jotting a note.
"The lavender is subtle, not overpowering. Nice risk. Presentation could be elevated, but the flavor is memorable."
Lila's chest loosened, relief mingling with doubt. Memorable was good, but elevated stung, just like last time.
She returned to her station, cleaning up as the panel moved to the next candidate.
The interview portion was next, and her nerves jangled anew.
What if they asked about her lack of training again? Or worse, what if Cassandra's threats had reached them somehow?In the interview room—a small office overlooking the campus lawns—Claire and another chef, a man named Chef Torres, sat across from her.
"Ms. Harper," Claire began,
"your application and exam show promise, but your lack of formal training is a concern. Why should we invest a scholarship in you?"
Lila swallowed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
"I don't have a fancy resume," she said, her voice steady despite the butterflies.
"I'm a maid, working to pay my bills, but cooking's been my heart since I was a kid. My mom taught me to make food that means something—food that tells a story. I've worked hard to hone that, and I'll work harder to prove I belong here. I want to create a café someday, a place where people feel at home. I just need a chance."
Chef Torres nodded, his expression softening.
"Your passion's clear. And your tart was excellent—soulful, authentic. We've also received an anonymous donation for a scholarship, with a specific recommendation for you. That carries weight."
Lila's breath caught. "A donation? For me?" Her mind raced—Elliot. It had to be him.
The mixer, his encouragement, now this? Her heart swelled, but a pang of unease followed. Was he trying to buy her dream? Or was this just him believing in her, like he'd said?Claire smiled, a rare warmth breaking through.
"It's not a guarantee, but it strengthens your case. We'll make our final decision by next week. You'll hear from us soon."
Lila left the room, her legs wobbly, her mind a whirlwind. A scholarship recommendation. Elliot's face flashed in her mind—his gray eyes, his fierce promise to protect her from Cassandra. She wanted to call him, to thank him, to ask why he'd go so far for her. But the email's warning—You'll regret it—stopped her.
What if Cassandra found out? What if she targeted Lila's job, or worse, the scholarship?Back in Manhattan, Lila headed to the food truck to help Mateo, needing the chaos to ground her.
The evening rush was in full swing, the air thick with the scent of sizzling carnitas and the chatter of customers.
Mateo took one look at her and grinned. "You're glowing again. Interview went well?"
"Maybe," she said, tying on an apron.
"I made it through, and they liked my tart. But get this—someone anonymously recommended me for a scholarship. I think it's Elliot."
Mateo's jaw dropped, a tortilla nearly slipping from his hands.
"Your billionaire's out here playing fairy godmother? Damn, Lila, he's got it bad."
She laughed, but her cheeks burned.
"It's not like that. He's just… helping. But it's a lot. And Cassandra's still sending creepy emails. I'm worried she's gonna mess with my job or the school."
Mateo's expression darkened.
"You need to shut that down. Tell Elliot to handle his ex, or I'm showing up with a baseball bat."
"Chill," she said, tossing him a lime.
"He's already on it. Called his lawyer and everything."
"Good," Mateo said, but his eyes stayed serious.
"Just watch your back. Rich people drama's no joke."
The night passed in a blur of tacos and tips, but Lila's mind was elsewhere—on the interview, the scholarship, Elliot's kiss.
By the time she got home, exhaustion weighed her down, but she couldn't sleep. She checked her phone, hoping for a text from Elliot, but found another anonymous email instead: Enjoy your little victory. It won't last .Her stomach churned, fear creeping in.
She forwarded it to Elliot with a note: Another one. I'm okay, but this is getting scary. Talk tomorrow?
His reply came within minutes: I'm so sorry, Lila. I'm handling this. Come over tomorrow after your shift. We'll figure it out together. And congrats on the interview—you're unstoppable.
She smiled, the fear easing slightly. But as she lay in bed, the city's hum a faint lullaby, she couldn't shake the feeling that Cassandra's next move was coming—and it would hit harder than an email.
Lila's dreams were closer than ever, but so was the risk of losing everything, including the man who was starting to mean more than she'd ever planned.