#Chapter 63: Comatose


    I’m standing by the stainless steel counter, doing my best to look like I’m upied with inventory and


    prepping the dough for our fresh bread in the morning.


    But my real focus is on the fiery dance unfolding in front of me—Karl and John, circling each other in


    the kitchen like two alpha wolves in a turf war. The tension is so thick you could spread it on toast.


    “Karl! Chop those onions faster!” John barks, to which Karl surprisinglyplies—and with a smile on


    his face, no less. I’m pleased. It’s not perfect, but it’s their first night. I just hope that it gets better over


    time.


    Suddenly, my phone buzzes in my pocket, shattering the moment. I nce down; it’s a call from Calvin,


    the representative for the cook-off. I’m suddenly flooded with a mixture of excitement and nerves. This


    could be a game-changer for my career, for my restaurant, for me.


    With a lingering nce at Karl, whose hands are meticulously arranging greens on a te, I slip away.


    I dart through the swinging door of the kitchen, my heels clicking urgently against the tile floor, and


    make a beeline for my office.


    Once inside, I close the door, leaning against it momentarily to collect myself. Taking a deep, steadying


    breath, I swipe the screen and answer.


    “Mr. Thompson, hi! Sorry I couldn’t take your call immediately. Things are a little hectic here.”


    “No worries, Abby.” Calvin’s voice is as smooth as I remember, professional with a tinge of friendliness.


    “I know you’re a busy woman. That’s part of why we wanted you for the cook-off, actually.”


    My heart swells with abination of pride and anticipation. “Thank you, Mr. Thompson. That means a


    lot.”


    “Now, onto why I called you: I’ve just received the recipe list for the cook-off,” he continues. “I’ll be


    sending it to you via email shortly. You’re wee to spend theing weeks practicing, but keep in


    mind that only three recipes will be chosen from the list, and you won’t know which ones will be chosen


    until the time of thepetition. The format will involve each contestant cooking a three-course meal:


    an appetizer, an entree, and a dessert.”


    I jot down some quick notes as he speaks. This is more structured than I thought, but also more


    exciting. “Three courses,” I repeat. “Got it.”


    “Also,” Calvin continues, “you will be allowed to bring one assistant—or sous chef, rather—of your


    Material ? of N?velDrama.Org.


    choosing to help you during thepetition. Only one. Choose wisely.”


    “Of course,” I say, already wondering who I would bring. John, most likely. Or maybe Ethan. He doesn’t


    have much experience behind the line, but he’s dependable.


    Calvin continues. “Each round will eliminate the lowest-scoring contestant until we’re down to the final


    two. It will be a spectacle, Abby, and a real challenge. And… It will be televised.”


    The adrenaline courses through me at his words. Challenge is exactly what I need right now,


    something to throw myself into, something that isn’t fraught with emotionalndmines like my current


    situation with Karl.


    But television? I’ve only been on the local news once for a brief five-minute interview.


    “I can sense your trepidation,” Calvin says, and I can hear his warm smile through the phone. “But don’t


    worry. Our producers are the best. Everything will be taken care of.”


    “Th-Thank you, Mr. Thompson,” I manage, swallowing.


    “We’re excited to have you, Abby,” Calvin assures me. “Check your email soon.”


    “I will… Thanks again,” I reply, the smile on my face probably wide enough to split it in two.


    As I hang up, I clutch my phone to my chest, my eyes fluttering closed for a brief, sacred moment. For


    the first time in a while, tears prick the corners of my eyes for a reason other than heartbreak or


    frustration. They’re tears of joy, of potential, of a future that’s finally looking bright.


    I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe this is real. I’ve worked so hard, faced so much, and


    now a new opportunity is unfurling in front of me like a path of golden breadcrumbs. And I want to


    follow it, wherever it may lead.


    With a final deep breath to center myself, I tuck my phone back into my pocket. It’s time to return to the


    battlefield that is my kitchen, to the tensions and trials that still await me there.


    …


    The kitchen is bustling with activity, the aroma of sautéed garlic and simmering sauces filling the air. I


    step in, ncing around at my team, my eyes falling on John. Beside him, where Karl should be, is


    empty.


    John is red-faced, and the intensity of his re could probably singe the chopped vegetables beside


    him. His mood is as palpable as the heat emanating from the stovetops. I steel myself for what’s


    “What happened? Where’s Karl?” I venture cautiously, already suspecting the answer.


    John’s eyes lock onto mine. “Your newest prodigy, the illustrious Karl…” He spits the name out like it


    makes him sick. “...Just stormed out. On his first night on the line. He threw down his apron and


    everything. What a diva.”


    I sigh, a heavy, world-weary exhtion. “Okay, thanks for letting me know. I’ll handle it,” I say, already


    pivoting on my heels. I don’t want to be caught in the crossfire between these two. Not now.


    Exiting through the back door, the cold air in the alleyway hits me like a wave, washing away the heat


    and grime of the kitchen. There’s Karl, leaning against the brick wall. He’s holding a cigarette up to his


    lips, and as I approach, I hear him mutter something, a soft curse, beneath his breath.


    He seems to bepletely absorbed in his own turbulent world, unaware that I’m here.


    “Karl.” I break the silence. “What happened back there?”


    He’s startled, dropping ash from his cigarette. When he turns to face me, his eyes are smoldering.


    “What happened? What happened is, I’m doing my best, Abby. You wanted me to fit in, I tried. You


    wanted me to get along with Chloe, I said I would put in an effort. Now this, apprenticing under John?”


    His voice is tinged with incredulity and rises with every word.


    “Do you have any idea what it’s like, listening to that man bark orders at me all evening?” he continues,


    the vein on his forehead popping a little. “I’m doing this for you, but it feels like you’re ying some kind


    of game with me, like you’re raising the stakes every time I meet your ridiculous challenges.”


    His words jab at me, striking nerves I’ve been trying to soothe since our world crumbled. It’s too much. I


    can’t hold back anymore.


    “Raising the stakes? You think I’m raising the stakes?” My voice quivers with emotion, but I let it. “You


    walked out on our marriage, Karl. You divorced me over usations that had no basis in reality, didn’t


    even tell me what they were or give me a chance to exin myself until a few weeks ago. You broke


    my heart. And you use me of making this difficult?”


    He opens his mouth to say something, perhaps to defend himself or to cut me off, but I’m not done.


    The dam has broken and years of pent-up pain are flooding out.


    “Since the day you left me, my wolf has been in aa, Karl.” I practically spit the words at him, each


    syble heavy with the gravity of my confession.


    There’s a beat of silence. His eyes, those stormy eyes I used to lose myself in, widen in what could


    only be described as astonishment, maybe mixed with a touch of remorse. It’s as though he’s seeing


    me clearly for the first time in a long while, taking in the depth of the fissures that have cracked the


    foundation of who we used to be to each other.


    For a moment, I see a flicker of something in his eyes—shock, realization, maybe even guilt.


    “Abby…” He takes a step closer, his eyes wider than they were before. “Your wolf is gone?”