Constrained by the small size of Charlotte's rented apartment, the kitchen, despite being carefully decorated, felt a bit cramped when two great chefs were in it simultaneously. Charlotte invited Marco to the farm outside the city. The kitchen there was spacious enough for Marco to showcase his exquisite culinary skills more freely, especially his amazing knife work.
Charlotte had never met a man who could julienne a carrot faster than she could blink.
But Marco?
Marco was slicing vegetables at lightning speed, each motion smooth, controlled, and terrifyingly precise—like he'd trained with samurai or starred in a slow-motion chef action movie.
"Did you just… dice a shallot midair?" she asked, squinting.
Marco grinned, tossing the perfectly chopped bits into a sizzling pan. "It's all about the wrist. And years of slicing onions in Bangkok at 2 a.m. for a night market vendor who didn't believe in cutting boards."
Charlotte blinked. "Okay, now you're just making things up."
"Am not," he said, flipping the pan with a flourish. "You've been to France. But have you ever cooked paella in Valencia, with a fisherman, who didn't speak English, but did threaten to stab me with a sardine if I stirred the rice?"
"…That oddly specific threat makes me believe you."
Marco smirked. "Good. Because I'm about to blow your mind with five ways to use sumac that'll change your palate forever."
---
Charlotte learned more from Marco than she had in months of self-study. He showed her how to balance acidity with crushed pomegranate seeds, how a pinch of Japanese yuzu salt could elevate a grilled peach, and that not every spice needed to be loud—some just needed to hum in the background like jazz.
They cooked for hours, experimenting with fusion dishes.
At night, they stretched sore muscles and discussed food philosophies over protein smoothies.
And then, Marco said it.
"You know, if you're serious about this competition, we should train."
Charlotte blinked mid-sip. "Train?"
Marco raised an eyebrow, his tone innocent. "Physically. Cooking's an endurance sport, Evans. You're on your feet for hours, under pressure, lifting, chopping, dodging sabotage—"
"Sarcasm?"
"Experience," he said with a knowing smirk. "Come on. I'll coach you. Squats, planks, battle ropes. I'll even hold your hand through burpees."
Charlotte groaned. "You're enjoying this way too much."
He winked. "You haven't seen me in compression shorts yet."
She nearly choked on her smoothie.
---
One afternoon.
They were mid-lunge when Olivia stormed into the barn-turned-gym, hair windswept, phone clutched in her hand like it had personally offended her.
"Charlotte. CHARLOTTE."
Charlotte froze mid-squat. "What? Oh God. Did my video get flagged for 'inappropriate use of hummus'?"
"No!" Olivia marched over, shoved her phone into Charlotte's face. "This!"
Onscreen was a blurry photo of Charlotte and Alexander standing near the elevator at Hastings Tower—her arms crossed, his hands in his pockets, both looking vaguely annoyed and deeply awkward. The caption read:
"Guess who's back? Charlotte Evans still chasing Mr. CEO? Sources say she never gave up…"
Charlotte frowned. "Wow. That's... creative."
"There's more," Olivia snapped, scrolling. "Apparently you used to throw yourself at Alexander Hastings. Like, publicly. Obsessively. Desperately."
Charlotte rolled her eyes. "Which, okay, fine—maybe not entirely false."
"They called you a 'clout-chasing ex-rich girl with no shame,'" Olivia growled. "And you know what the worst part is? I'm not even in the photo. They edited me out! Like I was some sad, invisible assistant! I was literally RIGHT THERE!"
Marco walked over, towel around his neck, curious. "Let me see."
He took the phone, brows lifting. "Hmm. Dramatic lighting. Grainy filter. Oh look, they even made Alexander's jaw sharper."
Charlotte snorted. "Yeah, probably Victoria's doing. Only she weaponizes Photoshop and humiliation with that much finesse."
"Who's Victoria?" Marco asked.
"Rich, mean, and constantly clinging to Alexander's arm like a couture barnacle," Olivia offered.
Marco handed back the phone and looked at Charlotte. "So what if you chased him? Big deal. You had feelings. You were brave enough to go for it."
Charlotte blinked. "Wait, you're not… judging me?"
He shrugged. "Love isn't supposed to be calculated. It's supposed to be messy. Loud. Sometimes embarrassing. Anyone who makes you feel bad for trying doesn't understand what real courage looks like."
Charlotte stared at him, momentarily stunned. She wasn't used to men—especially ridiculously hot men—defending her past like that.
"I mean," Marco added, flashing a grin, "if I had a girl like you chasing me, I'd thank the universe and hand her a damn GPS."
Olivia clapped. "Okay, that was smooth. Write that down, Charlotte."
Charlotte laughed, cheeks flushed. "You guys are ridiculous."
But something inside her melted. Maybe it was the validation. Or maybe it was just… finally letting herself breathe.
She looked at Marco. "Truth is, I was kinda dead-set on Alexander. Like, one-track-mind, romcom-heroine dumb. Thought he was it. But honestly?" She snorted. "He's not that deep. He's smart, sure, and hot, yeah, but his mood swings? His emotional unavailability? That weird thing he does where he glares at you like he's brooding but really he's just hungry? Like, get a granola bar, dude."
Marco laughed. "Sounds like a real delight."
Charlotte giggled. "He once ghosted me for three weeks because I told him I liked pineapple on pizza."
"He what?!"
"Exactly."
They were still laughing when a quiet but very familiar voice cut through the barn air:
"I see I've walked in on something… enlightening.Wasn't it you who deliberately put a lot of salt in the pineapple that time?And if my memory serves me right, there was also some mustard in it."
Charlotte froze.
Marco turned.
And there, standing just inside the open barn doors, was Alexander Hastings himself, arms crossed, face unreadable.
Beside him stood Eleanor Hastings, beaming like she'd just arrived at Disneyland.
"Oh look," Eleanor said brightly. "It's our favorite chef! And my son, who insisted on coming along because he missed the fresh air."
Charlotte's soul left her body.
This wasn't just a coincidence.
This was the sequel to elevator hell—only now she was in gym leggings, sweaty, and halfway through telling her hot new cooking coach that her ex-crush was emotionally constipated.
Perfect.
Absolutely. Freaking. Perfect.