Chasing His Kickass Luna Back
Chapter 0264

I'll have to be at my best on Saturday, to cook like I've never cooked before. I'll need to plan a menu that showcases not just my skills but my spirit. And I'll have to pour every ounce of passion I have onto those plates.

Saturday. The judges. My kitchen.

I can do this. I hope.

As I step into my kitchen—my home kitchen, rather than my restaurant kitchen—I stop for a moment, taking in the mess.

Takeout food containers are stacked by the trash can. The counter, rather than being cluttered with cooking utensils, is covered in junk mail and empty drink glasses. The sink is full, and yet I haven't cooked a goddamn thing since I lost the cook-off.

Two weeks.

It's been two whole weeks since I've cooked anything more complex than toast in here. And now, with the chance to cater the Alpha party, my mind is foggier than ever. I can't even come up with a menu, something that would have popped into my mind in an instant two weeks ago.

I need to research. That's what I'll do: I'll research. I'm definitely not procrastinating, right? Dragging my feet to the counter, I pull open my laptop. Maybe the internet will inspire some brilliance. The keys feel cool under my fingers, and the screen blinks to life, brightening the dimly lit room.

Clicking through recipes, my eyes glaze over. Fusion? Too risky. Classic French? Too expected. Every idea feels either too bold or too safe, and there's no in-between. I tap my finger on the counter, growing impatient by the second.

And then, out of nowhere, a memory notification pops up. A photo from a time when everything seemed brighter and simpler. My eyes widen as I enlarge it, and my hand instinctively moves over my mouth.

There's Karl and me, standing amidst the glitter and glow of a Alpha party from four years ago. He looks as handsome as ever in his black tuxedo, his smile as wide as it possibly can be, and there I am, leaning into him, my dark green dress elegant and hugging my curves in all the right places.

I can almost hear the laughter, the clinking of glasses, the soft swell of music. That night, I was so proud to be on his arm, so naive to how it would all unravel.

That was before...

For a moment, I'm back there, under the fairy lights, the air filled with the scent of champagne and perfume. I can still feel his hand on my waist, the way we swayed together to the soft pop music. But fairy lights go out, and promises break. My hand twitches toward my phone, itching to call him. I want to hear his voice, tell him what happened today. Maybe he'll have some ideas. Hell, maybe he'll want to come back and be my sous chef one last time before the Alpha party.

But no. I can't. This is a line I won't cross, a bridge that has long since burned. With a quiet curse under my breath, I snap my laptop shut and stand so abruptly that my kitchen stool scrapes abrasively against the floor.

The urge to call him is strong, but I'm stronger. I made a promise to myself two weeks ago: that I would put the past behind me once and for all. Behind us. Not just for me, but for him, too.

I won't drag him into my struggles again, not when he’s got his status as Alpha to worry about, and especially not when he's mad at me.

Deciding to leave the kitchen a mess for now, I flick the light off and retreat. There will be no cooking tonight, even though Saturday is only four days away.

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