Adrian stared at the vial. “And why would you give this to someone you mocked a few hours ago?” Dorovan smiled — soft, tired, almost regretful. “Because I was wrong,” he said. “And because… I want to see you rise. Maybe it’s foolish, but I don’t want to stand in the way of a chef like you.” He added quietly, “Maybe cheering for you is easier than competing against you.” He placed the vial in Adrian’s hand and closed his fingers around it, gently, like a man giving a blessing. “Use it for the European round,” Dorovan murmured. “Or don’t. But know it comes with respect. Nothing more.” His tone was warm. His posture humble. Every word perfectly placed. If Adrian had been anyone else, the manipulation would have slipped straight under his skin, sweet and convincing. But Adrian wasn’t foolish. He felt the duality — sincerity layered over something… rehearsed. But he also felt the man’s age, his exhaustion, and maybe even a touch of genuine admiration. So he responded simply, “T

Just then, a slow, deliberate applause echoed from behind her.“Well said,” a smooth voice chimed in. “Truly. Every word.”Ruth stepped forward.She was dressed impeccably, as always —cream blazer, gold accents, hair swept back in that effortless way that screamed control. Her smile was polite, practiced, and dangerous. She glanced at Helen briefly, not with concern, but with irritation, like one looks at a chess piece that has moved out of place.“Honestly,” Ruth continued, stepping beside Fabio’s mother as if they had always been allies, “I’ve been saying this for years. The Cross children are… emotional. Especially this one.” She gestured toward Helen lightly. “Stubborn. Romantic. Always chasing ideals instead of outcomes.”Helen’s jaw tightened. “Aunt Ruth…”Ruth raised a finger. “No, darling. Let me finish. I’m trying to save you from yourself.”She turned to Fabio’s mother and extended a hand. “Ruth Brown. Owner of Repas Du Ciel.”Recognition flickered instantly.Fabio’s mother

With this, Adrian kissed Helen on her forehead in the presence of all of the viewers and bystanders and held her hand to lead her to the kitchen door. He watched her go and nodded in response to her wave. As he watched her go, he caught a glimpse of Vanessa sitting in the crowd right next to Bobby. For the brief… very brief moment, their eyes locked and Adrian could tell that Vanessa was pale. She looked sick.Adrian, uninterested in her physical or psychological condition, gently shut the door and turned around to face the next challenge. He walked right past Theresa Romero, Ruth Brown, and her daughter, Alora. They could not say a word in response to Adrian’s spiking speech. Apparently, Theresa had thought Adiran was an imbecile who could not stand up for himself, let alone talk back at her, a billionaire’s wife. But to her greatest shock, Adrian not only ignored every single thing that was said, but he also called her a bad mother without ever opening his mouth.It was in the way

Adrian stood very still in front of his station, the golden bottle resting in his palm like something that did not belong there. The kitchen around him roared back to life — burners igniting, steel clanging, assistants calling times — but for a moment, all of it felt distant, muffled, as though he had stepped underwater while the rest of the world remained above the surface.He lifted the bottle again and brought it closer to his nose.Slowly.Carefully.Not the careless sniff of a novice, not even the confident inhale of a seasoned chef, but the kind of measured breathing used by men who understood that smell was memory, warning, invitation, and deception all at once. Too much grammar that can be summed up perfectly in one word… perfection!Everything he knew came from a bloodline of legends. He was the true God of Chefs, even if the world didn't know it yet. Nothing was a challenge for him—not crushing his opponents in every round, and not mastering the Dragon Sauce. Even this 'myst

Entity lingered before approaching his station, microphone in hand, eyes sharp with amusement. “And finally,” she said slowly, turning toward him, “Mr. Adrian West. The chef who insists he is something special.”She tilted her head, pretending to sniff the air again. “Well… let’s see if he’s a chef tonight… or something else.”The words landed heavier than intended.“Something else?” Helen thought sharply, her gaze snapping to Entity’s face as the implication settled in. Why would she even say that? Why introduce that word here, now?Adrian didn’t flinch.He stood still as the first judge approached, lifting the lid from the European plate. “Please,” Adrian said quietly, stepping back half a pace, gesturing toward the dish. His voice was calm. Polite. Almost gentle.The judge took a bite.At first, nothing happened.He chewed thoughtfully, brows drawing together as he processed the flavors. He swallowed. Took another bite, slower this time. His expression shifted — not to pleasure or