By the second round of the competition, my dad’s calls were like death warrants, several a day. Every time I picked up, he’d either ask about my progress or subtly inquire, “Weiwei, have you… have you met that Wang boy yet? The Wang family said that as long as you nod, the money will be there immediately, and the restaurant will be saved.” Hearing his cautious tone, my heart felt heavy. I knew he wasn’t trying to force me; he was genuinely desperate, so desperate he couldn’t even consider his daughter’s happiness.

“Dad, can you stop rushing me? This competition isn’t over yet!” My voice had a hint of anger, but it quickly softened. “I’ll figure something out, just trust me.” He sighed. “Weiwei, Dad knows you’re capable, but how can you just win this competition? Look at Lucas, he’s from a prestigious family, with powerful backing. You’re all alone, how can you compete with him?” I smiled bitterly. Alone? I had a dad pressuring me to marry and a restaurant on the brink of collapse.

While I was under immense pressure, Lucas wasn’t having an easy time either. Once, I accidentally overheard his conversation with Emily. Emily’s voice was urgent, seemingly reporting bad news: “Mr. Lucas, your father called again. He demands that you win this competition, otherwise, he will reclaim your shares in the family business, and it might even affect your mother’s inheritance.” My heart skipped a beat. So he also had such immense pressure. I always thought a young master born with a silver spoon like him would have a smooth life, but it turns out he had his own difficulties.

Lucas’s voice sounded weary: “I understand, Emily, you can go now.” He hung up, then sat on the lounge sofa, covering his face with his hands. He seemed to sink into the sofa, looking so vulnerable and helpless. At that moment, I suddenly felt that he wasn’t so annoying after all. At least, he wasn’t the kind of person who would kick someone when they’re down; he even had a certain… damn chivalrous spirit? We were both, one for the old restaurant, one for the family, tightly bound by the ropes of fate. I felt like I had fallen into a swamp, and the more I struggled, the deeper I sank. And that wedding dress for the arranged marriage was like a giant rock pressing down on me, suffocating me, making even my breath taste of desperate rust.

I looked at him, and a strange feeling suddenly arose within me. Although we were rivals, in some ways, we were like two people suffering from the same affliction. We were both suffocated by our respective families and responsibilities. I didn’t know what he would do, but I knew I had to win, not just for the restaurant, but for myself, to prove that I, Lin Wei, was nobody’s subordinate, and certainly nobody’s pawn!

The second round of “Kitchen Showdown” had the theme “Taste of Home.” The directors probably wanted to see Lucas and me continue to bicker to boost ratings. I scoffed internally. Taste of home? That’s definitely my turf. My Lin Wei’s wontons could easily beat his fancy French dishes. Lucas, on the other hand, chose to make a traditional French bisque from his hometown.

As soon as the competition started, I went into “Lin Wei mode,” my movements swift and precise, knife skills sharp, the wok sizzling with oil, fragrant steam wafting everywhere. I saw Lucas, still elegant, meticulously preparing ingredients, every step seemingly calculated. His “serene” demeanor made my blood boil.

Just as I was about to season my wontons, I suddenly felt a shadow behind me. I turned around and saw Lucas walking past me, carrying a bowl of bisque. He might not have noticed I was turning, or perhaps I turned too quickly; either way, we collided with a thud. Half the bisque in his hand spilled onto my chef’s coat, and the other half splashed onto my cutting board. And my chili oil, quite “accidentally,” splattered all over him.

I looked at his pristine white chef’s coat, now dotted with red chili oil, and secretly gloated. Serves him right! Why did he have to hover around me? He was practically asking for it! “Watch where you’re going!” I snapped, annoyed. His face was livid, his blue eyes blazing, but he quickly suppressed it. He forced down his anger and, in his accented English, said, “Ms. Lin, please mind your language, and your… chili oil.” He gestured to the red oil on himself, his voice laced with suppressed fury.

“I swear, I didn’t do it on purpose. Who told him to have a face that just begged to be slapped? My hand just slipped, who told him to hover around me, wasn’t he asking for it?” I retorted, my mouth sharp, though I was secretly a little flustered. After all, if this was edited by the directors, our “bickering” image would become even more ingrained. He took a deep breath, seemingly trying to calm himself, then, surprisingly, he picked up a spare chef’s coat nearby and silently changed into it, without saying another word.

This scene was recorded by the cameras, and when the episode aired, it indeed caused an uproar. Netizens commented that Lucas and I were simply “bickering lovers,” a prime example of “loving to hate.” Some even said our “chili oil splash” incident was more exciting than any dish. I looked at the comments, feeling both annoyed and helpless. Annoyed that our relationship was being over-exploited; helpless that this “bickering” seemed to have become our label. But I also noticed that Lucas, when faced with such “accidents,” although angry, didn’t explode as I had expected. He just silently endured it and continued with his competition. At that moment, a tiny, almost imperceptible curiosity about him sparked within me.

To prepare for the next round of the competition, I’ve been practically living in the studio kitchen, practicing until late at night. My dad’s calls about the arranged marriage drove me crazy, and the restaurant’s situation kept me awake. I could only pour all my energy into cooking. I thought I was the most hardworking person in the world, until that night.

It was one in the morning, and the entire studio was quiet except for the hum of the air conditioning. I was staring blankly at a pot of braised pork belly, trying to figure out how to make it both spicy and fragrant like Sichuan cuisine, yet appealing to Western judges. Suddenly, I heard a faint sound from the kitchen next door. Curious, I walked over and peered through the glass window. It was Lucas.

He was wearing a simple T-shirt, his hair a bit disheveled, and fine beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. He held a small knife, carefully preparing a piece of foie gras. He didn’t have his usual arrogant and disdainful look from in front of the cameras. At this moment, he was completely immersed in his own world. His gaze was focused and serious, every movement like that of a seasoned artist, precise and elegant. He sliced the foie gras into thin pieces, then carefully arranged them on a plate with tweezers, striving for perfection in every detail.

I saw him trying different cooking methods repeatedly with a single ingredient, meticulously recording the temperature and time for each attempt. He even used a small notebook to draw diagrams of the ingredient’s structure. He mumbled to himself, seemingly talking to the ingredient, or perhaps just to himself. That dedication to his craft, that respect for ingredients, made my heart skip a beat. Wasn’t this just like my dad? He was also like this, pondering over a bowl of wontons his whole life, perfecting every single detail.

I had always thought he was just a pretentious show-off, but surprisingly, beneath that facade, there was true skill, and even a certain… damn charm. His pure love and passion for cooking were so real, so powerful, that I began to wonder if I had greatly misunderstood him before. At that moment, I suddenly felt that we, perhaps, weren’t so different after all. We both loved our cooking, and we both poured our everything into it.

The competition was progressing rapidly, but the pressure in my heart grew heavier. The arranged marriage was like a giant stone pressing down on me, suffocating me. The Wang family seemed impatient; they directly sent wedding photo brochures to the restaurant, along with an invitation card with a clear wedding date. I looked at the brochure with the potato-man’s big headshot on it, my stomach churning.

My dad’s face also turned pale when he saw the brochure. He trembling hands reached out and stroked my head, his voice filled with endless guilt: “Weiwei, it’s Dad’s fault. Dad is useless. I couldn’t save the restaurant, and I’m making you suffer like this.” His appearance made me feel even worse. How could I not know his difficulties? But I just couldn’t accept it, couldn’t accept marrying myself off like this, couldn’t accept Lin’s Wontons being handed over.

That night, I sat alone in the restaurant, looking at the old tables and chairs under the dim lights, the photos of my grandparents on the wall, and that plaque that read “Lin’s Wontons, Hundred-Year Legacy.” Tears streamed down my face. I felt like I was trapped in a giant cage, with walls on all sides, each wall inscribed with “arranged marriage,” “bankruptcy,” “failure.” I was suffocating, even my breath carried the heavy scent of dust. I picked up my phone, wanting to text Xiao Chen, asking if he had any ideas, but my finger hovered over the screen, unsure what to say. Could I really rely on a freshly graduated kitchen assistant to solve such a huge problem for me?

I even thought about just leaving, going somewhere no one knew me, and starting over. But what about my dad? What about Lin’s Wontons? That’s my family’s root! I couldn’t do it. I could only watch myself, step by step, walk into that abyss. This feeling of powerlessness was more despair-inducing than any difficult dish. I even began to doubt whether coming to this competition was right or wrong. If I lost, wouldn’t everything be in vain? I was losing even the strength to resist, worn down by this endless pressure.

In one team competition, I was assigned to a completely unfamiliar area—desserts. I’m a person who usually deals with oil, salt, and vinegar; I know absolutely nothing about those fancy desserts. Looking at the various creams, chocolates, and fruits in front of me, it felt harder than asking me to go to the moon. I tried several times, all ending in failure, even making a mess of the oven. I was incredibly frustrated, feeling like a clumsy apprentice.

Just as I was about to give up, Lucas suddenly walked over. He held a damp towel in his hand and offered it to me, his voice calm: “Ms. Lin, you seem to need to cool down.” I was stunned. I looked up at him; his face didn’t have his usual mocking smile, but rather a hint of imperceptible concern. I took the towel, wiped the sweat from my forehead, feeling a bit awkward.

“What are you doing here? To mock me?” I asked, annoyed. He raised an eyebrow, a hint of helplessness in his tone: “I just think an excellent chef shouldn’t be stumped by something as trivial as dessert.” He walked to my workstation, picked up the ingredients I had messed up, and started cleaning. His movements were skilled, and he quickly tidied up my “crime scene.” Then, he picked up a piece of chocolate, carefully shaved off a sliver with a small knife, and handed it to me: “Try this. This is my mother’s favorite dark chocolate. She said it can cure all unhappiness.”

I looked at the chocolate he offered, a mix of emotions swirling inside me. His mother? He was actually sharing something about his mother with me? I hesitated for a moment, then took the chocolate and put it in my mouth. Bitter with a hint of sweetness, it indeed had a strange healing power. He continued, “Dessert, like Chinese cuisine, is all about balance. Sweet but not cloying, fragrant but not overpowering, that’s what makes it memorable.” As he spoke, he picked up some ingredients and demonstrated a few simple dessert-making methods. He didn’t mock me or scold me; he just patiently guided me.

At that moment, I suddenly felt that he wasn’t so annoying after all. At least, he wasn’t the kind of person who would kick someone when they’re down; he even had a certain… damn chivalrous spirit? My whole life, I’ve hated owing favors, especially to someone as arrogant as him, someone I wanted to hit with a wok spatula! But this time, it seemed I really did owe him one. He helped me out of a tight spot and gave me a new perspective on desserts. I looked at him, silently thinking that perhaps, this arrogant French aristocrat also harbored an unknown gentleness deep down. This debt of gratitude was truly… damnably hard to repay!

As the competition intensified, the uneasy feeling in my heart grew stronger. I just felt like something was off, like cooking a dish where the ingredients were fine and the heat was perfect, but there was an indescribable, strange taste.

First, there was Emily, Lucas’s assistant. She was always so capable and meticulous, but these past few days, I noticed she was always rushing around, her eyes anxious and evasive. Once, I saw her secretly talking to a strange man in a corner. The man was dressed in black and wore a hat, looking furtive. When I walked over, they immediately separated, and Emily’s face visibly changed when she saw me, then she hurried away. I wondered, what was that woman up to? Did Lucas have some secret