THE NEXT FEW hours were a blur. All I wanted to do was go up to the competitors’ dorms, crawl under the covers, and pray it had been a bad dream. But I wasn’t allowed to.

There were exit interviews to be filmed, paperwork to be filled out, and bags to be packed. The remaining five chefs said goodbye again, this time off-camera. We’d been together for four weeks as friends, competitors, and survivors of the strange situation known as reality television. I wished them luck, they wished me luck, and that was that.

A production assistant called me a cab, gave me a hotel voucher, and told me about my flight back home tomorrow.

But I couldn’t leave.

Instead of climbing into the taxi, I walked along the parking lot of the complex as the bright California sun crept slowly downward. I didn’t have a conscious destination in mind, but my feet somehow led me to the entrance of the studio. Studying the door I would never enter again, I thought about the set inside, about the kitchen where I’d made magic happen up until today. Tentatively, I reached out. The door was not locked. Without pausing to think, I opened it and went in.

It was dark now. No frantic chefs cutting, chopping, sautéing, and working so hard they forgot about the lights, the cameras. No Chef Bryant barking orders, biting people’s heads off, yet somehow compelling us to create culinary masterpieces.

And I wouldn’t be a part of it ever again. As much as that thought hurt, what was worse was the look of derision on Chef Bryant’s face tonight. I’d let him down. I’d let myself down.

How could I have overcooked the lamb like that? In my life before Chef Bryant, before being selected to appear on Kitchen Tyrant, I’d been a sous chef, preparing hundreds of scrumptious meals each week under the head chef at my former restaurant in Kansas City. Sure I’d felt stifled, never having full control of the kitchen, but I done a good job. Being a chef was the only career I’d ever considered. I’d worked all through high school to afford culinary school. Cooking was my calling, and I was good at it.

Good enough to get to the top six, but no farther, apparently. I briefly wondered who would win the top prize of one hundred thousand dollars and six months at a Parisian culinary institute. Since it couldn’t be me, I hoped it was Victoria.

I wheeled my suitcase through the kitchen and deeper into the set, past the cameras, the lights, the cables. Eventually, I reached a wall, so I sank down onto the cold concrete floor. I hugged my jeans-covered knees to my chest, but I didn’t cry. It was still too new, my mind was still taking all this in.

I’m not sure how much time passed. Eventually, my muscles grew too stiff for me to remain on the floor, so I got slowly to my feet. I knew I hadn’t done myself any favors by coming back here. I’d had some great triumphs in this kitchen, but my last memory was of being kicked out. Of being humiliated by my idol.

I plodded slowly toward the front of the set, pulling out my phone as I went. I’d need to call another cab—I had no idea how far away the hotel was. I’d barely turned it on when a noise made me look up. The front door of the studio, still twenty feet in ahead of me, had just opened. A sliver of brightness from the lights in the parking lot flashed across the gleaming stainless steel kitchen counters. I pressed my phone against my thigh, hiding its screen.

A shadow cut through the triangle of light and then the door swung closed. I knew someone had entered, but who? No one was supposed to be here right now, including me. Was it a member of the production crew or cleaning staff? If so, wouldn’t they turn on the lights?

Footsteps. Coming closer. I tensed up, telling myself that there was no reason to be scared. Still, I raised up on my toes, trying to make the most of my five-foot-two height. Then there was a thud and a muffled curse. “Bloody hell!”

I knew that accent. I knew that voice. Pretty much every television-owning person in the world knew that voice. It belonged to the man who had called my lamb a culinary crime on national television today.

I couldn’t face him, not after that. I tried to melt back into the shadows, but there wasn’t anywhere for me to go. And he was getting closer. His head turned, perhaps sensing movement.

“Who’s there?” He was much nearer now. And even though I’d spent my entire adult life with a huge crush on him, he was the last person I wanted to run into right now. Seeing him after he kicked me out was pretty much my worst nightmare on top of my worst nightmare. But it was too late. He already knew someone was here.

“It’s me. Cheyenne.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I—I just wanted a little time,” I said.

He strode toward me, looking more celebrity than chef. He had on jeans, a tight t-shirt, and a black leather jacket. He frowned at me. “They were supposed to pack you off to the hotel.”

“I know. I wanted to see the kitchen one more time.”

“Well, unless you can see in the dark, you’re shit out of luck. Off you go, you can’t be in here.”

I transferred my phone to my other hand and grabbed the handle of my suitcase. But Chef Bryant zeroed in on my phone. He held out his hand and demanded, “Give me that.”

I handed it over instantly. Seven years of watching his show, not to mention eight episodes of participating in it, had taught me to follow his orders immediately, without question. If I hadn’t learned that lesson early on, I wouldn’t have made it to the final six.

He swiped the screen open, examining it. Did he think I’d been taking pictures of the set? Or that I’d told a news agency that I’d been kicked out? Yeah, like that was something I wanted spread around. I knew the rules. I’d signed all the confidentiality agreements.

A moment later, I heard a faint ringing from deeper in the studio. Chef Bryant turned on his heel and strode away from me. Tentatively, I followed him out of the kitchen area. Even through my pain, I couldn’t help but admire the way his jeans cradled his ass in the dim light. During a large part of the competition, he’d been too scary to drool over. Since this was my last chance to see him in person, I memorized as much of him as I could.

The other phone stopped ringing, but I spotted it up ahead on a table, glowing blue. Chef Bryant grabbed it and abruptly reversed course, pushing past me back to the kitchen area. He had a scowl on his face—his usual expression when he was in the studio. I knew he was capable of flashing his white, even teeth in a grin, but I had only seen that smile a few times during the month I’d been here. It appeared more regularly in photographs of him with a gorgeous actress or model on his arm. He looked happy in those pictures. I supposed it was only chefs-in-training and occasionally paparazzi who received the brunt of his anger.

Back in the kitchen, he tossed my phone on the steel countertop, pocketing his. “Okay, time for you to go back to mummy and daddy in Nebraska.”

In spite of my current mood, a small spike of irritation rippled through me. “We’re from Kansas.”

“Yet they named you Cheyenne. This is not my bloody country, and even I know that’s in Wyoming.”

To my surprise, my temper was growing. I’d spent the past month responding in a nervous squeak when he spoke to me, blushing like a school girl when he praised me, and cowering in fear when he yelled. Yet suddenly, I wanted to stand up to him. Maybe because at this point, I had nothing to lose.

And who was he anyway to criticize my name? Or my parents? They’d been interviewed for the first episode. Most the other competitors had spouses, significant others, or kids. I didn’t even have a boyfriend, so the only people they talked to about me were my parents. Ever since then, Chef Bryant had managed to bring up the fact that I still lived with my parents again and again, making me feel like a child.

Okay, so I was definitely getting pissed off. I opened my mouth to tell him to lay off my family, but then something entirely different came out. “I can cook lamb, you know.”

He leaned against the countertop, folding his arms across his chest. He seemed unfazed by my change of subject. “Sure. In mummy and daddy’s kitchen, while they’re watching the football game on the telly. Or as a chef-in-training at Uncle Frank’s Diner or wherever it was you worked. But what good is that if you can’t do it in a real kitchen with the whole line working at top speed and hungry customers waiting for their food? It’s the difference between being a chef and a cook, love.” His accent was stronger now, as it always was when he was being sarcastic or biting. Which was most of the time.

My pulse quickened, and my anger transformed into hunger—a hunger to prove myself. There were no cameras on now, no audience watching, but if I could just show him that I could cook that lamb dish right, then I’d at least always have that to hold onto—even if no one else knew about it. This was my last chance to impress Bryant the Tyrant.

“Let me show you I can cook it.”

“Show’s over. You had your chance.”

“Please, it’s really important to me. I want to show you I can do it.”

“And I want to go home. I’m not paid to massage the ego of failed contestants.”

He turned his back on me, but this time I was in no mood to enjoy that view. I scooted around him and blocked his way.

“I know I’m a good cook,” I said, looking into his eyes.

“So why do you care what the hell I think?”

“Because ... ” It was a reasonable question, one that I couldn’t answer immediately. Today had been so awful. He’d yelled at me, insulted my cooking in front of everyone. In front of all the other chefs. In front of the whole of America once the episode aired. In front of the people who hired chefs for restaurants. No way I’d get a head chef position after people saw this episode.

And my failure was all I’d remember from this whole situation if it ended like this. The truth was, I’d learned a ton from Chef Bryant. I’d learned a lot about cooking under pressure. What I needed now was a win, a way to redeem myself, if I were ever to have the confidence to set foot in a professional kitchen again, let alone apply for a position as a head chef.

All of that was running through my head, but what I actually said was completely lame. “Because ... I just do.”

He snorted.

I tried again. “Please, I really need to show you I know what I’m doing. That I’m a good cook.”

“You are a good cook. You’ve been spot on with every fish dish you made. You’re creative. When you won that asinine Australian protein competition, your dish was restaurant-worthy. I haven’t tasted ‘roo that good since I left home. But your instincts were off today with the lamb. I was watching. What, did you think the producers flipped a coin and said okay, the little one is the next to go? You fucked up. You’re inconsistent with meat. One time it’s perfect, the next time, I wouldn’t feed it to a dead dingo. You don’t have a feel for it.”

His words rang true, and connected with one of my oldest fears, that I wasn’t good enough. And I couldn’t stand that thought. “Then show me. Please ... I want to become a head chef. Please teach me.”

He straightened up. “Sorry, love. I don’t give private lessons. It really is time for you to bugger off.” His eyes swept over my face one last time, and then he left me there. Alone. In the dark. With my misery.

Perhaps it was hearing the same parting phrase he’d used before that made the tears finally come. It was all too much. All the anxiousness I’d felt this morning before the competition had started. The uneasy feeling during the taping that my food wasn’t making the grade. Being kicked out in front of the others. It all caught up with me and I couldn’t help sobbing. It was just too much.

I heard the door to the studio open, but I didn’t look. I didn’t want to watch him leave. Seeing that—it would be the final, visual proof that I’d blown my big chance. But the light spilling from the doorway remained in my peripheral vision much longer than it should have. Finally, I looked up.

He was still standing there, his back to me. I froze, trying to keep my crying quiet. The last thing I needed right now was more yelling. He hovered there for a long minute, and I don’t think my heart beat during it. But then he stepped back inside and shut the door.