I begged Wendy to pull me out of the Comic Con.

Yes, it was the opportunity of a lifetime, and yes, I'd been wanting to go for eons—but to be on a panel with Zane Rose? I couldn't. I wouldn't.

It would put an end to all the efforts I'd made to forget he existed.

I harassed her day and night with emails, texts, voicemails. I even considered showing up at her apartment, which was, coincidentally, in L.A., and I knew exactly where it was.

When she got back to me at last—without explaining why she'd sent me that bombshell of an email and then ignored me—she apologized, but assured me this was an optimal move for my career as an author.

"We need to tease your book release," she said to me, sounding hurried, not having much time to chat with me, one of her best-selling authors. "We're in pre-publication already, and we want to make sure we're drawing the right crowd and hyping you up. You being on that panel, and yes, with Zane Rose, will be great for book buzz."

I snickered, holding back the urge to throw my phone against the wall. "Is there no other panel I can be on? One that he's not on?"

"Trust me," she said, cutting in and out. "You on a panel with Zane Rose is exactly what you need to do. You've been distant, the whole Food Me! thing has sort of blown over, but now you're both authors and the world is curious if you've spoken about each other in your work. We know you haven't mentioned him; your book is all about cooking. But what has he done? What has he written?"

"What has he written?" I sneered at the tiled wall in front of me, imagining him in the reflection, holding up a book with a picture of his stupidly handsome face on the cover.

We'd last parted ways two, three months ago, and he was already releasing a book? I wasn't a pro, but as far as I was aware, it took years for most traditionally published books. Unless he'd been working on it all this time and only recently announced it?

"No clue—it's all really mysterious. He's self-publishing it, but he does have an agent helping him, for some reason? It's all super unconventional and strange, but whatever. Maybe it got rejected from traditional houses? Who knows." She still sounded rushed, eager to get me off the phone—which was unusual for her. "Anyway, I'll keep you posted if I hear anything else, but in the meantime...can I count on you for this? It's huge, Béatrice. We need you there."

I winced, nearly burning the breakfast I'd made for myself. I was in a permanent state of hangover for the past few days as I tried to reach her for explanations. Greasy bacon and sunny-side-up eggs were my jam for recovering from hangovers.

"Declining after you already accepted in my stead will make me look shitty, won't it?" I sighed.

Were she in front of me, she would have nodded. "It absolutely will. And Béatrice, I know you've been through some stuff these past few months. The show and its reception has been so left and right, from fervent supporters to people breaking you down. You need this exposure. We can only hope Zane will be on his best behavior. He suffered from all this, too, and I'm banking on him being smart enough to not be a public jackass again."

"Me, too," I said, hanging up and refocusing on my food, opting to trust my agent.

But I didn't trust Zane. Not one bit. Stunt after stunt, he proved he was a bitter jerk who was after money and fame. And while he cared about cooking, he cared about his cooking more than anything else.

In the weeks leading up to the conference, I endeavored not to let my stress and nerves get the best of me. But even as I kept busy, preparing myself for the panel, making edits according to my editor's requests, approving book covers, and researching the other chefs on the panel with me, I couldn't quit thinking of all the ways Zane's presence would undermine me.

He'd outshine me with his brand new and shiny book, for sure. But would that suffice for him? Or would he need to shame me again, this time in front of a bunch of industry professionals and supporters? Would he stoop that low?

I got my answer the week before I was set to fly out to New York. Creeping around the internet, trying to track Zane's every move—I needed to make sure I didn't bump into him at any time here in L.A.—I came across some early reviews of his novel.

"The heart-wrenching story of a son of Italian and Greek immigrants who met the wrong people who led him in the wrong direction."

"A stab in the gut—Zane Rose's prose is as delicious as his exquisite dishes. And he, unlike some, isn't picky."

Ouch—that one was a direct jab at me, I could tell. And because both these reviews seemed to hint at deeper issues than what he let show on the surface, I delved into more reviews. I got lost in the sea of five and four stars, impressed by the big-name authors and chefs who'd taken the time to read his work.

"The story of a man who learns from scratch, cooks from scratch, and speaks from his heart. Zane Rose takes us through a culinary journey that shows it's best to broaden your horizons and not keep all your doors closed."

"We all met Zane thanks to another renowned chef that we won't name, but that he has named many times in his novel. To finally get the truth, and brilliantly written, is refreshing."

"To finally get the truth?" I spat out my drink as I stared at my screen. I was halfway into a bottle of red—too much rosé made me immune to its effects—and slurring the words as I read them.

Heat flushed up my face as review after review subtly hinted at me, the atrocious picky chef who'd humiliated him on TV and forced him into seclusion so he wouldn't be harassed on the street.

Harassed? Him? There were so few articles showing him in a bad light. Even the ones that praised me steered clear of insulting him, which I appreciated. But now he was calling himself a victim? Now he was putting me in the negative spotlight I'd begged him not to?

I spent the next few nights online, instead of packing. Perusing every website, stalking every influencer's social media page, checking their recent Advanced Reader Copy reviews. Zane and his agent had done a great job with marketing; his book was on everyone's tongue. A spicy nonfiction tome for the ages, it was being called.

I located critiques that were more in depth on what he discussed in his book—and a lot of it was, to my utter detriment, about me. He actually name-dropped me on every other page. One reviewer complained about this, saying Zane shouldn't be blaming someone else for all his mistakes. I graced that particular reviewer with a follow on her Instagram.

I started taking notes. It was ridiculous and childish, I knew, but I had to compile a list of things to throw in his face when I saw him. If I saw him. I was considering more and more whether the ramifications of not attending the conference would be so bad for me. And whether I could—cough-cough—be suddenly too sick to go.

The night before my flight, I read through my notes. I read through all the ways Zane had supposedly mentioned me in his book.

"He counters all my takes on picky eating," I said, as I lounged on my bed, my bags half-packed, my mind only half-ready for this awful adventure. My first time at a huge Comic Con, and I would fuck it all up because Zane Rose was going to be there. "Speaks of his encounters with me and how unpleasant they were. Pft!" I almost ripped the paper out of the notebook to burn it. "He dares to imply the sex was horrible. Horrible?" I scoffed. "First off, who goes around talking about their one-night-stands like that? And second—motherfucker moaned the loudest when we fucked! What the hell?"

The rest of my list were scribbles about how he bad-mouthed me, made me out to be the villain in his story. I had barred him from succeeding by refusing to try his ratatouille, implying it wasn't good, he wasn't good.

Of course he distorted the truth. Of course he worked it all in his favor.

He was the mooch, the villain, profiting off me and my culinary choices. And fuck if I'd sit next to him on a panel and watch him berate me. Because naturally, many audience questions would go to him, and he wouldn't hold back on being blunt even though I'd be right there.

I called Wendy on my way to the airport the next morning. To my surprise, she answered at once.

"Are you boarding soon? All my flights are delayed due to weather, so I won't be arriving until the morning of the conference."

"Fine, fine." I fidgeted in the back-seat as Cole hauled through the miraculously empty highway taking us to LAX. "That's not why I'm calling."

"Béatrice," she cautioned, already exasperated with me. I'd sent her dozens of emails over the past few weeks with links to the reviews of Zane's book, begging her to reconsider sending me straight to hell. "Please tell me you're headed to the airport. You're going to New York. Please, please."

"I am," I huffed out, lowering my voice so Cole wouldn't worry about me losing it. He'd seen me throw quite a few fits lately, and I knew it was him who kept leaving business cards for therapists all over the house. No one else in my staff would ever dare. "As much as I don't want to do this, I understand the gravity of not doing it."

"Good." She was breathless. "What's going on, then?"

"I need a favor," I said, sighting the huge LAX sign in the distance. "I need a copy of Zane's book."

She went silent for a moment, and I worried she'd hung up the phone. "Seriously? Why?"

"You saw those reviews." I fished through my purse, double checking that I had my boarding passes. While everything was electronic nowadays, I still preferred a good old paper ticket. "I need to know what he said about me."

"I don't recommend doing that," said Wendy, her speech slowing down at last. "First off, you never should have read those reviews."

"And be unprepared for the bullshit he'll fling at me during the panel? Be taken aback when his groupies inundate me with crappy questions on whether everything he claims is true?" I growled under my breath. "You know me better than that, Wendy."

"I do, and I know you're spiraling down a rabbit hole right. Reading his book..."

"Can you get me a copy, or not?" I couldn't sit still, eager to break out of this car and hop on a plane and get out of this toxic town. I loved L.A., but it felt cramped, like it belonged to Zane now. Like I'd lost my throne, in a way.

Cole kept peering at me in the rearview mirror, and I averted my gaze. If he could, he'd squeeze into my luggage and come with me to New York. He was itching to go, I could tell, but I wanted him to hang back and take some time off. I didn't need him to chauffeur me around when the publisher would be paying for my Ubers during my three-day trip.

"I can." She went silent again, but I heard noise in the background, so I knew this time our connection hadn't broken off.

"And will you?"

"Béatrice—"

"—I swear, Wendy, if you don't get me a copy of that asshole's book I will not attend that panel. I'll embarrass myself, and you, and the rest of the team by boycotting one of the biggest events of my life."

The worst was, I wasn't joking. I'd been waiting for an excuse to skip this, and Wendy had given me the ultimatum I needed.

She released a set of heavy breaths before groaning into the receiver. "Fine. I'll pull some strings and see if I can get an ARC sent over to you ASAP. I assume you want it by tonight, when you land in New York?"

"Precisely." I hung up, promised Cole I'd be okay without him, and cruised through all the VIP airport lines and security checks before arriving at my packed terminal.

On the plane, I read up about the other chefs who'd be on the panel with us. On the Comic Con's official website, our panel was listed as Chefs Who Write Good Food, and all our pictures were displayed with a brief bio. My picture was first—I was the most famous out of us all. Following me was a chef who specialized in vegetarian food, one who was a vegan sensation, and a food-truck diva—their own nickname for themself, apparently.

The final was Zane Rose, which, I thought, drew even more attention to him. Like saving the best for last. It wouldn't have surprised me if he'd requested this honor.

It was only once I reached my Central Park view room that I received an email from Wendy with a pdf attachment labeled Cooking Up A Story.

Zane's book. Wow, what a cheesy title.

I squeaked, threw my luggage across the spacious room, and fell onto my bed to open the attachment up.

It started with the cover—his face, the one I'd avoided looking at on the Comic Con website. The one I tried so hard to erase from my mind.

He posed in a kitchen, where the colors were reminiscent of his apartment, but since I hadn't seen his kitchen, I couldn't be sure. He held an iron skillet in one hand, in the motion of shaking it. Mushrooms and peppers were hopping off the skillet, frozen in the air for the picture. He'd donned a denim apron that showed that he wasn't wearing anything underneath. A naked chef style image, that I'd normally roll my eyes at and disregard, calling it overplayed, overdone.

But this was Zane. I'd seen what was under that apron, up-close and personal. Those bulging arm muscles reminded me of when he'd held me up to fuck me. And that glitter in his eyes was the same as when he'd ogled me while I screamed his name.

Had I been holding a physical copy of the book, I'd have tossed it across the room. But this was on my phone, and I'd thrown my phone around so much lately that it shocked me it still functioned at all.

So I scrolled past the angrily sexy picture and read.

And read.

And read until the sun came up.

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