On the way back to L.A., after several days of getting lost in Parisian streets on purpose to delay my return, and keeping my head down, I thought. I thought a lot.

I rehashed all the events of the past month, everything leading up to now, to this. Everything that led me to Zane, that resulted in us on being on a warpath to destroy one another.

Well, he was on a warpath. I was in his way.

The not-so-coincidental gathering at his restaurant, where he shamed me. The drunken dancing and hate-fucking that same night. And him showing up days later on my show, to further embarrass me, but in front of a wider audience.

Then him writing a book bashing me, speaking on international TV shows about me, and continuing to insist that I was bringing him down.

I wasn't. I knew that, my friends and family knew that, my agents and producers knew that. But the world didn't know who to believe, who to side with. They shouldn't have to side with anyone, because we didn't need to compete with one another. I wished Zane could realize that.

I'd been silent for too long.

My silence only fueled Zane more, didn't it? It showed me as weak, as a coward. It showed me as accepting his demeaning behavior. It almost made all his bullshit seem true.

But if I lowered myself to his level, played his games, played by his rules, I could potentially get all the bad press away from me. I could resume my blissful life of cooking food for picky eaters like me, and Zane would be on his merry way. No more interruptions and cruelty from him.

I thought about bribing him—I certainly had the money to do so—or about asking to speak with him in private, to broker some kind of deal. But then, as I landed in L.A., I realized; whatever I did, it needed to be public. I needed to be seen making efforts to appease him. To be seen trying to smooth this whole blowout over.

So what if I surprised everyone by seeking a peace treaty between us? What if I, the scorned, supposedly rude, picky chef, buried the hatchet first?

It was brilliant. If I showed myself compromising, reaching out to Zane in an attempt to fix things between us, people would stop judging me for not trying his dish, for not giving him a chance. People would stop calling me snobby and difficult, and I wouldn't receive hateful comments on my social media simply for being me.

Because yes, the hate continued while I was off vacationing in France. I'd taken a vacation, but my haters hadn't.

The moment I arrived in L.A., my phone blew up, all my temporary blockages of my social media websites having timed out. I'd tuned everything out while I was gone, but now that I'd returned, reality returned with it.

I was Béatrice Balzac, the orange-haired witch who'd taken down another chef because she was too picky to eat his ratatouille. I was the rich bitch who wouldn't spare a bit more cash to a starving chef—that was a shitty lie, since I'd seen his quite luxurious apartment twice now—to help his career like I had others.

I didn't want that image anymore.

So upon making it home, I called Luca and pitched him my idea. A truce, I offered; for Zane and I to hash out some kind of deal, to meet on some neutral ground and devise a plan that worked for both of us, without us spitting out nonsense cruelties at one another through interviews and public appearances.

Though shocked, Luca loved the concept and promised to search for Zane's agent and discuss it with them.

I'd tolerate what Zane wrote about me, but only if he quit advertising it and focused on his career, his restaurant. If he stopped bashing me at every chance he got, and moved on with his life so I could move on with mine. We didn't have to like each other; we didn't have to see each other. But we could operate in the same city without bringing each other down. There had to be a way.

If he agreed to this, I'd make a public apology for how I acted at the conference, but I'd expect an apology from him for his continuous, crappy behavior, too. And then I'd contemplate boosting his career. Maybe a donation or assistance with whatever he needs to get on his feet. Surely he wasn't broke now that his book had reached best-seller status, but if there was any way for us to get along somehow, I'd do it.

I'd had enough of being portrayed as the bad guy, and him as the victim, when we were both victims, in truth. Me of his lies, and him of an unforgiving industry that he'd spent all his money on to succeed, and ended up so jaded that he bad-mouthed others like him.

The next day, Luca forwarded me a message—from Zane.

I'd blocked his name in all my email filters so there was no way he'd have been able to email me directly, unless he made up an email address without his name in it, and I'd of course delete that. Luca knew about this, but if he passed along an email, the filters wouldn't block it.

Hey, look at this. I spoke with Zane's agent, but Zane wanted to communicate with you himself. Let me know what you think.

I opened the attached email—from zrosecooks—and took a deep breath.

Béatrice,

First off, I'm happy to hear from you. I know this can't be easy for you to reach out.

"Prick," I said, nearly choosing to not read the rest of the message, to forget about all my thoughts of truces and being the better person. Two sentences and I already wanted to strangle him. The word choice was so high-and-mighty, and I heard his voice through each letter, huffing as I forced myself to keep reading.

There's much to discuss, and I understand you want to do this in a public setting—gotta make yourself look good, right?

I growled, my hand holding my phone shaking so much I almost dropped said phone.

"You freaking piece of—"

I'll agree to a sort of truce, but I'd like to take you out to eat to talk terms. My condition is that you let ME choose the venue, and you don't throw a fit over menu items you don't like.

I squinted at the screen, re-reading the sentences.

"It's a trap," I said to myself, setting my phone down so I could pace back and forth in front of my bed. "He's baiting me. He wants to humiliate me again, right? More fodder for an upcoming book?"

The rest of the email was more bullshit from him about how it was time for me to show the world that I could make compromises and stop being a stuck-up bitch. It was all so...crude, yet covered up with flowery vocabulary that made it look pretty. I knew better. This was more condescending than I'd remembered Zane being, with phrases that were almost more harsh than what he'd written in his book.

I took some time to mull it all over. Rearranged some furniture, ordered crappy takeout to eat in front of old TV shows, even opened a bottle of wine I'd been saving for a big occasion. But nothing helped me decide.

Yes, I'd asked for this, but his terms disturbed me. His eagerness disturbed me.

He disturbed me.

Browsing around for something to do, someone to call to confide in, I pulled up my contacts list on my phone, and saw Clara - Paris as one of my last messages.

"Hmm," I said, focusing on the image I'd set as her profile picture—a drunken snap at the bar of her smiling, tossing her hair. Beautiful.

She'd texted me to thank me for a marvelous, magical night, and vowed to not contact me or share any of our private moments to the press. And she also encouraged me to handle my business with Zane so that I could move on to better things.

She was right, I knew. I needed to meet with Zane and get this mess taken care of. Get this whole situation fixed and out of the way so I could prepare to film season two of Food Me! with a clear head, a clean slate.

And then I thought of my parents, of how they'd pushed me to be bolder. Mom's parting words the morning I left the house were still blurring through my mind, even while I sat at the bar the night of my escapade with Clara.

"You've made your point, you've built your empire; but show your fans how you can be versatile, too. Give them options, give them advice on how to eat those foods you dislike by hiding them, pretending they're not there. It's all mental, sweetheart." Mom studied psychology though she ended up working in PR. She had a wealth of knowledge about how to show oneself in the media, and how to manipulate buyers into just about anything.

But this was the first time she'd given me professional counsel on my career. She normally stayed out of it; didn't even read press releases or articles about me. She'd told me she had no intention of watching my show.

"I work in PR, but not your PR," she informed me, before driving me to the train station. "I can't tell you how to handle your image, nor will I get involved in your life. But this scandal," I'd hissed, "yes, it's a scandal, Béa; it needs to be nipped in the bud. And the best way to do that is for you to take a stance. You've been too quiet; meanwhile, Zane Rose released a book."

I'd thought my parents innocently kept away from my affairs, but as it turned out, both were well in tune with everything going on in my life. They'd just decided to steer clear of it all.

Until that day, until Mom came clean.

And then Clara said similar things but in her own voice. Confront Zane, but show that I'm the mature one, that my silence wasn't my agreement. My silence was me licking my wounds and figuring out how to address all this.

"Stop hiding behind your fears and explore the foods you keep thinking you hate. Go see Zane," Mom said, waving at me as I rolled my eyes and groaned. "Go try his stupid ratatouille and take a video of yourself doing it, share it as a reel, and there you go. Showing that you're not what he describes you as? That takes him down a notch."

They were all correct, but the notion of going to a restaurant of his choosing...it terrified me. He'd purposely choose a place that wouldn't put me at ease. He'd stick me into a situation that unsettled me, wanting to get more juice on me to feed to his fans.

But it was too late. I'd asked for this. If I backed out now, if I told Zane I'd changed my mind, he'd share that with the world and my reputation would be fully flushed down the drain.

I sat at my desktop and retrieved Zane's email, reading it one last time before unblocking all the anti-Zane filters I'd implemented.

I hit the new email button and cracked my knuckles.

Zane,

You pick the time and place, and I'll be there. Let's have your agent and mine go over details first, to make sure we can do this legally and respectfully.

The following weekend, I got a message from Luca stating it was all set up, he'd spoken with Zane's agent, who was "a peach, that guy. Knows his stuff but he's a right asshole about it all. Glad you're rectifying all this, because I don't want to have to talk to that dude again."

We agreed to a date in a week, which gave me time to mentally prepare for this.

I was nervous. I hadn't seen Zane in person since the conference, and the last time we were alone together we jumped each other's bones. Things were different now, for sure; the book had shifted my hatred into a deeper, darker realm. I no longer desired him, no longer felt the urge to kiss him and at the same time choke him.

Meeting with him would be fine, I'd be fine, and I convinced myself I had nothing to worry about.

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