Chapter 6: Showdown in the Kitchen

Once the guests were confirmed, Natalie and I started writing our menus.

The kitchen counter was cluttered with recipe cards, fancy pens, and fake flowers. Natalie made a show of announcing her dish choices, while I quietly picked mine, glancing down at my list.

I quietly picked my dishes, while Natalie chatted away with the host.

I scribbled down the ingredients I needed. Simple, hearty stuff—nothing that screamed celebrity chef. My hands shook a little, but I kept my focus.

After much flattery from the host, Natalie finally revealed the designer’s identity: “It’s Carl Danner, the head of the E’S brand.”

She looked at the camera: “He’s a friend of mine and Mr. Sinclair’s. We get a lot of custom clothes from his brand.”

She was practically glowing, every word carefully rehearsed. I wondered if she’d practiced it in the mirror before the show.

The comments went wild.

[Comment: I heard E’S is the Sinclair family’s exclusive stylist, and the young heir has worn many of their designs!]

[Comment: ‘Mr. Sinclair’—that sounds so sweet~]

[Comment: Natalie really is living the life of a rich family’s lady.]

The chat was all hearts and starry eyes, egging her on. It was a fan club rally in real time.

I glanced at Natalie, her proud smile practically blinding.

The E’S brand she mentioned is the one she’s currently endorsing, and it’s also a Sinclair Group company.

Actually, the brand’s real founder isn’t Carl Danner, but Frank Channing, the Sinclair family’s top bespoke tailor for years. Later, thanks to his skills, he got angel investment from the Sinclair family and started his own brand.

There are rumors that Frank Channing once tailored suits for two U.S. presidents. The old tailor still signs his notes in perfect cursive.

Turns out, ‘Carl Danner’ is just a stage name—he’s really Kevin Channing, Frank’s son, and everyone in the industry knows it, even if the fans don’t.

The comments kept buzzing. After responding to a wave of them, the host turned to me.

By now, I’d figured out the show’s routine.

It was all about comparing me and Natalie—using the huge gap between us to stir up drama and keep people talking.

The host smiled at me: “Aubrey, you didn’t manage to invite Mr. Sinclair earlier. Did you invite anyone else?”

She walked over, pretending to be helpful: “If you don’t have friends in the industry, you could invite family or other friends.”

Her voice was sticky-sweet, but the message was clear: you’re the underdog, so act like it.

With her leading the way, the comments pounced again.

[Comment: No social skills—no friends in the industry.]

[Comment: Still pretending she could invite the young heir—no one wants to bother with her.]

[Comment: E-list nobody, what kind of friends could she possibly have? Probably just escorts…]

It was cruel, but nothing new. If you’re not in the A-list, you’re target practice.

I plucked the stem off a tomato without even looking up. “Who said I didn’t invite Carter Sinclair?”

My voice came out steadier than I felt. A little Midwest stubbornness goes a long way when you’re getting grilled on live TV. I could almost hear my grandma’s voice—“Don’t let them see you sweat, honey.” So I didn’t.

The host was stunned, frozen in place.

She glanced at the director, as if thinking this was a set-up, then played along: “Is Mr. Sinclair really coming?”

I could almost hear the crew scrambling behind the cameras, checking schedules, panicking at the idea of real drama.

“Just wait and see,” I said, giving her a small smile.

I let myself enjoy the moment, even if it was just for me.

The host looked like she was settling in to watch a good show, while Natalie shot me a glare cold enough to freeze.

She said icily, “Honesty is a virtue. I hope everyone here remembers that.”

She sounded like she was giving a valedictorian speech at an all-girls private academy. Her fans lapped it up.

And, once again, the comments exploded.

[Comment: No way, is Aubrey addicted to chasing clout?]

[Comment: Natalie already said Mr. Sinclair is in a meeting. What’s Aubrey’s problem?]

[Comment: God, this pretentious woman is driving me crazy. How does someone like her even exist?]

I scrolled through the comments for a bit, then just lowered my head and started chopping vegetables.

The rhythm of the knife was steady, almost soothing. Sometimes, you just have to block out the noise and keep moving.

My silence only made the comments even nastier.

[Comment: Is Natalie angry now?]

[Comment: I think Natalie should just act cute for Mr. Sinclair and have him put this pretentious woman in her place.]

I ignored the comments—and the furious Natalie.

Anyway, in at most half an hour, Carter Sinclair will show up, and everyone will see whose face gets slapped.

I pictured Carter walking in, a little smug, maybe in that favorite leather jacket of his. The tables were about to turn.

I got to work on the cooking.

Tomatoes chopped, beef brisket cut and blanched, then I started on the scallions, ginger, and garlic.

The kitchen smelled like home—tomato and beef, a little sweetness in the air. It was the kind of smell that made you think of Sunday afternoons and people who actually cared if you ate. The cameras whirred, the audience held their breath.

Halfway through, the host exclaimed, “Hey, Natalie and Aubrey are making the same dish—what a coincidence!”

She tried to sound surprised, but the edge in her voice was obvious.

Natalie looked coldly into the camera. “Tomato beef brisket is Mr. Sinclair’s favorite dish. It’s also my specialty.”

She said it with a little tilt of her chin, daring me to deny it. The implication was clear: I was copying her. But the only person I’d ever made this dish for was Carter Sinclair himself. I slid the pot onto the burner, heart pounding. Let Natalie play her games—when Carter walked through that door, everyone would finally see the truth.