Emma's POV
Beep. Beep. Beep.
I groaned and rolled over, smashing my hand down on the alarm clock. Snooze. Just five more minutes.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Ugh. Again. I hit it without opening my eyes. My bed felt way too good to leave. Yesterday's late night had drained every bit of energy from me, and all I wanted was another hour of sleep.
Then I peeked at the time.
Crap. I was late. Again.
I shot up, hair sticking out like a bird's nest, and muttered, "Not today, Emma. Please don't be late again." But who was I kidding? This was my life.
Dragging myself out of bed, I stumbled into the bathroom, brushed my teeth, splashed water on my face, and tried to wake up my half-dead reflection. "Masters in Gastronomy," I reminded myself. "You signed up for this. You chose this hectic life."
By the time I shuffled into the kitchen, I felt slightly alive. Cooking always did that to me.
I cracked eggs, stirred tomatoes and peppers in the pan, and soon the rich smell of shakshuka filled the air. My favorite breakfast. Warm, spicy, comforting. The kind of meal that hugged you from the inside.
"Smells heavenly," Katie said, yawning as she walked in, her blond hair tied up in a messy bun.
"Breakfast queen strikes again," Tessa added, her high school backpack already slung over her shoulder. She was in her final year, always buzzing with nervous energy.
We sat down together, passing bread around, dipping it into the hot shakshuka. For a moment, I forgot about being late. Just three girls in a tiny apartment, sharing food and laughter.
But reality hit fast.
"Emma, what time is it?" Katie asked.
I checked. My stomach dropped. "Shoot!"
I shoved the last bite into my mouth, threw my apron and books into my bag, and kissed Tessa on the forehead. "Good luck on your test!"
Minutes later, I was pushing through the crowd at the bus stop. The bus arrived—already stuffed with people. Great. Just great. I squeezed in, clinging to the rail, the weight of my bag digging into my shoulder. The ride was long, sweaty, and full of elbows digging into my side. By the time we reached campus, I was ready to collapse.
Still, I rushed into the kitchen lab, tied on my apron, and tried to blend in with the other students.
But Professor Harding's eyes landed on me instantly. That cold, disapproving look.
Late. Again.
I swallowed hard, pretending to focus on the cutting board in front of me, even though my hands were trembling.
"Sh*t," I whispered under my breath.
The moment I stepped into the kitchen lab, apron half-tied and hair shoved into a bun that was definitely falling apart, I felt his eyes on me.
Professor Harding.
Sharp, cold, calculating. Like a hawk that had spotted a very clumsy rabbit.
I ducked my head and pretended to focus on the knives laid out on the counter. If I was really quiet, maybe he wouldn't notice I was late. Maybe today I'd get lucky.
"Hey," a voice whispered near my ear.
I jumped. It was Ash. My classmate. My sometimes-friend, sometimes-annoying-commentary-machine.
"What are you doing?" he hissed, leaning a little too close. "He's looking at you."
I risked a glance up.
And boom. Eye contact.
Professor Harding's gaze collided with mine across the room. His lips pressed into a hard line. His brow furrowed. And just like that, my stomach twisted into knots.
Sh*t.
"Sorry, sir," I blurted out before he could even say anything, my voice cracking halfway through. "The bus tire… blew up. Again."
Silence.
The kind of silence that could make an entire room of students stop breathing.
He narrowed his eyes. I could feel my face heating, the lie crumbling between us. He wasn't buying it. He knew. He always knew.
Professor Harding had given me one last warning last week. One more slip-up and I was apparently going to "regret the day I enrolled in his class." Dramatic much?
But instead of exploding this time, he just gave me that disappointed, condescending look. Like I was a stain on his perfect chef's uniform. Then he turned away.
I let out a slow breath. Did… did he just let it go?
Ash chuckled under his breath. "You're living on borrowed time, Blake. One of these days he's gonna eat you alive."
I rolled my eyes. "Thanks for the pep talk. What's the menu for today?"
He blinked at me. "Seriously? You didn't check?"
I gave him a sheepish smile.
Ash shook his head. "Tres leches cake."
Right. French. Fancy. Basically, a "very delicious" cake that sounded way harder than it actually was.
I grabbed the ingredients and started working, letting my instincts take over. Flour, sugar, butter. My hands moved without thinking, like they always did. This was my happy place, the whisk, the soft rhythm of folding ingredients together, the scent of vanilla in the air. I didn't need a measuring cup. My eyes and hands knew the portions. Years of practice had taught me to trust myself.
But of course, somebody else had a problem with that.
From across the room, I felt the weight of his stare again. Professor Harding. Watching. Judging. His eyebrow twitched in irritation, like he couldn't believe what he was seeing.
"What the f*ck are you doing?" his voice cut across the kitchen like a knife.
I froze mid-stir. Every other student went silent.
Oh no. Not again.
I swallowed and gave him what I hoped was an innocent smile. "Umm, sir. I was just mixing the ingredients…"
He crossed his arms. "Tell me, Miss Blake. What are we making today?"
"Uh… tres… tres lecheies cake," I said, fumbling over the pronunciation.
A few students snickered. Ash groaned softly next to me.
Professor Harding's eyes narrowed even further. "Tres leches cake. If you know that, then why the hell are you not taking measurements? Do you think you're smarter than the instructions manual I spent years perfecting?"
My cheeks burned. "I… I don't need the cup. I'm actually pretty good at this without it."
His voice went deadly calm. "I don't care. In my lecture, you will not use your sixth sense. You will use the manual. The very specifically written manual. Do you understand me?"
I clenched my jaw. Part of me wanted to argue, to tell him that food wasn't about measurements, it was about feel. About taste. About instinct. But the way he was glaring at me… yeah, not a good idea.
I lowered my head and muttered, "Yes, sir."
"Good. Now start again."
I reached for the measuring cup, every motion stiff and awkward. My hands were itching to just do it my way, but his hawk eyes didn't leave me for even a second.
Bloody *ssh*l*.
Ash snorted softly next to me. "You just can't help yourself, can you?"
I glared at him. "Shut up and pass me the sugar."
He grinned but did as I asked.
As I carefully measured out every stupid gram of flour, sugar, and butter, I couldn't stop thinking about it. Why me? There were twenty other students in the room, half of them probably messing something up, but Harding only had eyes for me.
Maybe he hated me. Or maybe… maybe he saw something in me he wanted to break.
Either way, I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.
I lifted my chin, forced a calm smile, and whispered under my breath, "I'll show you, Professor. Just wait."