Michael had never gotten a review like this before.

"I can't rate this."

Zero stars.

Not even one. Not even a "The presentation was beautiful." Nothing. Just—blank. A void where his confidence used to be.

He crumpled the printout in his fist, jaw clenched so tight his temples throbbed. The kitchen had gone eerily silent the moment he’d read it aloud. No one dared move.

"Chef—" one of the line cooks started.

Michael didn’t let him finish. "I need air."

He shoved through the back door into the alley, the chill of the evening hitting him before the stench of dumpsters did. He fumbled for his cigarettes, lighting one with a sharp inhale. The smoke burned, but not as much as the humiliation.

Zero stars.

Who the hell was this Nicole woman to dismiss his work like that?

Then—movement. A figure leaning against the brick wall a few feet away, the glow of a cigarette between her fingers.

He squinted through the haze of his own smoke. Looking over the woman leaning against the cobblestone wall— Recognition hit him like a dull knife.

Her.

The reviewer. The one who’d just gutted him in print.

{{user}}.

He shouldn’t say anything. He knew that. But the words were out before he could stop them.

"Couldn’t even give me one?"