บททั้งหมดของ THE SINFUL HOUR COLLECTION : บทที่ 81 - บทที่ 90

I stood blindfolded on the stage, the fabric soft against my eyelids, my heart pounding like a drum in my chest. The emcee’s voice echoed through the speakers, explaining the rules one last time—each contestant would draw a mystery dish from the ballot box, no peeking, no second chances. My fingers trembled as I reached in, the papers rustling like dry leaves. I grabbed one at random, unfolded it carefully, and slipped off the blindfold to read: Salmon à la Crème alongside Ratatouille. A classic French pairing, elegant but demanding precision. I exhaled slowly, already visualizing the sear on the salmon, the vibrant medley of vegetables in the ratatouille. This was it—the World Chef Association Games in Switzerland, my shot at owning my own culinary school. The timer started with a sharp beep from the red button, and I dove in. Two hours. I moved fast but deliberate, hands flying across my station—chopping zucchini into perfect dice, slicing eggplant thin enough to melt in the mouth,

The door to Principal Hargrove’s office clicks shut with finality. Carabella stands in the middle of the room, arms crossed tight over her chest, uniform skirt hiked just high enough to show the edge of her black thigh-highs. Her lip is split from the fight, a thin line of dried blood, but her eyes burn—defiant, furious, alive. Mr. Hargrove—late forties, broad-shouldered, silver at the temples—sits behind his massive oak desk, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He’s been principal for twelve years; he’s seen every kind of trouble. But Carabella is different. She’s the girl who makes teachers forget their own rules. “Three-day suspension minimum,” he says, voice low, measured. “You put Katie in the nurse’s office with a busted nose. Her parents are already calling the board.” Carabella snorts. “She called me a whore in front of half the cafeteria. Then she swung first.” He leans back, studying her. “You didn’t have to break her face.” “Maybe I wanted to.” She steps closer

As we stepped off the stage, the roar of the audience faded into a distant hum, replaced by the click of our shoes on the studio’s backstage corridor. Alex’s hand was warm in mine, steady and reassuring. The producers had whisked us into a waiting limo, cameras optional, but we’d both opted out—thank God. “No need for an audience tonight,” I’d said with a wink, and he’d laughed, that deep, genuine chuckle that made my stomach flip. The ride to his place in Seattle was short, the city lights blurring past like streaks of hope. Alex lived in a cozy loft downtown, all exposed brick and modern minimalism, with a killer view of the Puget Sound. “Engineer perks,” he joked as he unlocked the door, flipping on soft lights that cast a warm glow. He’d promised a private dinner, and true to his word, the kitchen island was set with candles, a bottle of red wine, and plates of homemade pasta—carbonara, he said, with a shy grin. “I figured Italian was your weakness.” We talked for hours, the con

I clutched the bouquet of helium balloons in one hand, their strings tangled around my fingers, and adjusted my purse strap with the other. My heart raced with excitement as I stepped out of the Uber, the driver wishing me luck with a knowing grin. I’d spent the morning getting ready—full glam, as they say. Winged eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass, lips painted a bold red that matched the “Happy Birthday” balloon bobbing above me, and my favorite sundress hugging my curves just right. It was Calloway’s birthday, our one-year anniversary of chatting on Snap, and finally, our first in-person meeting. I’d planned this surprise for weeks, ever since my step-aunt Lydia and I moved to this city for her new job. She thought I was out running errands; little did she know I was about to make this day epic. Calloway Damien—my sweet, funny computer engineer boyfriend. We’d met on Snap during one of those random add-me phases, and it clicked instantly. Late-night chats about code glitches and m

“Why no?” Aunt Lydia’s voice rose, sharp with confusion and a hint of hurt. She leaned forward on the couch, her hand slipping off Jace’s knee as she stared at me. “Ava, what’s wrong?” I stood there, frozen in the doorway, my pulse still racing from the hotel disaster. My mouth opened and closed once before the words tumbled out louder than I intended. “No—it can’t be possible. Marrying this man?” It came out almost a yell, my voice cracking on the last word. Lydia’s eyebrows shot up. She glanced at Jace, who hadn’t moved, but his eyes locked onto mine with that slow, deliberate calm that always made my skin crawl. “Ava,” she said firmly, “tell me why right now. And don’t make Jace uncomfortable in his own announcement.” Jace tilted his head slightly, giving me that warning stare—the same one he’d given me weeks ago in the back of his car, the night I’d done something I swore I’d take to my grave. His lips curved into the faintest smile, not warm, not kind, just knowing. My stomach