Something flashes in her eyes. Surprise, maybe, or resignation. Then her expression settles into careful neutrality. “Vine? The ‘Reclamation Road’ guy?”
I nod. “He’s looking for you.”
Mei’s mouth tightens, tension settling into her shoulders. “Of course he is.” She turns back to the wok, her movements more forceful than before. “Tell him I’m busy. Tell him we’re not interested. Tell him to go fuck himself with his ring light, I don’t care.”
I want to step in. To go back to the bar and tell Vine exactly where he can shove his redemption narrative. But I catch myself before the words leave my mouth. That’s not what we agreed on. Not what I promised.
Instead, I say, “I’ll let him know you’re not available right now. But he might wait. Or come back.”
Mei nods, not quite meeting my eyes. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
I’m halfway back to the bar when the kitchen door swings open, and there he is. Damon Vine, with his carefully styled beard and his practiced smile, camera equipment carefully arranged to catch the best light.
“Chef Tan!” he calls, already moving toward the wok station. “Damon Vine, ‘Reclamation Road.’ I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks. Word is you’re entering the New Vegas Annual Cook-Off, and I’d love to document the journey. The preparation, the competition, the whole arc. Our audience would eat it up.”
I’m moving before I’ve fully decided to, positioning myself at Mei’s side rather than between her and Vine. Not blocking, not speaking for her. Just there, a solid presence she can lean on if she needs to. It’s a deliberate choice, one that makes my chesttight when I think about the argument we had, about the way I overstepped with Grishnak, about the hurt in her voice when she said “That’s not partnership, Tovek. That’s territory.”
Mei doesn’t look at me, but I feel her relax slightly, her shoulder brushing against mine in what might be gratitude. “Mr. Vine,” she says, her voice steady despite the white knuckles where she’s gripping the spatula. “This is a surprise.”
“Please, call me Damon.” His smile is professional, practiced. The expression of someone who’s done this a hundred times before. “And I’m sorry for the drop-in, but my emails kept bouncing back, and my producer was very insistent that we get this story before someone else does.” He gestures to the camera equipment. “The New Vegas Annual Cook-Off is huge. First prize is one-fifty and a Culinary Quarterly feature, right? That’s the kind of platform that changes careers. And documenting your entry, your partnership with Greenfist here, the whole process. It’s compelling content.”
Something flashes in Mei’s eyes. Anger, maybe, or wariness. Then her expression settles back to professional neutrality. “I appreciate the interest,” she says, each word precise. “But we’re not looking for that kind of exposure right now. The bar is still finding its footing, and we’re focused on building something sustainable rather than chasing trends.”
Vine’s smile doesn’t waver, but something changes in his eyes. A recalculation, perhaps, or a reassessment of his approach. “I understand completely,” he says. “But this isn’t about redemption narratives or second chances or any of that industry bullshit. This is about the cook-off itself. The competition, the stakes, the process. You’re entering one of the most prestigious culinary competitions in the country. That’s newsworthy on its own merits.”
The implication hangs between them. Not a threat, exactly, but an acknowledgment. This story exists whether she participates or not.
“I think we’re good,” Mei says, her voice still steady despite the tension in her shoulders. “But thank you for the consideration.”
Vine nods but makes no move to leave. “Of course,” he says. “Though I should mention that we’re already featuring several Alliance chefs in our spring lineup. Grishnak’s new fusion concept, Dax Merrick’s toast bar, the vampire collective from the east side.” His smile widens, revealing more of those pointed teeth. “It would be excellent exposure. The Alliance takes notice of these things.”
I feel Mei stiffen beside me. The implication is clear. Without his platform, the Alliance might take a different view of her comeback.
I want to step in. Want to tell Vine exactly what he can do with his veiled threats. But I catch myself. This is Mei’s call. Her story, her choice. I’m here if she needs me, but I’m not going to speak for her.
Mei is quiet for a long moment. Then she says, “What exactly are you proposing?”
Vine’s expression shifts. Less polished, more genuine. “Behind-the-scenes content. Prep work, recipe development, the application process. Maybe some interviews about your approach, your partnership, what the cook-off means to you. Nothing invasive, nothing you’re not comfortable with. You’d have final approval on everything before it airs.”
“And if we say no?” Mei asks.
“Then I respect that,” Vine says. “But the story exists either way. Other outlets will cover the cook-off. They might not be as... considerate about how they frame your participation.”
Mei glances at me. I keep my expression neutral, giving her nothing but support. This is her decision.
She turns back to Vine. “I need to think about it. And I’d want to see a contract before agreeing to anything. Clear boundaries about what you can and can’t film, what questions are off-limits, how the footage gets used.”
Vine nods. “Absolutely. I can have my producer send over a draft by tomorrow. You take your time, review it with your lawyer if you want. No pressure.”
“Okay,” Mei says. “Send the contract. We’ll consider it.”
“Thank you,” Vine says, and there’s genuine relief in his voice. “For what it’s worth, I think what you’re doing here is impressive. The bar, the partnership, the cook-off. It takes guts.” He zips his camera bag with deliberate care. “Those screenshots were very convincing. Whoever did it knew exactly what they were doing.”
The words hang between us. Not an accusation or even an apology, but a recognition. The way the industry works, the price of success.
“Thank you,” Mei says, and there’s a note in her voice. Careful neutrality that doesn’t quite hide the hurt underneath. “For the consideration, I mean.”
Vine nods and turns to go. “Good luck with the cook-off,” he calls over his shoulder. “It’s a tough field this year.”
