Ivy's POV
Do you trust me? Cole had asked.
I'd stared at him for five long seconds, my heart hammering, a thousand questions burning in my throat.
Then I'd said: I don't know yet. But I want to hear everything.
We'd talked until 4 AM. He'd told me about Laurent Bisset—the celebrity chef who'd harassed three women on Cole's kitchen staff. How Cole had believed them, confronted the board, threatened to go public. How Laurent had turned everything around, fabricated evidence, made Cole the villain.
They gave me a choice, Cole had said quietly. Take the fall quietly, and the women get settlements and references. Fight it, and Laurent destroys all of us. I chose to protect them.
So you lost everything.
Everything that mattered in that world, yeah. His smile was sad. But I found something better here. Purpose. Community. A way to actually help people instead of just feeding rich ones.
And me? Why track my career? Why park near me?
Because six months ago, I saw the news about your firing. Recognized the pattern—public humiliation, stolen credit, character assassination. Laurent's fingerprints were all over it through Marcus. Cole's eyes had been intense. I knew you'd need allies eventually. And I knew we were fighting the same enemy.
I'd wanted to be angry. Wanted to feel manipulated.
But mostly, I'd just felt less alone.
So what now? I'd asked.
Now we wait. Laurent's planning something big, I just don't know what yet. When it comes, we fight back together.
He'd left after that, and I'd tried to sleep but couldn't stop thinking about everything he'd said.
Saturday morning, my phone exploded.
Literally hundreds of notifications. Instagram, Twitter, TikTok, all going insane.
I opened Instagram and saw I'd gained 10,000 followers overnight.
What the
A food blogger had posted an article: Austin's Great Food Truck War: When Tacos Meet BBQ and Sparks Fly!
The piece was everywhere. Screenshots of our rivalry. Photos of both trucks. Quotes from customers taking sides. She'd even created hashtags: #TeamTaco vs #TeamBBQ.
And people were going CRAZY.
Comments flooded in:
TEAM TACO! Fusion is the future!
BBQ forever! Texas tradition!
Why are they both so attractive though?
The sexual tension in these photos is INSANE.
I scrolled through, face burning. The blogger had captured moments I hadn't even noticed—Cole watching me through his service window, me glaring at him while he grinned, the two of us facing off across the street like gunslingers.
We looked like rivals in a romantic comedy.
Oh no, I muttered.
My phone rang. A number I didn't recognize.
Hello?
Ms. Chen? This is Rebecca Park from KVUE News. We'd love to interview you and Cole Harrison about your food truck rivalry. Would you be available—
Um, let me think about it
We're also reaching out to food magazines, morning shows, potentially a cooking competition segment
I hung up, overwhelmed.
Then I saw Cole's truck pull up across the street. He climbed out, phone in hand, looking as shocked as I felt.
Our eyes met. He held up his phone, mouthing: Did you see?
I nodded.
He crossed the street. I gained fifteen thousand followers overnight. FIFTEEN THOUSAND. I don't even post regularly.
I got ten thousand. And news stations are calling.
Same. Cole ran his hand through his hair. This is insane.
It's an opportunity. My mind was already racing. Publicity means customers. Customers mean money. Money means surviving whatever Laurent's planning.
Cole studied me. You want to lean into this? The rivalry thing?
Why not? We're already competing. Might as well make it entertaining. I pulled out my phone. What if we make it a real show? Challenge videos, customer polls, maybe even a cook-off?
A slow smile spread across Cole's face. You're devious. I like it.
I'm practical. There's a difference.
Sure there is. His smile turned teasing. So, partner-in-fake-rivalry, what's our first move?
By Sunday afternoon, the social media war was in full swing.
I posted a video of myself making Korean short rib tacos, talking directly to the camera: BBQ is easy. You smoke meat and wait. Tacos are art—balancing flavors, textures, cultures. Which would you rather eat? Art or easy?
The comments exploded immediately.
Two hours later, Cole posted his response: a video of him slicing brisket, each cut perfect. Tacos hide bad cooking behind sauce and toppings. BBQ reveals truth—you can't fake quality when it's just meat and smoke. Which would you rather eat? Truth or hiding?
I watched his video three times, annoyed at how good he looked on camera—confident, skilled, absolutely infuriating.
The comments went wild:
TEAM BBQ! He's not wrong!
Team Taco! Complexity over simplicity!
Can they just kiss already?
The WAY he looks at her in the background of her video though 👀
I scrolled to that comment. Someone had screenshot a moment from my video where Cole's truck was visible in the background. He was watching me film, expression soft and focused.
My stomach flipped.
Local news picked up the story. We did interviews—separately, at Jimmy's insistence for maximum drama. Food bloggers started making bets on who'd win the rivalry.
Customers lined up just to be part of the spectacle. My sales doubled. Cole's tripled.
It was working.
But it was also exhausting, constantly performing, always on, pretending the rivalry was simple when everything underneath was so complicated.
Late Sunday night, after closing, my phone buzzed with a DM.
Cole Harrison: You're good, chef. Really good. This is fun.
I stared at the message, my heart doing something stupid.
He was complimenting me. Acknowledging my skills. Not as part of the public rivalry but privately, just between us.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard.
I should keep it professional. Keep the boundaries clear. Remember this was strategy, not friendship.
Instead, I typed: Don't get comfortable. I'm going to destroy you.
His reply came instantly: Looking forward to it. 😏
That smirking emoji. That infuriating, confident, flirtatious emoji.
I threw my phone down, face burning.
I did NOT have butterflies. This was NOT attraction. This was strategic rivalry with a side of mutual respect and absolutely nothing else.
My phone buzzed again.
Cole: For what it's worth? I'm glad you're here. Makes the street more interesting.
Another buzz before I could respond.
Cole: Also, you were right about the duck confit tacos. Tried one today. Best thing I've eaten in years.
I grabbed my phone, fingers shaking slightly.
Me: You tried my food again?
Cole: I try it every day. How else would I know what I'm competing against?
Me: That's... actually smart strategy.
Cole: I'm occasionally smart. Don't tell anyone, it'll ruin my reputation.
I smiled despite myself.
Me: Your secret's safe with me.
Cole: Good. Because I've got a lot of those.
The message felt heavier than it should. A reminder that despite the playful DMs and public rivalry, Cole was still hiding, still running, still carrying the weight of a destroyed past.
Me: We both do.
Cole: Then I guess we're well-matched.
I stared at those words for a long time.
Well-matched.
Were we?
A disgraced chef and a betrayed one. Both hiding. Both rebuilding. Both fighting the same enemies while pretending to fight each other.
My phone buzzed one more time.
Cole: Sleep well, Taco Girl. Big week ahead.
Me: Goodnight, BBQ Boy.
I set my phone down, climbed into my makeshift bed in the truck, and tried not to think about how much I'd enjoyed that conversation.
Tried not to think about Cole's smile or his gentle hands checking my wrist or the way he held that crying veteran.
Tried not to think about how the rivalry was starting to feel less like war and more like something dangerous and complicated and utterly terrifying.
I was falling for my fake rival.
And I had no idea what to do about it.
Monday morning, I woke to my phone ringing.
Unknown number. Again.
Hello?
Heavy breathing. Then a man's voice, cold and controlled: Ms. Chen. We haven't met, but I've been following your charming little food truck adventure with great interest.
My blood ran cold. Who is this?
Someone who wants to offer you an opportunity. A way out before things get... unpleasant.
I don't understand
You will. Very soon. The East 6th Street vendors are about to face a development project that will destroy everything. But you don't have to go down with them. The voice was smooth, practiced. You have family connections. The Chen name still means something. Use them wisely.
How do you know about my family?
I know everything about you, Ivy. Your firing. Your betrayal. Your desperate attempt to rebuild. A pause. I also know about your friend Cole. Or should I say, Cole Hastings? Does he know you've discovered his identity?
My heart stopped.
I see. How delicious. The man chuckled. Here's my advice: when the development announcement comes, take the buyout. Go back to your family. Leave Cole to face his past alone. It's the smart choice.
Who ARE you?
Someone who's been waiting five years to finish what I started. Tell Cole that Laurent Bisset sends his regards.
The line went dead.
I sat frozen, phone trembling in my hands.
Laurent Bisset had just called me. Directly. Personally.
The celebrity chef who'd destroyed Cole's career knew exactly where I was, who I was with, what I was doing.
And he was coming for us.
I ran outside, sprinting to Cole's truck. Pounded on the door.
He opened it, hair messy from sleep, concerned. Ivy? What's wrong?
Bisset just called me. He knows everything. He's planning something for this street, and he knows you're here, and
Cole pulled me inside, closed the door. Breathe. Start from the beginning.
I told him everything. The call. The threats. The warning.
Cole's face went stone-cold. He's making his move.
What do we do?
We accelerate our plans. Cole grabbed his phone. I was waiting to be sure, but we're out of time. Bisset's development project is coming. He's going to try to destroy this entire street—and he'll use you to do it.
Use me how?
Cole met my eyes, and I saw real fear there for the first time.
Your cousin Dominic works for Chen Development Corporation, right?
Yes, but
Chen Development is Bisset's company. He owns it through shell corporations. Cole's voice was grim. Dominic's been his weapon in Austin for years. And now Bisset's going to use your family connection to destroy everyone here, including you and me.
The room spun.
My cousin is working for Bisset?
Has been since the beginning. And tomorrow, he's announcing the development project that will evict every vendor on this street.
How do you know?
Because, Cole said quietly, I've been waiting for this moment for three years. And now it's finally here.
He pulled out a folder thick with documents. Photos. Bank records. Emails.
I have everything we need to expose Bisset, Dominic, Marcus—all of them. But using it means going public. Really public. Are you ready for that?
I thought about Marcus and Rachel stealing my recipes. My father disowning me. Laurent Bisset's cold voice on the phone.
Then I thought about Maria's tamale truck. Jimmy's kindness. The community that had welcomed me. Cole's gentle hands and broken past and quiet heroism.
I'm ready, I said. Let's destroy them.
Cole smiled—fierce and real and absolutely terrifying.
Then tomorrow, we go to war.