The Chrysalis Burns Twice

1 My girlfriend’s male best friend was a certified "dating coach." Every romantic gesture Lauren made toward me had to pass his inspection first. Every touch, every word, every scrap of affection had to be audited, graded, and certified before she felt qualified to deliver it to me. On my twenty-eighth birthday, Lauren insisted on taking me out to an upscale seafood bar downtown. She brought Derek along. I ordered a platter of steamed Maine langoustines—my favorite, something I hadn’t eaten in months because I’d been working seventy-hour weeks in the kitchen. When the steaming metal tray hit the marble table, Lauren slid it straight in front of Derek. Derek pulled out his phone, framing the shot. Lauren leaned over his shoulder, tilting the brass ramekin of clarified butter to catch the candlelight. "Step one of dining with your man: photograph the memory," Derek said, tapping the shutter. "Approved." I reached across the table to take one. Lauren’s hand came down hard across my wrist, the slap echoing against the glassware. "Wait," she snapped. "I have to practice first." She picked up the seafood shears, cracked the shell, and began extracting the delicate meat. "Too jagged," Derek critiqued, leaning back in his booth. "Fails presentation." She discarded that piece, cracked another, dipped it, and held it out. "Forgot the sea salt," Derek muttered, shaking his head. "Fails flavor profile." She tried a third time, carefully lifting the tail meat toward his mouth. "Wrong angle," he murmured around a smirk. "Too aggressive. You’re feeding a lover, Lauren, not jamming a bit into a horse’s mouth. Fails." Over the next sixty minutes, thirty langoustines disappeared one by one into Derek’s mouth. Thirty shells cracked; thirty delicate pieces fed to him; thirty times she reached across the table with a linen napkin to dab butter from the corners of his lips. At the very end, he leaned back, patted his flat stomach, and offered a careless shrug. "Barely passing," he said. I was the birthday boy. In an hour and a half, I hadn’t even received a glass of tap water. I laid my silver fork down on the marble. It made a sharp, clean click. I stood up. "I’m leaving." Lauren didn’t even look up from cracking a snow crab claw. "Bennett, don't start. Once Derek certifies the drill, I’ll peel yours." I stared down at the crown of her glossy dark hair, at the diamond earrings I’d bought her for our third anniversary. Four years together. Even our first kiss on the pier, our first embrace in the rain outside my bakery—she had practiced on Derek before bringing the finished product to me. If love required remedial coaching from another man just to be tolerable, I didn't want it anymore. I grabbed my coat and car keys from the hook and walked out into the winter chill. As I pushed through the restaurant's heavy mahogany doors, a young couple passed me on the sidewalk. The guy glanced through the floor-to-ceiling plate glass and nudged his girlfriend. "Man, look at them. That’s real romance." I followed his gaze. Framed by the frost-edged window, Lauren was spooning sweet crab meat into Derek’s mouth, her head tilted, laughing at something he whispered. Beautiful people, soft lighting, falling snow. It was a Ralph Lauren holiday ad. The kid on the street wasn’t wrong. From the outside looking in, they were the couple. I was just the ghost who paid the tab. I hailed a yellow cab at the curb. The driver was an older guy with a warm radio voice. "Sharp suit, kid. Hot date tonight?" A dry, bitter laugh caught in my throat. I looked down at the charcoal Italian wool I’d had custom-tailored a month ago, the crisp spread collar, the silk tie I’d spent forty minutes knotting before a mirror. All of it for a dinner where I didn't even get a crumb of bread. "Just my birthday," I said quietly. "Hey, happy birthday!" The driver reached over, tapped the touchscreen on his dashboard, and queued up a scratchy brass version of Stevie Wonder’s "Happy Love." Sitting in the back of that smelling-of-pine-sol sedan, watching the slush splash against the curb, it hit me: Lauren hadn't even said the words Happy Birthday to me all day. Four years of shared rent and tangled sheets, and an immigrant cabbie had offered me more warmth in thirty seconds than my girlfriend had in twelve hours. My phone buzzed against my thigh. Where did you go? Lauren’s text read. I ordered a cake for you. I didn’t text back. A notification from Instagram popped up a second later. Derek had posted a high-res photo of the empty langoustine shells arranged neatly on the brass platter. His caption: Trainee passed her sensory drills today. The comments under his post were already rolling in: Coach Derek, take me on next! Lauren had replied to them: Get in line, girls. He’s my exclusive life coach. I shut the screen off. My stomach clenched—a white-hot, twisting cramp that made my vision blur. My chronic gastritis was flaring up again. By eight o’clock, I was back in our brownstone apartment. I dragged myself to the stove and boiled a handful of plain egg noodles in salted water, forcing down a few flavorless bites just to line my stomach. I was unscrewing the cap on my prescription omeprazole when the deadbolt clicked. Lauren walked in, carrying a pastel bakery box tied with satin ribbon. Seeing the orange pill bottle on the coffee table, she set the box down. "Stomach acting up again?" She leaned over, touched the side of the ceramic mug I’d left on the side table, and frowned at the cold ceramic. Without a word, she took the mug, carried it to the kitchen, and set the kettle to boil. Every movement was fluid, efficient, practiced. Two years ago, watching her move through the kitchen like that would have made my chest ache with tenderness. Now, sitting on the sofa with my knees pulled toward my chest, all I could think was: How many times did Derek drill her on how to care for a sick boyfriend? How many points did she get deducted for the temperature of the water? She came back, pressing the warm porcelain mug into my cold hands. "Why didn't you answer my text?" I looked up into her gray eyes. "There was nothing to say." A flicker of annoyance creased her brow. "What was that tantrum at the restaurant tonight? You embarrassed me in front of Derek. You ruined the entire mood." My fingers tightened around the warm mug. "You think I threw a tantrum?" She sighed, sitting down on the edge of the ottoman to untie the ribbon on the bakery box. "Bennett, be reasonable. Do we really have to do this on your birthday?" "Oh. So you do remember it's my birthday." "Why shouldn't I bring Derek?" she asked, pulling the cardboard tabs apart. "Derek has invested months trying to fix our communication. He’s helped me understand what men need. Including him in a celebration is the least I could do." The lid came off. Inside sat a six-inch chiffon cake covered in pink buttercream, topped with glazed wild strawberries. Derek’s absolute favorite. A fruit I was mildly allergic to, and a flavor I had detested since childhood. "A strawberry cake," I whispered. "Lauren, you know I can't stand strawberries." She froze for a fraction of a second, then her jaw set. Her voice took on that clipped, weary cadence she used when dealing with difficult clients at her PR firm. "It's just a cake, Bennett. Don't be dramatic. Derek came all the way downtown in the snow; we couldn't expect him to eat dark chocolate if he hates it." I looked at her silk blouse. There was a smear of reddish-orange shell butter dried on her right cuff. "So on my birthday, I'm the one who compromises?" I asked, my voice dangerously steady. "I sit there starving while you peel his food and dab his chin like a dutiful little wife?" Her face went completely cold. "Can you stop being disgusting?" she said, her voice dropping an octave. "Derek is my coach. It was a drill. We’ve known each other since we were seven years old—if anything were ever going to happen between us, it would have happened in college. He’s like my brother. Can you have a clean thought for once in your life?" I didn't answer. I just watched her. Lauren picked up the little plastic bag of wax candles. "Are we doing this or not?" I swallowed the bitter pill dry. It scratched against the back of my throat, sending an ache all the way behind my eyes. "No," I said. "We're not." I pulled out my phone, opened my email, and clicked reply on the formal contract I’d received three days ago from the pastry director at L'Arpège in Paris. I accept the position of Head Pastry Chef, I typed. I will be there by the end of the week. 2 Lauren stared at me for a long beat, then tossed the candles onto the glass coffee table. They scattered with a dull, plastic rattle. "Fine," she said. "Suit yourself. Don’t go telling your friends I didn't try." Silence fell over the apartment, heavy and thick as wet wool. From the kitchen, the timer on the convection oven let out a sharp beep. I set my mug down, walked past her, and checked the temperature on the drying racks. Tomorrow morning was the finals for the National Pastry Championship. For thirty days, I had survived on four hours of sleep a night, obsessing over sugar work, stabilizing fruit reductions, testing the temper on single-origin Venezuelan chocolate. Everything in my prep containers was labeled, sealed, and resting at precisely thirty-six degrees Fahrenheit. Satisfied, I walked back toward the hallway to go to bed. As I crossed the living room, the garish magenta of that strawberry cake sat on the table like an open wound. Lauren was lounging on the sofa, scrolling through her phone with a small, contented smile playing on her lips. A sudden, quiet clarity washed over me. Four years of walking on eggshells. Four years of feeling like an applicant interviewing for the position of her partner. "Lauren," I said softly. "We're done. Let's break up." She didn't blink. She didn't even look up. She tapped the screen and spoke directly into the air: "Don't worry about it, Derek. He's just being overly sensitive again. You know how moody creative types get." I stood there, paralyzed, before I noticed the tiny white stem of an AirPod tucked into her ear. She was on the phone with him. Reporting back. Taking notes on how to manage my "emotional instability." My mouth opened, but no sound came out. What was there left to say? I turned on my heel, walked into the bedroom, and pulled the door shut behind me, locking the deadbolt with a soft click. Our bedroom shared a thin wall with the living room. Even through the drywall, her voice drifted in, clear and rhythmic. "No, he didn't touch the cake." "Yeah, locked himself in the bedroom. Throwing a fit." I pulled my vintage leather duffel and hard-shell Rimowa suitcase from the top of the closet, threw them onto the mattress, and began pulling my clothes from the hangers. Merino sweaters, chef whites, denim, linen shirts. Ten minutes into packing, the front doorbell chimed. "Where's Bennett?" Derek’s voice filtered through the apartment. "In the bedroom," Lauren said, her tone softening in that specific, singsong way she only ever used with him. "Why did you come all the way back out? Your nose is bright red from the wind." "Because I'm a good friend, obviously!" Derek laughed. Their voices drifted closer to the hallway, then receded toward the kitchen. I kept my head down, folding my knives into their canvas rolls, refusing to imagine what they were doing out there. But the apartment was too quiet, and the giggles were too sharp. "Hey! Lauren! You did that on purpose—that flour was supposed to go in the sifter!" "Shut up, Derek!" Lauren giggled. "Tone failed! Say it again with sweetness!" "Derek, please—" "Posture failed! Re-approach!" I slammed the zipper shut on my garment bag. I opened my airline app, found a one-way flight from Logan to Charles de Gaulle departing at 8:40 PM tomorrow night, entered my card details, and hit confirm. At 1:00 AM, knuckles rapped against my bedroom door. "Bennett. Open up." I unlocked the door and pulled it open. Derek was standing in the hall, playfully tugging Lauren forward by her elbow. "Bennett, my man! I ran her through the remedial empathy drills! She’s officially certified to apologize now." Lauren stepped into the room, looking slightly flustered, carrying a fresh, rustic-looking layer cake dusted with powdered sugar. "Derek and I stayed up and baked you a replacement," she said, her voice pitched in a gentle, supplicating tone that sounded entirely scripted. "Chocolate and vanilla. Stop pouting, okay?" It was one in the morning. My birthday had expired sixty minutes ago. Then my eyes caught the pale lavender streaks in the buttercream. The delicate, unmistakable scent of Sicilian blood-orange curd drifted from the layers. Blood orange. Wild lavender. Blood roared in my ears. I lunged forward, shoving past her into the hallway. The cake flew from her hands, hitting the hardwood floor with a wet, heavy thud, spraying crumbs and frosting across the baseboards. "Bennett! What the hell is wrong with you?!" Lauren shrieked, chasing after me. I threw open the kitchen door. The lights were blazing. The commercial refrigerator stood wide open. Inside, my stainless steel prep containers were ransacked. The artisanal fruit glazes I had spent twelve hours simmering and straining were empty. The hand-pulled sugar ribbons I had kept under humidity-controlled domes were shattered on the counter. The custom almond-flour sponge bases I had rested overnight to achieve the perfect crumb structure were hacked to pieces, the remnants dumped directly into the stainless steel sink amidst soapy water and eggshells. I stood there, my hands trembling so violently I couldn't ball them into fists. "Who..." My voice cracked, raw and hollow. "Who told you you could touch my competition prep?" I had drafted over two hundred design sketches for tomorrow. I had tested the moisture percentages a hundred times to ensure the structural integrity of the centerpiece. It was a month of pure, obsessive labor, destroyed in forty-five minutes so two people could play flirtatious house in the middle of the night. Lauren caught up, leaning against the doorframe, her face dark with irritation. "Why are you making such a massive deal out of this? It’s just flour and sugar, Bennett. You’re acting like a lunatic." I turned my head and locked eyes with Derek, who was hovering in the hallway, looking suddenly uncomfortable. "Those were my ingredients for the national finals tomorrow morning," I whispered. "Those were my showpiece components." Lauren blinked, her expression stuttering for a fraction of a second. Derek’s face drained of color. "Bennett... man, I had no idea. We just saw the bowls in the fridge and thought you had leftovers from the bakery. I'm sorry, I really am—" Lauren immediately stepped sideways, placing herself directly between Derek and me. Her chin came up, her maternal, protective instinct flaring entirely in his defense. "All right, that's enough," she snapped at me. "Derek didn't do it on purpose! If you hadn't been acting like an insecure child all evening, he wouldn't have had to come back over here at midnight to help me patch things up with you! If those ingredients were so precious, why didn't you put a note on them?" I looked at the woman I had loved for four years. I looked at the way her body angled, shielding another man from my grief. I closed my eyes. "Bennett," she added, her tone dropping into an icy ultimatum. "If you're going to continue being this impossible, this vindictive... then maybe we shouldn't even bother." 3 She didn't wait for my answer. She grabbed Derek by the sleeve of his jacket and pulled him out of the apartment, slamming the front door behind them so hard the copper pans on the wall rattled. I stood alone under the fluorescent kitchen lights, staring at the sludge in the sink. To an ordinary person, it was just ruined groceries. But to a pastry chef, your mise en place is your lifeblood. It is hours of your heartbeat measured in grams and Celsius. To see it desecrated, scraped into the trash like kitchen waste... A single hot tear spilled over my lashes, dropping into the dirty water. Then another. I turned on the faucet, listening to the disposal grind the remnants of my labor into nothingness, watching the pale lavender curd vanish down the drain. The sink washed clean, but the cold knot in my chest refused to dissolve. I didn't sleep. I stripped off my suit, pulled on a fresh pair of black chef trousers, and spent the entire night at the marble island. I couldn't recreate my original showpiece. The complex sugar domes required forty-eight hours to cure. So, running on pure adrenaline and coffee, I reached back into the only memory that still felt pure: the very first entremet my father had taught me to build when I was twelve years old, back in our tiny bakery in Vermont. I adapted his old sponge recipe, incorporated dark roast espresso, smoked vanilla bean, and a crisp hazelnut praline base. It was rustic, emotional, and raw. When I arrived at the convention center at 7:30 AM, Lauren was already standing near the competitor registration desk, holding an enormous bouquet of purple hyacinths. A couple of our mutual acquaintances spotted me and guided me over. "Bennett! Over here, man. Lauren’s been waiting for an hour." Before I could pull away, Lauren caught my wrist. Her fingers were warm, but her grip was tight. She didn't ask how I was. She didn't ask if I’d managed to salvage anything. She simply pulled me toward the VIP lounge where Derek was seated on a leather sofa, sipping an iced latte. "Derek wants to clear the air," Lauren said, keeping her voice low and firm. "You lost control of your temper last night, Bennett. Just give him a quick apology so we can move past this. He felt so terrible he couldn't sleep a wink." One of our friends chimed in, "Yeah, Bennett, Derek’s heart was in the right place. Don't be that guy." I yanked my arm back so hard Lauren stumbled a step. "Apologize to him?" My voice was low, vibrating with disgust. "Are you insane?" Several passing chefs and judges turned their heads. Lauren’s cheeks flushed crimson with embarrassment. "It’s just an apology, Bennett! Is your ego really that fragile?" She checked her Cartier watch. "Competitors report to their stations in four minutes. Just say the words so we can drop it." Derek had vandalized my career, and here she was, holding me hostage at the arena doors. If I didn't say the words, they would keep circling me, making a scene, until the marshals barred me from entering. A spectator nearby whispered, "Just make up with your girl, man. Competition's starting." Four minutes. Three minutes. I closed my eyes. Every muscle in my throat locked up. "I'm sorry," I said, the words tasting like ash. Lauren exhaled, her shoulders dropping, satisfied that order had been restored. She thrust the purple hyacinths into my hands. "I ran around to three different florists this morning to find these for you. I was too harsh last night. Good luck." Hyacinths. In the old Victorian flower dictionaries, purple hyacinths meant sorrow and forgiveness. In sports, they symbolized the spirit of the contest. To me, holding them felt like holding a wreath for a funeral. Derek stood up, his eyes shining with performative emotion, reaching out to grasp my hand. "Thanks, Bennett. Means a lot—" I sidestepped him, shoved the heavy bouquet back into Lauren’s arms, and turned toward the kitchen arena. "Out of my way," I said. "The clock is running." Lauren’s face tightened, but she took the flowers and stepped aside. "Don't disappear after judging. I rented out a private room at the Avery Club for your celebration dinner." I didn't look back. I clocked in with sixty seconds to spare. For the next four hours, the world ceased to exist. There were only induction burners, offset spatulas, and the scent of caramelized sugar. Working from muscle memory and grief, I built my father’s cake. When the awards ceremony began at 2:00 PM, the head judge announced the silver medal: Bennett Cole, for 'Heritage in Ash.' A wave of overwhelming relief and sorrow washed over me as I took the silver ribbon. It wasn't the gold, but it was an homage to my father. It belonged to him. Then, the spotlights shifted to the center podium for the Grand Prize. "And taking First Place, the Gold Medal for Innovation: Chef Marcus Donovan, presenting The Chrysalis!" The velvet curtain lifted. I stopped breathing. The blood in my veins turned to liquid nitrogen. There, resting under the glare of the stage lights, was The Chrysalis. The delicate, hand-sculpted chocolate shell mimicking a dry cocoon. The hidden internal chamber of pulled-sugar monarchs and edible silver constellations. The exact geometry, the exact layering of passionfruit gelee and black sesame ganache that I had sketched in my notebook over four long, lonely weeks during the lowest point of my career—a tribute to my father’s battle with illness. It was my design. Every single curve of it. Stolen. Ten years ago, my father had entered this very competition. His sous chef had leaked his signature recipe to a rival bakery, breaking his spirit so thoroughly that he never baked again until the day he died. I never imagined history would repeat itself on me. And I had only ever shown that sketchbook to one person in the world: Lauren. I didn't wait for the photo op. I turned away from the podium and pushed through the double doors into the gallery seating. I spotted Lauren and her circle sitting near the front row. Before I reached them, their voices drifted back to me over the applause. "Second place? Seriously?" one of Lauren’s friends scoffed, swirling her champagne. "Honestly, with a rustic cake like that, I’m shocked he even got silver. Lauren, did your dad call in a favor with the judges?" Lauren looked uncomfortable, staring down at her lap. "Stop it. Just watch the ceremony." Derek was sitting beside her, casually pulling the petals off my purple hyacinths one by one, scattering them across the carpeted floor. "So... what about the Avery Club tonight?" Lauren pinched the bridge of her nose. "Cancel the reservation. I’ll call them in a minute." Derek chuckled. "Good call. Throwing a hundred-dollar-a-plate victory dinner for a runner-up is a little embarrassing anyway." Another friend leaned in. "Lauren, your parents are never going to accept a line cook with flour in his hair anyway." Derek shrugged, tossing another violet petal into the air. "He's not a chef, he’s a baker. A glorified cake-maker. And with an attitude like his..." My fingernails dug into the meat of my palms so hard I broke skin. Lauren turned her head to look for an exit—and saw me standing five feet away. She gasped, scrambling to her feet. "Bennett!" 4 The entire row went dead silent. The champagne flutes stopped clinking. Lauren hurried toward me, her hands extended to smooth things over. "Bennett, don't take that the wrong way. Everyone was just teasing—" I didn't look at her hands. I didn't look at her friends. My voice was a flatline. "Where did the champion get The Chrysalis design?" She blinked, bewildered. "What are you talking about?" I pointed a trembling finger at the massive projection screen above the main stage, where the gold-medal cake was being broadcast in high definition. "That showpiece. That is my design. The internal structure, the sugar butterflies, the flavor profile. I only ever showed those schematics to you." Lauren glanced at the screen, then turned back to me with an exhausted, scolding look. "Bennett, I know you’re disappointed about getting second place. But you can't just throw out wild accusations because your pride is hurt." I looked at her, and the last ember of warmth in my chest died. I pulled out my phone and dialed the direct line for the American Culinary Federation ethics committee printed on the competitor badge. "Fine. We’ll let the sanctioning board open an inquiry." Before the second ring, Derek lunged out of his seat. His face was ghostly pale. He grabbed my forearm with both hands. "Bennett! Don't call them! Please, don't! It was me... I leaked it by accident!" Lauren gasped. She reached out, snatched my phone straight from my hand, and tapped the red disconnect button. I stood there, looking down at my empty palm. My chest felt hollowed out, like someone had taken a melon baller to my ribs. Lauren locked my screen and shoved the phone into her designer handbag. "I remember now," she said, her voice rising defensively. "I sent it to Derek two weeks ago. His grandfather's ninetieth birthday was coming up, and he wanted to commission something magnificent. Derek saw your sketches on the coffee table, thought they were beautiful, and asked for the photos. So I texted them to him." She hadn't even remembered it was my competition entry. The sketches I had spent thirty nights explaining to her over dinner—she had viewed them as clip art to pass around. I clenched my fists. "Why didn't you ask me?" Lauren rubbed her temples, letting out an exasperated breath. "I forgot, okay? And let's be honest—if I had asked, would you have said yes? It’s just a sketch, Bennett! Derek has spent months dedicating his time to our relationship. Consider it tuition! Why do you always have to hold on to things that don't matter?" Things that don't matter. A month of sleepless nights. A tribute to my dead father. My entire heart poured out in sugar and cocoa—reduced to "tuition" for a parasite. Derek was blinking back theatrical tears. "Bennett, I swear to God I didn't know. I thought it was just a random concept. I sent it to Chef Donovan’s bakery just to ask for a price quote for my grandpa's party. I didn't know he was going to enter it here..." I took a long, steady breath. I reached out, clamped my hand around Derek’s collar, and dragged him toward the aisle stairs. "Great," I said coldly. "Then you can come up to the podium and explain that to the judges." Derek panicked, digging his heels into the carpet. "Lauren! Help me! He’s crazy!" Lauren charged forward. She grabbed my arm, wrenching my fingers off Derek’s coat, and shoved me back with all her weight. I wasn't braced. My lower back slammed into the sharp corner of a wooden auditorium seat. A blinding, searing pain shot up my spine, forcing a sharp gasp from my lips. "That is enough!" Lauren shouted, stepping squarely in front of Derek, shielding him like a mother bear. "Are you going to humiliate Derek in front of the entire industry over a damn cake design?" A damn cake design. My back throbbed with an agonizing, dull heat. The skin on my wrists was scraped red. But inside, I felt nothing. The pain was entirely physical; the emotional receptor had severed completely. "That was my life’s work," I whispered. "I have the right to reclaim it." Lauren looked down at me, her face harder than granite. She crossed her arms. "Name your price." I looked up. "What?" "I said, name your price," she repeated, her tone completely businesslike. "Whatever the prize money was, whatever you think that recipe was worth. I’ll write you a check right now. On the condition that you keep your mouth shut and don't drag Derek’s name into this." My dreams. My integrity. My father's legacy. In her world, everything had an invoice. Seeing me remain silent, she leaned down, lowering her voice so only I could hear. "Bennett, you know who my family is. The Pierce name carries weight on every board in this city. Even if you walk up to that stage, I can make sure the committee buries your complaint before the ink is dry. I can ensure no high-end kitchen in this state ever hires you again. I know baking is your entire life. Don't make me ruin it for you. Choose wisely." She knew baking was my life. And she was using that exact knowledge to hold a knife to my throat to protect her coach. I stared at her. Her gray eyes were dead, focused only on preserving her social circle's spotless image. The silence between us stretched until the fanfare on stage swelled. The gold medal was hung around Marcus Donovan’s neck. The confetti fell. The window for an official appeal closed forever. The audience began to file out. Lauren pulled my phone from her bag and shoved it back into my chest. "Good. The matter is settled. I’ll text you the new address for dinner. Get your head straight, wash your face, and don't make things awkward for everyone tonight." She turned, hooked her arm through Derek’s, and walked away. I stood there in the emptying hall, amidst the crushed hyacinth petals and discarded programs. I didn't go to dinner. I took a cab back to the apartment, hauled my bags down the front steps, and got into an Uber heading straight for Logan International Airport. Sitting at the departure gate, waiting for boarding group one to be called for Paris, I pulled out my phone, opened our chat, and typed two sentences: Lauren, for these four years: I give you a zero. You’re fired.