Victory tasted amazing.
Not just metaphorically. Literally.
Because Leora, in all her smug, victorious glory, had just done something that I never thought I would witness in my lifetime.
She had always been the epitome of unyielding standards and harsh critiques, a figure who seemed to thrive on our failures.
Her praise was as rare as a blue moon, and yet, here she was, standing before us, her expression a mix of reluctant admiration and begrudging respect.
She praised us.
Leora.
Praised. Us.
"I must say," she announced, standing before the exhausted, battered, yet triumphant group of cooking students.
"I am thoroughly impressed." Her voice, usually sharp and cutting, held a note of genuine surprise. The room fell silent, every student hanging on her every word, scarcely believing what they were hearing.
I squinted at her. She said that like it physically hurt her.
But she still said it.
