Chapter 0235


    I move toward the standing mixer, throwing ingredients in, taking care to measure with conviction.


    Cooking is one thing, but making is another; there is no room for measuring mistakes. An extra


    tablespoon of sugar could ruin the whole dish.


    Karl grins, his voice cutting through the tension. “Don’t forget to breathe, Abby,” he reminds me,


    shooting me a wink from across the table.


    I let out a breath. “I’m breathing.”


    “Yeah, sure,” he says, sliding the bowl of lemon zest toward me. “Everyone knows that breathing


    involves keeping your chest perfectly still, your shoulders stiff, your face red.”


    I can’t help but chuckle. “Alright, fine. You’ve got me.”


    We move in sync for a little while longer, zesting and whipping. The timer is counting down faster than I


    expected, but I’m not worried.


    Until, that is, I reach for the nutmeg—only to pop open the lid and wince at the overwhelming scent of


    cumin. “What the—”


    Karl looks up, eyes narrowing. “That’s not nutmeg.”


    “No, it’s not.” I frantically search for the correct spice, but time is slipping through my fingers. “Maybe


    thebels got messed up.” I pick up another jar, pop open the lid, and inhale. But the jar,beled


    ‘cinnamon’ this time, smells like paprika.


    “Huh?” I mutter, my panic rising. “Paprika in the cinnamon jar? What’s going on here?”


    Karl is already on the move, reaching into our spice cupboard up to his elbow. He eventually pulls out


    another jarbeled ‘nutmeg’ and hands it to me. “Here, this one is bound to be the right one. The other


    must have gotten mixed up.”


    Copyright N?v/el/Dra/ma.Org.


    Nodding, I grab the jar. A quick nce at the clock makes my heart leap into my chest; I’ve wasted


    more time hunting for spices than I would have liked, and the camera is on me, documenting my


    struggle. Stifling a curse, I dump the nutmeg into the mixture and get back to work.


    We scramble to catch up with the other contestants, but the lost minutes feel like a lifetime. I can’t


    shake the feeling that something isn’t right, that this mix-up was more than just an ident.


    “Karl, these spices,” I hiss, whisking furiously, “do you think—”


    “—Sabotage?” he finishes. I nod, and he narrows his eyes. “Don’t worry about it right now, Abby. Not


    enough time.”


    Karl is right. I’m gritting my teeth, my mind racing with suspicions I can’t afford to entertain right now.


    The clock is ticking, and the tiramisu is only halfway done.


    “Pass the pistachios,” I say next, my voice strangely steady despite the pounding in my chest.


    Karl hands them over without a word, his focuspletely dialed in on thepetition.


    But why? I knew this recipe like the back of my hand. The nutmeg should have mixed in just fine, and


    yet… Co?tent belo?gs to Draм?nоvеls.cоm


    “Time’s up,” I breathe out, my eyes on the clock hanging over our heads.


    “Three… Two… One…” The announcer counts down, and as he hits thest number, we step back.


    And then, the buzzer goes off, indicating the end of the round.