Chapter 0243
Abby
All I can do is watch, helpless, as Karl’s form recedes.
He’s being guided forcibly away by the firm hand of a security guard, and he’s yelling something over
the din of the crowd, the announcer, and the sounds of cooking.
I can’t make out what he’s saying, but whatever it is, it’s frantic. But before I can make sense of it, a
microphone is suddenly shoved in my face, and the camera blocks my view of Karl’s fading form.
“Abby, what’s happening? Does your sous chef often show such aggressive behavior?” The
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announcer’s voice breaks through my train of thought, loud and grating over the microphone. I feel
frozen to my spot, unsure of what to do.
“I… Um… Excuse me,” I manage, pushing past the announcer and hurrying toward the edge of the
stage, toward where Karl and the security guard disappeared to. But Mr. Thompson is already in my
way, grabbing my arm and yanking me out of the view of the camera.
“Abby, you can’t follow him,” Mr. Thompson hisses, his voice low. “Get back out there.”
“But I need to—” I begin, but the words are cut off.
“No,” Mr. Thompson cuts in, his tone leaving no room for argument. “What you need to do is finish your
dish. This will be handled, don’t worry.”
“But Karl, he—”
“Will be taken care of,” he interrupts firmly. “The judges have made it clear: the timer will not stop. You
must continue or forfeit.”
My mind races. “But I can’t cook without my sous chef,” I argue, my voice wavering now. “It’s not fair.
Daniel still has his sous chef.”
“Fair or not,” Mr. Thompson retorts with a regretful shake of his head, “those are the rules. I’m sorry,
Abby, but it’s not up to me. You do want to win, don’t you?”
Winning. The concept seems so far from me now. It doesn’t feel right to keep going without Karl. And I
can’t do this all on my own. I need a sous chef. “I can’t just pretend that this is all okay,” I say. “He
would never hurt anyone like that. This—this is a farce!”
“You don’t have to pretend anything,” Mr. Thompson replies. “Just cook. That’s what you’re here for,
isn’t it? To prove yourself in the kitchen?”
I nce back at the station, at the unfinished dish lying on the counter. The cameras, the lights, the
eyes on the stage—all of it is the real reason why I’m here. Mr. Thompson is right; I can’t just abandon
it now.
“Abby, you have to go back,” Mr. Thompson murmurs, his voice lower now, his eyesced with
concern. “You know Karl would want you to finish this, even without him.”
I close my eyes for a fleeting second, letting his words anchor me to this moment. Mr. Thompson is
right, yet again.
“You’re right,” I say, though each word feels hollow, even to me. “But this isn’t over. I’ll finish the dish,
but I won’t let this lie. Karl is many things, but violent isn’t one of them.”
“Don’t worry,” Mr. Thompson says, squeezing my shoulder. “I’ll look into this. Personally.”
I whirl around and run back on stage, where the camera and the announcer have been waiting for me
all this time. The audience is murmuring in confusion, and the judges are staring at me from their
booth. Daniel and his sous chef, however, are right back at work. And the timer hasn’t paused for even
a second. I’ve already wasted several minutes over this.
“Dammit,” I murmur as I dash past the camera and back to my station. The timer feels like a ticking
time bomb, a countdown to an explosion that may or may note. And I feel utterly helpless in this
mess.
As I make my way past Daniel’s station, I catch his eyes. He and his sous chef are back at work, his
sous chef cooking with one hand, although I know he’s not really injured. Daniel shoots me that look
with that knowing glint in his eyes, a subtle smirk crossing his lips.
“Rat,” I think to myself, feeling my hackles raise just at the sight of him. But I can’t stop now. Whatever
this is, I’ll have to deal with itter. Right now, my focus is my half-finished dish.
My hands tremble with abination of anger and adrenaline as Ie to a screeching halt at my
workstation. A quick nce at the half-finished dish reminds me: truffles. Cursing under my breath, I
run to the pantry, grab the coveted container off the shelf, and run back.
“Just like Anton taught me,” I think as I sprinkle the finely chopped truffles into the butter, letting them
simmer together so that the vors melt into one another and create a perfect harmony of umami and
woodsy tang.
I then return my attention to the pasta, stirring it. It’s handmade, so it cooks quickly, and before I know
it, it’s out of the pot and ready for the truffle butter.
I steal a nce at the clock—mere minutes remaining. “Okay, okay, pan,” I murmur, carrying the
strainer over to the frying pan where the truffle butter is waiting.”
“Looking a bit rough there, Abby,” Daniel says, his eyes meeting mine with a smirk tugging at the
corners of his lips.
I shoot him a re that could kill. “Worry about your own dish, Daniel.”
“Oh, I am,” he chuckles. “It’s just impossible not to notice when someone is iling.”
I want to snap back, to throw his smugness back in his face, but there’s no time. My hands are moving
on their own now, muscle memory guiding me more than thought right now, each ingredient added in a
rush of desperation.
ting begins, and that’s when it all starts to go to shit.
“And end round in three…” the announcer’s voice calls over the microphone, grating my nerves.
Another curse under my breath. I forgot the basil, but it’s toote. Dammit.
“Two…”
Daniel’s eyes meet mine, and in that moment, I feel as though I could reach across the counter and
throttle him.
“One!” Draмanоvеls
The buzzer res across the studio, and silence falls. I step back from my haphazard dish, tears
pricking the backs of my eyes.
Dammit, what was Karl trying to warn me about?
“Time’s up, chefs!” The announcer exims, his voice echoing through the room. “Step away from your
stations!”
All I can hope is that the vors of my dish will outshine its appearance. Only then can I even have the
tiniest chance of winning.