THE PERFECT DECEPTION

Prologue

Anupama

"Jaldi," I murmur, carefully garnishing the lentil soup with coriander, and infusing it with the exquisite spices that were staples in my mother-in-law's kitchen. Glancing at the clock, a deep frown etches my face, as the countdown continues, each second relentless in its passing.

My fingers quiver subtly, nerves kicking in, while my heart races with adrenaline surging through my chest and spine. I take a deep breath, attempting to pipe the green chutney along the rim of the plate, as other contestants observe their dishes with pride.

The three judges gave me a piercing, narrowed gaze that was intimidating. I caught myself comparing my dish to that of the girl beside me, who had prepared a seared pork loin with a vinegar-based dressing. With only three contestants remaining in this round, I berated myself for not speaking English as fluently as my mother tongue.

For a fleeting moment, my eyes shut as I recalled how Anuj had rescued me in the previous round by speaking English. The mortifying moment when the judge, a bald Santa Claus, reminded me that I was not in India. Here, the Hindi I knew so well was unnecessary in a land known for fries and fast food.

I open my eyes to Anuj's heated gaze, his supportive smile offering a glimmer of hope. The tall woman with curly, brunette hair announces, "1 minute," as cameras zoom in on me. Sweat trickles under my clothes from the heat of the oil splattering around the frying eggplant.

I carefully lift them from the pan, each piece golden brown. I place them gently atop the soup, careful not to submerge them. "Knives and pans down," another judge yells as I step back from the three plates that shine like stars, as if in a local competition.

Glancing at the last two contestants, I see a Korean man with fiery eyes offering a smile and a handshake. His dish stands out with textured noodles and mushrooms floating in chili oil soup. To my left, a tall girl with long braids and dimples smiles brightly, the smoky aroma of her salad filling the room.

Each contestant's work is unique and professional. I bite my lip, breathing deeply, as the judges' wide smiles turn to expressions of dread. "Anupama, you got this," I whisper to myself as we step away from our dishes. The lights dim as we approach the judges' table, their faces a mask of cold terror.

"Today, not only will the three of us judge your dishes, but we will also choose a winner," declared the judge, whose voice bore no resemblance to Santa Claus, in a tone that sent chills down my spine. My heart pounded against the bones of my chest, each thump resonating in my ears as heat flushed my face. The tension mounted as I clenched my fists, the fabric of my oil-stained saree crumpling in my grasp.

"However," said the slender man with a broad smile, his voice tinged with a hint of gentleness, "this afternoon we have a special guest to judge the finest chefs in the competition." He paused, ostensibly to heighten the viewers' anticipation, but for us, it only intensified the challenge. A new judge! I wondered, fretting over the unknown preferences he might have for spiciness.

My gaze swiftly tracks the paparazzi's flashing lights, which obscure our view of the man they eagerly scrutinize. My breath catches in my throat as he steps out of the vehicle, his polished, expensive shoe making contact with the ground while journalists clamor for his attention. Around him, about five large men in black suits form a barrier, shielding him from the camera flashes and any potential threats.

They advance slowly, the judges' smiles broadening. The click of his shoes against the set's tiles shifts the atmosphere to that of a cold blizzard, sending shivers down my spine.

''The King of the business world and hospitality world, Jonathan King,'' her voice says loudly in admiration. Jonathan's long, sharp build stands behind the middle chair, as the veins on his hands flex against the leather of the soft chair. His jaw clenching and unmoved just like his soft lips, dead to the rest of the people. 

His grey eyes are as cold as they looked at each one of the people standing in the room, unphased by the presence because nothing could hurt him. His eyes make each on gulp till his grey, dark eyes meet mine in the neatest gaze I have seen. My breath stops, as his eyes search mine as every drop of confidence fades away. His eyes never left mine and like that a storm arose in me like a whirlwind of emotions. 

''Can we begin?'' he said coldly, as the judges quickly nodded. He sat down as the cameras' rolled on him like the star he looked like with a few grey streaks on the edge of his hair. His eyes settle on the Korean guy's dish, again not moving an inch before looking at me again. Calculating me as if I was not human or maybe intrigued from the way I look from others. 

His eyes could hypnotize me and lock me away in a shelter for life. He had power, darkness, money and mystery in his hands as he waits for the man to speak by passing time in my eyes. I was self-conscious that I may look inappropriate to him, or he may be confused by my outfit. He just stared at me like nothing else was here to experiment on until the guy spoke, and his gaze moved away from mine. 

Tints of red brushed my cheek like a fire swirling in chest and a requited word. A storm was flurrying, and I didn't know whether to run to stay but I needed the money. I needed the money. I was thinking to myself for a while and lost myself into all possible outcomes till my name was loudly spoken out to grab my attention.  ''Yes,'' I said meekly. 

''Your dish, explain it please,'' The lady said, and my body froze in the moment. SHIT! 

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