THE PERFECT DECEPTION

Chapter 1

Anupama

My breath caught in my throat as a whisper escaped my chest. "Shit," I think to myself as the words hover on my tongue, looking back into his waiting grey eyes. I exhale forcefully, trying to muster the confidence that the dish exudes on the plate.

It's my dish, speak up, I urge myself as my lips part slightly. I rub my finger nervously against my black apron, seeking pain to anchor me to the reality of impending embarrassment. My saree feels old, wrinkled with every slight movement, plain against the culture I've cherished my entire life, and now seems unwarranted.

"The dish I present before you is a special preparation of chole—" I pause as the judge's face crinkles in disappointment. "Ms. Joshi, this is the last time we will tell you. Leave your mother tongue at home, not here in this kitchen," a pang resonates in my heart.

How could I mess this up?

I release my hands from behind my back, my shoulders drooping. My palms sweat as nerves set in, and my eyes scan the audience, over the snickering faces, those bored by my hesitation, and Anuj, who gives a thumbs up, trying to bolster my nerves with his support. The camera focuses on my face, capturing the blood pounding in my ears. 

"We have no time, Ms. Joshi," he said, annoyance evident as he rolled his eyes. "Ms. Joshi, please don't keep us waiting," the lady added softly, her gentle smile contrasting with the heat on my cheeks. Quick thinking and confidence were not my strong suits, and it was disheartening to be undermined by my weaknesses.

"The dish—" I began, only to be cut off by the man with a Santa Claus demeanor, his voice tinged with irritation. "Ms. Joshi, you've come far—"

"Stop," Jonathan commanded, his voice cold, cutting through the other man's words. My eyes widened as the camera focused on him, his voice husky and commanding, somehow sending a shiver of warmth down my spine.

Jonathan's jaw was set, his guard perpetually up. I couldn't fault him; if I were a kingpin in some industry, I wouldn't trust the neighbor next door either, but my naivety was a stark contrast. All eyes turned to Jonathan. "Mr. King..." George began, a chuckle breaking his speech, "She was taking forever," he said, finding humor in the situation.

Jonathan remained unsmiling, unflinching. He exuded a sophisticated charm, his appearance lethal, with the good looks, cold stare, and menacing eyes characteristic of a villain. He was more than a king; he was like a monster astride a black horse, poised for conquest.

"I believe the words you're searching for are 'Sorry, Ms. Joshi,'" he said, his eyes locking onto George like a tiger ready to pounce. "Mr. King—" George began, attempting to soften his tone, his blue, bead-like eyes softening.

"George, I will not accept such an impolite manner of conducting a show," Jonathan said, his voice tinged with amusement. His words were elongated, spoken with a slight British accent. The room seemed to deflate as he commanded all the attention.

Fear was evident in George as his eyes quivered and his lips trembled with each breath while he tried to defend himself. "If it's difficult to speak without resorting to the language of an insolent man whose brain operates on mere insults, then muster the courage to apologize like a man. I am sorry, but this will be the end of the show."

With that, a collective gasp escaped everyone's lips, as if he could snap his fingers and take the show off the air. The producer leaped from his chair, standing at a distance yet close enough to be heard, "Mr. King, George is tough on all the chefs that come here," his voice filled with urgency and fear of losing what he had built.

Jonathan shook his head, his gaze briefly meeting mine before turning to the producer as the other judges panicked. "Mr. Foster, this is not a humble request; it's a damn threat. George must apologize to Ms. Joshi, or this set will be long forgotten," his stare piercing through me and capturing every fleeting moment.