Chapter 8 Plated Lies

• The footage was everywhere by breakfast.
• Elara found it on her phone while the coffee brewed. A thirty second clip from the partner challenge. It was cut to make her look cruel. The angle showed her saying, “Fish is delicate. It requires attention,” but the audio was spliced. Her words came after a shot of Julian looking wounded. The edit made it seem like she was talking about him. The comments were already brutal.
• She set the phone down. Her hand was steady. Her chest was not.
• Julian walked into the kitchen. He saw her face. “What.”
• She turned the phone. He watched. His jaw locked.
• “They cut it,” he said.
• “They always cut it.”
• He set his coffee down without drinking. “I will call Marisol.”
• “It will not matter. It is already out.”
• He read the comments. His thumb moved over the screen. The tape on his hand was fraying.
• “She is calling you a tyrant,” he said.
• “I have been called worse.”
• “That does not make it right.”
• The kitchen door opened. Vivienne walked in. She was dressed for the camera even though there were no cameras. “Did you see,” she said. “The clip is trending.”
• “We saw,” Elara said.
• Vivienne went to the espresso machine. “The audience loves conflict. It is good for the show.”
• “It is not good for us,” Julian said.
• Vivienne shrugged. “It is television. Nothing is personal.”
• She left with her coffee. The kitchen was quiet again.
• Elara picked up her phone. She deleted the app. It would not help. The clip would still exist.
• “You should eat,” Julian said.
• “I am not hungry.”
• “You need to eat.”
• She looked at him. “Why do you care.”
• He frowned. “Because you are a person.”
• “Right. A person.”
• He stepped closer. “Elara.”
• “Do not.” She held up a hand. “Do not do the noble thing. Do not defend me to the network. It will make it worse.”
• “I am not trying to be noble. I am trying to be decent.”
• “Decency does not trend.”
• He exhaled. “What do you want me to do.”
• “I want you to make your dish for Friday. I want you to stop worrying about me.”
• “I cannot.”
• “You can. You did it for five years.”
• The words landed hard. He took a step back.
• “That is unfair,” he said.
• “I know. I am angry.”
• “At me.”
• “At everything.” She pressed her palms to the counter. “At the clip. At Vivienne. At the contract. At myself for thinking one night in a kitchen changed anything.”
• He was quiet. The coffee in his cup went cold.
• “I did not know they would cut it like that,” he said.
• “I know.”
• “I would never let them use me to hurt you.”
• “I know that too.”
• She believed him. That was the problem. She believed him and it still hurt.
• Marisol arrived at nine. She did not apologize. She never apologized.
• “The network is thrilled,” Marisol said. “Engagement is up three hundred percent. We are leaning in.”
• “Leaning in,” Elara repeated.
• “We are adding a segment. You two will cook head to head tomorrow. Same ingredients. The winner gets immunity from the Friday reveal.”
• “Immunity from what,” Julian asked.
• Marisol smiled. “From having your lowest scoring dish shown on air.”
• Elara understood. If she lost, her worst review would be broadcast. Probably the one that ruined him. If he lost, his would be shown. Probably the night he walked off a live set.
• “Pass,” Elara said.
• “It is not optional,” Marisol said. “It is in the rider. Page forty two.”
• Elara had not read page forty two. She was done not reading.
• “We will do it,” Julian said.
• Marisol left. The kitchen was theirs again.
• Elara went to the pantry. She pulled ingredients without thinking. Tomatoes, garlic, basil, bread. She set them on the island.
• “What are you doing,” he asked.
• “Practicing.”
• “You do not cook.”
• “I am learning.”
• He watched her. She took a knife. She cut a tomato. The pieces were uneven. The juice ran over the board.
• “You are holding it wrong,” he said.
• “I know.”
• He came around the island. He stood behind her. He did not touch her. “Thumb in. Fingers curled. Like this.”
• She adjusted. She cut again. Better.
• “Good,” he said.
• She kept cutting. The pile grew. The kitchen smelled like summer.
• “Why are you helping me,” she asked.
• “Because I want to win,” he said.
• “Against me.”
• “Yes.”
• She stopped cutting. “Why.”
• “Because if you win, they will show my worst night. And I cannot let you see that.”
• She turned. “I already saw it. I watched it live. I watched you walk off and I did not sleep for a week.”
• He closed his eyes. “Then you know.”
• “I know you were hurting. I know you were human. I do not need to see it again.”
• He opened his eyes. “I need to make sure you do not.”
• She set the knife down. “Julian.”
• “I am going to practice,” he said. “Alone.”
• He left. She stayed. The tomatoes sat on the board. The cut was clean now.
• She thought about the clip. About her words twisted into a weapon. About the way the internet had decided she was the villain in a story she had not written.
• She picked up her phone. She reinstalled the app. She opened her notes. She started typing.
• She wrote about the cut. She wrote about the edit. She wrote about the way a kitchen could be a place of truth and a set could be a place of lies.
• She did not post it. Not yet.
• She went to the cellar. The jars of lemons were still there. She took one. She brought it upstairs. She set it next to the tin of caramel.
• Two days to Friday. Two days to the head to head.
• She was not sure what would be plated. The truth. Or the lie.
• She was sure of one thing. She was done letting other people edit her story.
• She opened the laptop. She pulled up the draft of her profile on him. The first line was still there. Julian Reyes cooks like a man who is afraid of being forgotten.
• She deleted it. She wrote a new one.
• Julian Reyes cooks like a man who remembers everything.
• She saved it. She closed the laptop.
• Tomorrow they would cook against each other. Tomorrow they would fight with knives and fire.
• Tonight, she would remember. And she would write it down.