The Last Dish 2

I didn’t trust the silence anymore.

We stepped into the spotlight. Our prep station gleamed, freshly sanitized. The crowd had grown quieter. Less energy. Less applause.

Something was off.

The judges looked stiffer now. Less chatty. One adjusted his glasses three times in under a minute. Another kept glancing down at his notes, then at us, then at the camera.

Selena kept smiling.

She always did.

Hair perfect. Apron crease-free. Her hands fluttered for the camera while mine moved silently behind her—chopping, layering, brushing, timing. While she acted like she added the spices whereas I already arranged those for her.

I did well during the first round but now I couldn’t focus.

The lights were too hot. My chest too tight. I added half a teaspoon less of lemon zest than we’d planned. Forgot to rotate the lamb in the final two minutes.

I felt off. Was it the anxiety? I wondered.

Selena never noticed. She was busy talking to the host, giggling at his terrible pun about rosemary and romance.

I plated with steady hands, even though the panic was rising, crawling up my throat like smoke.

Then came the tasting.

Silence.

A clink of fork against porcelain.

Another.

And then—

“I expected more,” one judge said, leaning back with a polite, bland smile. “The technique was fine. But it lacked... heart.”

Heart?

I’d given this dish my soul.

Another judge nodded, lips tight. “Technically sound. But flat. It didn’t leave a memory.”

Selena’s smile didn’t slip. Not once.

But I felt the chill rolling off her.

We didn’t place.

Not even top three.

The winners were announced. Applause. Champagne. Confetti.

I stood in the background as cameras pivoted away from us. Selena clapped like a good sport, even leaned in to congratulate the winners. But her eyes were glass.

Cold and dead.

I didn’t say anything until we reached the back hallway.

The place was half-lit, with production crew hustling past, dragging wires and camera gear. It smelled like burnt sugar and cleaning chemicals.

I leaned against the wall, peeling off my gloves one finger at a time. My body still hummed with tension. My shoulders hadn’t dropped since the second round.

“You kept your cool,” I said. “Even when they didn’t like it. That was... impressive.”

Selena didn’t look at me. She was staring at her reflection in the darkened window across the hall. Fixing her lipstick. Pressing her hair down.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” I added. “Like we agreed.”

She finally turned.

Nodded.

Then did something unexpected.

She stepped forward—and hugged me.

Tight.

Too tight.

Arms wrapped around me like she meant it. Like she was sad. Like we were sisters again, for a second.

I didn’t lift my arms. I just stood there, stiff in her hold, unsure of what was real anymore. She was probably trying to manipulate me to stay.

Then she whispered, voice calm and low:

“But… can I say something?”

I frowned. “Say… what?”

Selena didn’t answer right away.

She just smiled again—slow this time, softer than before. Then she reached for my wrist and tugged gently.

“Come.”

I hesitated.

The hallway behind us was still buzzing with noise—people laughing, metal carts clattering against tiled floors, producers calling out wrap instructions. But the hallway ahead? Past the double doors?

Dark and empty.

“Selena—”

“It’s just backstage,” she said sweetly. “I want to show you something.”

I let her pull me. My fingers felt numb. The adrenaline from the loss hadn’t worn off yet, and my stomach still twisted with embarrassment. Maybe she wanted to talk. Maybe she needed a moment. Maybe she was going to scream my head off.

But when we slipped past the loading bay doors, the air changed.

The world dimmed.

No one else was there.

The crew was gone. The lights above buzzed quietly, most of them off. Boxes were stacked against the far wall. A mop bucket sat half-full beside the industrial sink. A stray apron lay crumpled on the floor like a forgotten costume piece.

She let go of my hand.

I stepped back. “Selena?”

She turned, slowly.

“What do you think people would say,” she began, voice barely above a whisper, “if they found out their beloved chef never actually cooked?”

I went still.

My pulse skipped.

“Selena—”

Her eyes gleamed in the shadows. “What do you think they'd say about all those wins? The perfect plates. The magazine covers. All built on someone else’s hands.”

I stared at her, the back of my throat tightening.

I didn’t answer.

She smiled again, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“You were supposed to stay hidden, Liora. You didn't. You did this on purpose. You made me lose…on purpose. Like you said…you were…tired.”

She chuckled, taking a step closer. “You were never supposed to want more.”

I blinked. “ What are you talking about? Did it on purpose? I swear I don't know what happened. I was fine the first but the next moment seeing the cameras I became anxious. It's not my fault. We would try another time.”

“There won't be another time.”

“Sele—”

Something glinted.

Metal. Just for a second.

I turned, mouth parting to shout—

But the knife was already coming. There wasn't enough time for me to react.

It hit my stomach first. A deep, twisting pain.

Then she moved higher. To my chest.

I gasped.

But no sound came out.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

My body locked. My brain screamed but my limbs just froze.

I stood there, stupi

dly still, as the blood started to bloom through my shirt—warm, thick, unreal.

She stepped back, breathing steady. The knife still in her hand.

And me?

I was dying.