The Last Dish

Cooking was my life. It was my gift and passion.

Even before I could spell “soufflé,” I knew how to taste. I knew how to feel for the heat of an oil pan without burning my skin. I knew how to listen to a boiling pot and sense the second it crossed into overdone. My hands were trained long before they were appreciated. It was all thanks to my mother. A chef herself before she died.

Selena knew that. That’s why she never let me stop. That’s why she always said, “Just one more favor.”

Favor after favor turned into competitions. The small ones at first—regional, barely televised, the kind where people cared more about plated desserts than real skill. I stood backstage, hands gloved, face hidden, listening to my recipes being announced as hers.

Selena won five titles before anyone even thought to ask what a “sous chef” meant in her kitchen.

And still, she was never caught.

You’d think someone would notice. But they didn’t.

Most people didn’t care who really cooked. They just cared about who smiled at the camera.

Selena wore the mic. She did the talking. I wore the gloves. I did the work.

On TV, they never showed the full kitchen. Just her face, the final dish, and a few pretty shots in between. During live shows, I was always listed as her assistant. I wore black. I stayed quiet.

She called it “the silent chef”—said it made her look more mysterious. The producers liked it. The audience bought it. No one asked questions.

Every time we won, I told myself it was the last.

But she knew how to keep me—pressing the bruise just right, reminding me what I owed, reminding me of Marcus, of the mask, of how I’d be nothing without her.

But this competition was different.

This wasn’t small. This was televised nationally. A high-stakes elite event where global sponsors would be watching live, where brand deals were born and chefs became legends.

Selena knew that.

And she wanted to win more than ever.

She called it her “big break.” The one that would take her international. A luxury cooking tour across Europe. Her own Michelin-backed line of products.

“If we win this one,” she had whispered, “everything changes.”

By we, she meant me.

But I didn’t correct her.

We stood in the waiting hall of the event center—an enormous, cold structure of steel and glass, buzzing with cameramen, producers, and half a dozen competitors from across the country.

The air smelled like lemon oil, nerves, and expensive perfume. One team from Marseille wore matching uniforms. Another had their logo stitched into their sleeves. There was a buzz around them—chefs who had earned their place.

And then there was us.

Selena wore a tailored navy apron over her white blouse, sleeves cuffed at the elbow to show off delicate bracelets. Her nails were done. Her lips painted in her signature plum. She looked like a Vogue editorial snuck into a professional kitchen.

And I?

I stood behind her in full black. Hair tucked back. Mask secured. Hands folded. Silent.

Nobody looked twice.

They never did.

The producers guided us to the prep area. Shiny metal counters. Flawless equipment. Cameras angled from the ceiling to catch every movement.

Selena adjusted her mic, checked her reflection in a stainless steel fridge, then turned to me.

“If we win this,” she whispered, “you get what you want.”

I raised an eyebrow beneath the mask. “And what do I want?”

“To disappear.”

My hands stilled.

She smiled. “You’re tired, right? This is your last time. You get your exit. I get my title. Everybody wins.”

And for a moment, I almost believed her.

The competition format was brutal: six rounds, surprise ingredients, time pressure, and live scoring. Each team would be given twenty minutes to conceptualize, thirty minutes to execute, and five minutes to plate.

It was the kind of challenge where skill couldn’t be faked.

Unless you had me.

We moved to our station. Cameras zoomed in. The host announced our team name: Team Hart. The crowd applauded.

Not a single person knew the masked girl was the one with the real hands.

The bell rang.

Round one began.

I barely heard the host speak. My body moved on instinct—grabbing ingredients, noting heat levels, reaching for herbs before Selena even asked. She didn’t look at me. She didn’t need to.

We’d done this a hundred times.

I seared, she stirred. I seasoned, she smiled. She tasted with her finger and tilted her head like it was genius. It wasn’t. It was mine.

And the judges loved it.

“This balance is divine,” one said.

“Unexpected notes of tamarind. Beautiful,” said another.

Selena winked. “Just a touch of intuition.”

Behind her, I pulled off my gloves and reached for the next set.

Round two passed in a blur.

Then round three.

The pressure increased. So did the tension.

Teams started to crack—yelling, slipping, plating wrong.

But us?

We didn’t speak.

We didn’t need to.

That was the danger.

Selena knew how to perform. And I knew how to make the world believe it.

When the break came, we stepped off the floor. I drank quietly from my water bottle, eyes scanning the other teams. Most were panicked. Except one. A pair of brothers from Kyoto.

I respected that.

I didn’t respect this.

Selena leaned in, fixing her lipstick in a compact mirror. “They’re scared of us.”

“I don’t want this.”

“You agreed.”

“I agreed to cook. One last time. Not multiple rounds, you didn't state there would be this much rounds when you were explaining the concept.”

“You could have done your research.” She clicked the mirror shut and turned to me, lips still curled. “Besides, you’re good at this. You like the fire.”

“I like honesty.”

She scoffed. “Since when?”

“Since now.”

“You are growing wings. Don't allow it to be clipped.”

She turned as one of the other competitors walked by—an older woman with sharp cheekbones and a frown like she was born with it. She stopped and looked at Selena.

“You’re the one with the masked sous, right?”

Selena smiled. “I am.”

“Bold choice. Hiding the real work?”

“Or maybe just making a statement,” Selena said sweetly.

The woman didn’t smile back. “Statements don’t win. Food does.”

She walked off.

Selena exhaled sharply. “Jealousy is ugly.”

I stared after the woman. “She’s not wrong.”

Selena’s gaze snapped to me.

“Oh shut up,” she said quietly.

I didn’t respond. Just tightened my grip on the piping bag, even though my palms were already sweaty.

The cameras were everywhere.

Overhead. Side angles. Suspended rigs. Zoom lenses.

There was no corner I could sink into, no shadow wide enough to hide me.

And the mask—it didn’t help this time. It clung to my skin, made my breath catch in a shallow loo

p. Every movement felt exposed. Every step rehearsed, like if I blinked wrong, someone would notice the difference. Someone would finally say, “That’s not her cooking.”