Chapter One – A Taste of Rivalry
Amira's very first day at the academy should have been perfect—the shine of the stainless-steel counters, the scent of basil and garlic in the air, the thrill of finally stepping into the kitchen of her dreams. She was ready to prove herself, apron folded neatly, nerves buzzing with excitement.
Then Daniel walked in. Late. Confident. Acting like the room belonged to him.
Their instructor paired them for a simple pasta challenge. Amira poured every ounce of care into her dish, tasting and adjusting until it felt like art. Daniel, on the other hand, breezed through, moving with infuriating ease, finishing first and smirking as if he already knew how it would end.
When the instructor tasted both plates, he complimented Amira's flavors—but awarded Daniel the win. And that smirk he gave her, sharp and satisfied, lit a fire she hadn't been able to put out since. From that moment on, it was rivalry. Every glance, every word, every dish—they battled like the kitchen wasn't big enough for the two of them.
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The aroma of roasted garlic and simmering tomatoes filled the air, curling through the gleaming kitchen and wrapping itself around Amira like an embrace. She tugged at the strings of her apron, tying them firmly behind her back, her heart beating with that familiar rush she always felt when she was about to cook.
The kitchen was her sanctuary, her safe place, the one corner of the world where she had complete control. Cooking wasn't just food—it was passion, it was art, and every dish she prepared carried a piece of her. But tonight, the stage wasn't hers alone.
Because he was here.
Daniel.
He leaned lazily against the refrigerator across the counter, arms folded, watching her with a half-smile tugging at his lips. His white shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showing strong forearms dusted faintly with flour. His hair was a little too perfect, his smirk a little too practiced, and Amira hated that he looked like he belonged in every room he walked into—even this one.
"Try not to burn the sauce this time, sweetheart," Daniel drawled, his deep voice dripping with arrogance. His smirk widened as though he was already pleased with himself.
Amira gripped the wooden spoon in her hand and turned to face him, plastering on a smile so sweet it could've been sugar-coated. "Funny, Daniel. Last I checked, it was your risotto that tasted like salted cardboard."
A few of the other chefs-in-training snickered from their stations, the sound quickly muffled as they returned to chopping and stirring. Daniel, however, didn't falter. If anything, he seemed to enjoy it. His grin widened, the kind of grin that made Amira's blood boil. He thrived on this—their constant sparring, their endless competition.
Amira turned back to her pan, forcing herself to focus on stirring the sauce as it bubbled gently. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of getting under her skin. Not tonight. Still, she could feel his eyes on her, sharp and steady, like he was studying every move she made.
Daniel had a way of looking at her that unnerved her. It was as though he could peel away her defenses layer by layer, searching for the cracks she worked so hard to hide. And it infuriated her.
"You know," he said suddenly, stepping closer. His tone was quieter now, meant only for her. "All this fire you waste on me… you could use it to cook something unforgettable."
Her hand froze mid-stir, the spoon hovering above the sauce. Heat rushed to her cheeks—whether from anger or from something far more dangerous, she didn't dare admit. She lifted her gaze to meet his storm-gray eyes, holding his stare with all the defiance she could muster.
"Don't flatter yourself, Daniel. The only unforgettable thing about you is how irritating you are."
He chuckled, the sound low and warm, and leaned in just enough for her to catch the faint trace of spice and citrus clinging to him. "Careful, Amira. One day you might mistake irritation for attraction."
Her pulse skipped before she could stop it. Quickly, she turned back to her pan, stirring harder than necessary, as if the sauce could absorb her frustration. She wasn't here to be distracted. She wasn't here for him.
But as the sauce thickened and the tension between them simmered, Amira couldn't ignore the truth pressing at the edges of her thoughts: the line between rivalry and something far more dangerous was thinner than she wanted to admit.
And in this kitchen, where heat was everywhere, there was no escaping the fire.