Chapter Three – Sparks and Sabotage
The kitchen buzzed with the clatter of knives and sizzling pans, but for Amira, it all faded into the background. Her focus was narrowed to the man standing too close beside her, his presence as distracting as the steam rising from their sauce.
Daniel. Always Daniel.
She told herself she wouldn't let him get under her skin tonight, but he had a way of slipping past defenses like a knife through butter. The frustrating part? He knew it.
"Don't overcook the pasta, sweetheart," he murmured, leaning over her shoulder, his breath brushing her ear.
Amira clenched her jaw, her wooden spoon pausing mid-stir. "Stop calling me that. I'm not your sweetheart."
He smirked, shameless. "Not yet."
Before she could snap back, a familiar voice cut through the heat.
"Careful, Amira. Don't let him rattle you," Zara called from the next station, flashing her a knowing grin. Her curly hair bounced as she whisked a sauce with effortless rhythm. Zara had always been her cheerleader, the one person who made this culinary battlefield feel less lonely.
"I'm fine," Amira said quickly, though the tightness in her chest told another story.
Still, she found herself glancing at Zara, clinging to the silent comfort in her friend's presence. Zara's steady hands, her easy confidence, it was everything Amira wished she could embody in that moment. For a heartbeat, she let her guard slip, wishing she could admit out loud how much Daniel unsettled her. But pride was a chain around her tongue — she refused to let him or anyone else see how much he got under her skin.
Daniel caught the exchange, his smile deepening. "So, even your friend thinks I get to you."
Amira spun around, meeting his storm-gray eyes with fire of her own. "The only thing you get is on my nerves. Don't mistake irritation for attraction."
A whistle sounded from across the room. Luca, one of the students known more for gossip than cooking, raised a brow. "Ooooh, things are heating up over there."
The whole class chuckled, and Amira's cheeks burned hotter than the stove. She hated giving Daniel the satisfaction of being the center of attention.
But then, just as she turned back to the pan, something caught her eye.
The sauce—her sauce—looked off. Too salty. Too sharp. She dipped the spoon, tasted it, and her stomach sank. Someone had tampered with it.
Her gaze darted around. Who would—
And then she saw Daniel, casually wiping his hands with a towel, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"You—" she hissed under her breath, pointing the spoon at him like a weapon.
He raised his brows, feigning innocence. "What? Don't tell me you're accusing me already. Maybe you just miscalculated, chef."
Her heart hammered with fury. She knew he'd done it. She knew. And yet, with Chef Marco walking by, arms crossed, eyes sharp, she couldn't prove it.
"Problem here?" Marco asked, his tone heavy with warning.
Amira forced a steady breath, setting down the spoon. "No, Chef. Just… adjusting the seasoning."Her hand trembled slightly as she stirred, though she prayed no one else noticed. It wasn't just the ruined sauce or Daniel's smug expression — it was the way he always seemed to corner her, making the air feel heavier, tighter, whenever he was close.
Amira hated how aware she was of the heat radiating from his body, how her senses picked up details she wished they didn't: the faint scent of his cologne mixing with garlic and basil, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he leaned closer, the daring curve of his smile as though he already knew her secrets.
"Why do you always do this?" she muttered under her breath, her voice low enough that only he could hear. "You could focus on your own dish, but instead you have to make mine a disaster."
Daniel tilted his head, pretending to consider it, his storm-gray eyes dancing with mischief. "Maybe I just like watching you lose control. You're so precise, so guarded… I can't help wondering what you'd be like if you let go."
Her pulse stumbled at his words, and she cursed herself for it. She wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. She tightened her grip on the spoon until her knuckles ached, channeling her frustration into the steady swirl of sauce that she was desperately trying to salvage.
Marco gave her a long look before nodding and moving on.
Daniel leaned in again, his voice a low whisper only she could hear. "Relax, Amira. What's a little sabotage between rivals?"
Her blood boiled. But somewhere beneath the anger, tangled deep in the mess he always left her in, there was something else—a dangerous spark she hated herself for noticing.
This wasn't just rivalry anymore. It was a game. A dangerous, thrilling game.
And Amira wasn't sure if she wanted to win… or if she wanted to burn with him.
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