[COMPLETED]
❝Death is inevitable. It's a promise made to us at birth.❞
Arielle is a studious young woman striving to be a chef. Her life is full of going to class, reading textbooks, and hanging out with her friends, until she meets Zayn. Zayn's an...
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➳ ARIELLE'S POV
I open the oven door and insert a knife into the center of my custard, pleased when it comes out clean. Knowing it's cooked, I use my gloved hand and pull the baking pan out. I gently remove the custard from the pan and place it on my wire rack to cool, admiring the way it turned out.
I can hear Chef Wilson approaching my kitchen and I turn to face him, carelessly wiping my hands on my apron. "Chef," I greet him with a nervous smile. He steps up into my kitchen and looks down at the custard on the wire rack as I fold my hands in front of me, waiting anxiously to hear his thoughts.
He grabs onto the wire with one large meaty hand and wiggles it a little to grade it. "Looks to be a good consistency. Excellent job once again, Arielle." Chef smiles at me and then scratches at his beard for a moment.
"Thank you," I murmur to him before reaching forward and pressing the large red button on the oven, turning it off.
"I would love to taste this," Chef takes a step forward to grab a small plate, placing it beside my custard.
"Yes, of course!" I respond, hurrying to grab the necessary cutlery. I run my knife around the rim of the cup and invert the caramel custard onto his plate, watching as Chef Wilson picks up a spoon and delicately cuts into the dessert. He lifts the spoon to his nose and inhales its scent before lightly placing it onto his tongue, taking a moment to savour the flavours as they hit his taste buds. I watch his Adam's apple bob up and down when he swallows the dessert, impatient as hell.
He nods three times, and then cuts another segment of the dessert and places it into his mouth. "This is very good Arielle. Please, taste your work," he offers as he places a clean spoon into my hands. I step forward and cut a small section of the custard for myself, opposite the side Chef had taken from.
I toss it around in my mouth, dissecting each and every wave of flavour that hits me. "Well, what do you think?" Chef questions, glancing at me softly. I understand that he wants his students to be critical of their work—to point out potential mistakes and learn from them—but it makes me overly critical of my work. I begin to pick it apart and that isn't always the best thing.
"Honestly?" I ask, and he nods his head. "I think it could use a kick of another flavour . . . orange zest, maybe?" I offer, thinking that orange could be the exact thing that this dish is missing. A little bit of citrus to break up the sweet.
He scratches at his beard and purses his lips, pointing a finger in my direction, "That's not a bad idea." He places his hand on my shoulder as he walks past where I'm standing, telling me, "Great job. You can clean up now."
"Thank you."
I watch as he leaves my kitchen and begins assessing the other students. I clean up my dirtied dishes, wash them, and place them back in their proper cupboards before wiping down the countertops and making a final sweep to ensure that everything's clean. When I'm pleased with the cleanliness, I head towards the door and hang my apron up on its designated hook.
