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“Annabelle stole my bracelet,” Gabby says. “The one Hayes loved.”
“I did not!” Annabelle’s voice cracks.
I watch the scene unfolding, recognizing the calculated power play. This isn’t about a bracelet—it’s about destabilizing the competition before elimination. Creating doubt. Throwing Annabelle off her game after her successful fire juggling performance.
And suddenly, I’m tired of it. Tired of the manufactured drama, the petty sabotage, the way these women tear each other down instead of recognizing we’re all pawns in a game designed to milk our emotions for ratings.
“Everyone, stop.” I step into the center of the room. All eyes turn to me—some surprised, others wary. “This is getting us nowhere.”
“Easy for you to say,” Gabby snaps. “You’re not the one who’s been robbed.”
“And Annabelle’s not the one who should be put on trial without evidence,” I say. “Look, we’ve got six hours until Hayes arrives for tonight’s cocktail party. We’re all stressed, we’re all overthinking everything, and turning on each other isn’t helping.”
“So what do you suggest, Penguin Girl?” Gabby’s tone makes the nickname an insult.
I take a deep breath. “I suggest we channel this energy into something productive. Like cooking lunch together.”
The room falls silent. Several women exchange glances, confused by this left turn.
“Cooking?” Luna echoes. “That sounds fun. Something collaborative instead of competitive.”
“Awesome.” I gesture toward the kitchen. “The producers stocked the fridge for us to make our own meals, but we’ve all been surviving on protein bars and vodka sodas. Let’s actually use it.”
“I’m not really much of a cook,” Taylor says.
“Neither am I.” I shrug. “But Serena is. Aren’t you?”
All eyes turn to Serena, who blinks in surprise at being suddenly spotlighted. “I... yes, actually. Chemistry is just cooking with less tasty results.”
“Perfect.” I sense the energy in the room shifting, confusion overriding hostility. “Let’s do it.”
“And what about my bracelet?” Gabby demands.
“If someone took it, cooking together might help everyone calm down enough to actually remember where they last saw it.” I keep my tone neutral. “And if the bracelet mysteriously reappears during lunch prep, you’ll have it back.”
My eyes holding Gabby’s just long enough to communicate my suspicion that there is no missing bracelet—just a conveniently timed accusation.
She shrugs. “Fine. I could use a distraction, anyway.”
And just like that, the fight’s over. Not completely—there’s still tension humming beneath the surface—but the immediate crisis is averted. Women begin drifting toward the kitchen, some genuinely curious, others just relieved to escape the toxic atmosphere.
Annabelle catches my eye, mouthing a silent “thank you.” I nod, then turn to Serena. “So... what are we making?”
Serena surveys the assembled ingredients with the focused intensity. “Chicken Parmesan,” she decides. “Simple enough for beginners, but impressive enough to feel like an accomplishment.”
She assigns tasks with authority—Annabelle and Taylor on vegetable chopping duty, Luna handling the sauce, Jordan and Chloe setting the table, and Gabby and Kavita grudgingly agreeing to bread the chicken. I find myself appointed official sauce stirrer, which suits me fine since my culinary skills extend mainly to microwaving and ordering takeout.
As Serena walks Gabby through the proper breading technique— ”flour, egg, breadcrumbs, in that order, and don’t skip steps”—I notice something unexpected. The focused intensity in her eyes, the confidence in her movements—this is a different Serena than the reserved women we’ve seen so far.
“Where did you learn to cook like this?” I watch her adjust the heat under a pan with practiced precision.
A small smile plays on her lips. “My grandmother. She was a chef at a restaurant in Boston before she retired. She used to say cooking and chemistry were the same thing—understanding how elements interact under specific conditions to create something greater than the sum of its parts.”
“That’s... actually beautiful.” I smile, surprised.
“She was.” Serena’s expression softens with memory. “Food was her love language, and since she raised me, I learned all her recipes, wrote down everything she taught me.”
“Is that why you became a chemist?” I’m genuinely curious about this hidden depth to my roommate.