Samara stiffened.
Adrian…
No one had heard him. No one had seen him. She didn't even know how to respond.
You can talk to me in your mind. They won't hear, Adrian said, stepping beside her.
I don't want to win this. I don't need your help, she replied silently, earning a disapproving grunt. Adrian's gaze shifted forward, analyzing the headmistress like a predator sizing up its prey.
"Your time starts now," the mistress finally announced.
Chaos erupted. Participants scrambled for utensils, ingredients, and prep space. Stacey rushed ahead like everyone else. Samara remained still, arms folded, frowning.
Your aunt sent you here for a reason. But becoming a palace maid? This is an opportunity you don't want to waste. You can thank me later, Adrian whispered, moving closer.
Before she could ask how he knew about her aunt, her body betrayed her. She felt detached, as if watching from above. Her hands moved on their own.
Samara's hands moved of their own accord. She could feel it—every slice, every dice, every careful placement of ingredients was not her decision. It was like watching a shadow of herself perform, precise and unerring, yet utterly foreign.
I… I'm not doing this, she tried to think, panic rising. But the thought barely reached her body. Her hands continued slicing vegetables into perfect cubes, arranging them in exact patterns, seasoning with impossible precision.
Adrian's influence was unmistakable. She could feel it coursing through her, subtle but insistent, guiding every movement, correcting every misstep before it even happened. Her mind screamed to resist, to stop, to let the chaos around her decide the outcome—but her body refused to obey.
"You can't control me," she thought fiercely.
"Not entirely. But you can witness perfection," Adrian replied inside her head, calm, measured, almost amused.
The room around her blurred. Other contestants rushed, flustered and noisy, dropping utensils, spilling sauces, muttering apologies under their breath. She saw Stacey fumble with a pan, her nerves clear in every trembling motion. Samara's own body moved with effortless precision, untouched by stress, guided by an unseen hand.
Smoke and the sharp scent of sizzling herbs filled the air. The heat pressed down, but she barely noticed. Her chest tightened—not from exertion, but from the knowledge that she wasn't herself. She was a passenger in her own body.
"Finish," Adrian whispered, and suddenly her hands moved to the final step. Garnishes placed, sauces swirled into delicate patterns, every plate aligned as if drawn by a ruler.
Samara exhaled mentally. This isn't me. This isn't—
The headmistress clapped her hands sharply. "Time's up!"
Plates were gathered, the clatter of utensils and soft gasps of contestants filling the kitchen. Samara stepped back, trembling slightly, her body finally hers again. Sweat clung to her hairline, and the room smelled of garlic, herbs, and sizzling meat. She glanced at the other girls—Stacey's eyes were wide, a mixture of awe and disbelief.
Adrian's whisper slid into her mind, quiet but triumphant: "You see? Even without intent, you're capable."
Samara gritted her teeth. Capable of what? Winning?
The headmistress moved from plate to plate, inspecting with sharp, calculating eyes. She paused at each dish, tasting, smelling, noting, her face unreadable. Whispers fluttered among the other contestants, some murmuring about the precision, the unusual neatness, the delicate balance of flavors.
When she reached Samara's work, the room seemed to hush. Every movement of the headmistress—lifting a fork, tasting carefully, setting it down—felt magnified, as if time itself had slowed. Samara's stomach twisted with nervous energy, even though she hadn't consciously done a thing.
The headmistress's lips pressed together, eyes narrowing slightly. She nodded once, almost imperceptibly. Then she moved on to the next contestant.
Samara exhaled, her body shaking slightly. She had done it—though not by her own hand—and the weight of that knowledge settled over her like ice.
Adrian's voice, calm and teasing in her mind, broke the silence: "You didn't even have to try. But it seems… you still made an impression."
Samara ground her teeth. Impression? At whose expense? Mine.
Yet, even as the thought burned through her, a tiny, reluctant spark of something else flickered inside her: the realization that with Adrian's subtle guidance, she had been capable of far more than she imagined.
"The names I am about to call have failed to uphold the standard of cooking required to serve the royal household," the headmistress announced coldly. "If you hear your name, kindly step forward, exit the room, and pack your belongings."
The room fell into a suffocating silence.
No one moved.
No one even seemed to breathe.
Every contestant stood frozen, waiting for the inevitable sound of their name.
Everyone… except Samara.
While the others trembled with anxiety, Samara stood with her arms folded, a storm of anger simmering beneath her calm expression.
She hadn't even wanted to compete.
Yet somehow, she had been forced to excel.
All because of him.
From somewhere within her mind, Adrian gave a low, amused chuckle.
Careful, he murmured. You look like you're about to start a war in a kitchen.
Samara's jaw tightened.
You controlled my body.
I helped, Adrian corrected lazily.
The headmistress unfolded the parchment.
"Lydia Hartwell. Clara Vensley. Mira Dalton."
Soft gasps spread through the room as three girls stepped forward reluctantly.
"Eliza Thornridge. Nora Bellamy."
Another pair slowly walked toward the door, their faces pale.
"Iris Caldwell… Penelope Harrow."
The last two contestants froze for a moment before lowering their heads and exiting the room.
The remaining contestants stood stiffly, anxiety thick in the air.
Samara, however, looked anything but nervous. Her arms were folded tightly across her chest, irritation simmering beneath her calm expression.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
You're welcome, Adrian's voice murmured lazily in her mind.
I didn't ask for your help.
No, he replied, amused. But you clearly needed it.
Before Samara could respond, the headmistress spoke again.
"Before we proceed with the next evaluation… there is something I must address."
Her gaze slowly swept across the room before stopping on Samara.
Whispers immediately broke out among the contestants.
The headmistress lifted Samara's plate from the judging table.
"Knife work—precise. Ingredient balance—excellent. Presentation—flawless."
She paused, studying Samara carefully.
"For a trial of this level… such skill is unexpected."
Samara's jaw tightened.
The headmistress set the plate down.
"Because of this," she continued, "one participant has already surpassed the requirement for this stage."
The room seemed to hold its breath.
"Samara."
Several heads turned instantly toward her.
"You have already qualified."
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then the whispers erupted.
"Already qualified?"
"How is that possible?"
Stacey stared at Samara with wide eyes, clearly stunned.
Samara didn't look pleased.
If anything, her expression darkened.
Happy now? she thought bitterly.
Adrian chuckled softly in her mind.
Very.
Samara clenched her fists.
She hadn't wanted to stand out.
She hadn't wanted to win.
Yet somehow, without even trying… she had already moved one step closer to the palace.
And she had a feeling Adrian planned it that way.