A Taste Of The Past

Sienna exhaled sharply, shaking off the sting of Rocco's insult. Fucking pig. The words had sliced through her like a blade, but she refused to let them define her. She had come here for one thing—to win. She couldn't afford to let a man like Rocco Montenegro, no matter how much he had meant to her in the past, throw her off balance.

Rolling her shoulders back, she turned to the counter where her ingredients lay, neatly arranged. The other contestants whispered amongst themselves, throwing occasional glances her way, but she ignored them. With steady hands, she picked up the knife and began chopping—swift, precise strokes, each one a silent rebuttal to the doubt creeping into her mind.

The caldo de alma—"broth of the soul"—was a dish her mother used to make, a warm, hearty stew that soothed the heart as much as it filled the stomach. It had been Rocco's favorite too, though he had long since forgotten her, forgotten them.

She worked quickly, her movements fluid, as though muscle memory had taken over. First, she sautéed the onions and garlic, their aroma filling the grand kitchen. Then she added diced tomatoes, letting them simmer until they broke down into a rich base. One by one, she incorporated the other ingredients—tender cuts of beef, potatoes, carrots, and a carefully balanced mix of spices. The broth needed time to develop its depth, to soak in the warmth and love she poured into it.

As the stew bubbled softly, she stood back and inhaled deeply. It smelled like home. Like late nights spent in the kitchen with her mother, giggling over secret recipes. Like the afternoons she had spent sharing spoonfuls with a boy who had once been her best friend.

But those days were gone.

She ladled the steaming caldo into a pristine white bowl, carefully garnishing it with freshly chopped parsley. Stepping back, she admired her creation. It was simple, unassuming, but perfect in its own way.

Gathering her courage, she carried the dish into the dining hall. The contestants were already lined up, their dishes presented in neat rows before Rocco, who had just entered the room. He wore a crisp black shirt, the top buttons undone, revealing the hint of an intricate tattoo along his collarbone. Lucinda followed closely behind him, looking effortlessly elegant.

Sienna swallowed hard as she watched them together. They fit. They looked right. And from the way Lucinda had spoken about Rocco at the cooking competition, Sienna was almost certain they would be engaged soon.

If only he remembered me, she thought bitterly. Maybe I'd even get an invitation to their wedding. The thought made her laugh under her breath, shaking her head at her own foolishness.

Rocco took his seat at the head of the table, his cold, unreadable eyes scanning the contestants. He didn't even glance at her as he settled in, one arm draped lazily over the armrest.

The first contestant stepped forward, placing her dish before him with a coy smile.

"This is Mariscos de Oro," she purred, flicking her hair back.

Rocco's gaze flickered to the plate. The dish was elaborate—perfectly plated seafood in a golden saffron sauce. He took a bite, his expression remaining indifferent.

"¿Por qué elegiste esto?" [Why did you choose this?]

The woman beamed. "It is a dish for the refined and sophisticated. For people of class—people like you."

Rocco's lip curled slightly. He set his fork down.

"Siguiente." [Next.]

The second contestant, a tall, poised woman, placed her dish in front of him—a rich mushroom risotto.

Rocco arched a brow. "¿Leíste las pautas?" [Did you read the guidelines?]

"Of course," she said, smiling confidently.

"¿Y aún así te perdiste la parte donde claramente dice que soy alérgico a los champiñones?" [And yet you missed the part where it clearly states that I'm allergic to mushrooms?]

Her smile faltered. "I—I swear I read it—"

"Siguiente," [Next,] he interrupted, unimpressed.

The third contestant presented a plate of spaghetti infused with truffle oil and fresh herbs. The aroma was enticing, and Rocco took a bite, nodding slightly.

"¿Por qué elegiste esto?" [Why did you choose this?]

The man hesitated for a moment before answering, "It's a dish that brings comfort. A meal you can always return to, no matter what."

Rocco's fork paused mid-air, his gaze darkening for a fraction of a second before he nodded. "Hmm."

The fourth contestant set her dish in front of him with a proud smirk.

One taste and Rocco's expression turned to disgust. "¿Qué mierda es esta?" [What the fuck is this?]

She stiffened. "It's a nutrient-packed dish—"

"Busco comida, no vitaminas," [I'm looking for food, not vitamins,] he snapped, pushing the plate aside. "Siguiente." [Next.]

Finally, it was Sienna's turn.

Her hands trembled slightly as she carried her bowl of caldo de alma to the table. She placed it down in front of him and stepped back, gripping the edges of her apron.

Rocco exhaled heavily, as though exhausted by the process. He glanced at the dish. Then his gaze flicked up—to her.

For the first time, he really looked at her.

Something about her eyes, her posture, the way she stood before him—it unsettled him. There was a familiarity in those eyes. He just couldn't place where.

Shaking off the feeling, he questioned her on the meal.

"¿Cuál es el nombre de la comida?" (What's the name of the food?). Rocco questioned.

"Sorry, what did you say, sir?". Sienna replied, confused. Darn, the stupid language. It was like a curse she carried, not being able to fully understand it.

She never, even tried to. English, felt more than enough for her.

He frowned, shaking his head. "What's the name of this?"

She hesitated. "Caldo de alma."

Rocco's expression remained unreadable. "Why did you choose this?"

She swallowed hard. "Because my mother used to make it for me when I was a child. It's a meal that brings comfort. A meal you can come home to after a long, difficult day."

His gaze sharpened.

Then, just to test her, he asked, "Do you understand Spanish?".

Panic flickered across her face. "Just a bit. Not much."

A slow, cruel smirk tugged at his lips. "Bobó." [Fool.]

A few contestants chuckled under their breath.

And then, as if bored, he switched to English. "Try to learn Spanish, okay. I speak to most of my staffs in Spanish, and you are in Spain, learn the language".

Sienna felt her cheeks burn. "Of course. Noted sir".

Rocco didn't reply. He picked up the spoon, dipped it into the broth, and took a slow, deliberate bite.

And then he froze.

The taste.

It was the same. The same depth, the same warmth. The same meal that had once been his only source of solace as a child. The same meal that a certain little girl had shared with him, sitting side by side on cold kitchen floors, whispering secrets between bites.

His throat tightened. His grip on the spoon faltered before he forced himself to swallow.

"What is your name?"

Her heart pounded.

She couldn't tell him.

She forced a smile. "Belle."

A long silence stretched between them.

Then, with a slow nod, Rocco pushed back his chair and stood. "Congratulations, Belle. You've won."

The room went still.

Sienna's breath hitched. "I—what?"

Rocco didn't answer. He turned on his heel and walked away, his posture rigid, his mind elsewhere.

She had won.

But something was wrong.

And though she had achieved her goal, she couldn't shake the feeling that this was only the beginning.