The aroma of freshly shaved white truffle lingered in the air, blending with the delicate scent of lobster consommé. In that stainless steel kitchen beneath flickering LED lights, Liana—the star chef of the acclaimed Étoile Gastronomique—was the embodiment of precision. Her hands, tools of an artist, hovered over the final dish of the night, gently placing a single violet microgreen. A near-perfect smile curved her lips. Another flawless service, she thought, feeling that familiar rush of adrenaline. Flavor… it's the soul of everything.
But suddenly—something was wrong.
A dull throb pulsed at her temple, quickly sharpening into a searing pain. The hand that moments ago had crafted culinary art began to tremble uncontrollably. The tiny violet slipped from her fingers, falling onto the polished counter.
Liana's vision twisted. The kitchen lights stretched into blinding streaks, the muffled voices of her sous-chefs echoing like shouts in a tunnel. She clutched her head, pressing hard, but the dizziness was crushing. Please… not now… I'm so exhausted… The floor surged upward to meet her. The perfect dish—hours in the making—crashed and shattered, its sound swallowed by the darkness that devoured her. No… it can't end like this…
Then—silence. A suffocating void, pierced only by distant, unintelligible murmurs. With Herculean effort, Liana forced her eyes open again—and the world was… different.
Above her, a cracked, rough wooden ceiling had replaced the pristine white of her old kitchen. She tried to move her arm, but a sharp pain shot through her. She looked down at her hand—small, pale, mottled with purple and yellow bruises around the wrist. This… isn't my arm. These hands… they're not mine…
A wave of weakness and raw pain surged through her. She lay on a simple straw bed, wrapped in a threadbare blanket. But more overwhelming than the physical pain was the emotional torment. Memories and feelings—not hers—rushed in like a flood: relentless humiliation, the cold disdain of a family, the crushing sense of worthlessness and isolation. They were Elara's memories—the girl whose body she now inhabited—bleeding into her own.
A smell hung in the air—dense, greasy, but devoid of flavor. Her gaze landed on a clay bowl, where a dull, yellowish soup steamed faintly. To her refined palate, it was an affront. This… this is supposed to be food?! There's no rich broth, no herbs—just fat and water. It's a disgrace!
The door creaked open. A middle-aged woman with a hard face and worn clothes entered, carrying a jug. She barely looked at Liana.
"Awake, finally. I thought you'd die for real this time. Would've saved us the trouble."
Liana tried to speak, her voice hoarse and weak. "W-where… am I? Who… are you…?"
The woman sighed in irritation. "Where else? Your room, obviously. Stop talking nonsense. Get up. We have important visitors tomorrow. Don't bring more shame to this family."
She turned and left, slamming the door shut behind her. Liana was alone again.
The woman's words echoed in her mind, tangled with Elara's memories. 'Don't bring more shame'? 'Useless'? What kind of mother says that? Tears slipped down her cheeks—not hers, but Elara's. Years of pain and neglect, finally finding release. Liana hugged her trembling body.
This pain… it's not just mine. She… she hates me. This body… it's been abused…
She couldn't even look at the soup. Her disgust was physical. Dragging herself out of bed, bare feet pressing against the cold, packed-earth floor, she staggered through the dusty halls of the house—a mausoleum of faded glory. The view through the cracked window was bleak.
Then, a glimpse.
In the back of the property, hidden behind overgrown bushes and crumbling walls, was an abandoned garden. Weeds to most—but to Liana, a revelation. Wait… is that Wild Lavender? And there… Golden Thyme? Those are rare—even in my world!
With a focus she hadn't felt in ages, Liana gathered the herbs. The aroma—fresh, pure. Maybe… maybe I can do something with this.
Back in the house's crude kitchen, she battled with a rickety wood stove and heavy iron pots. Her once-masterful hands now fumbled like those of a child. A blunt knife nearly sliced her finger. This is absurd! My skills… they mean nothing here! I should've studied… diplomacy? Economics? Anything but cooking!
The result was a tragic farce. Black smoke filled the air, and a burnt mess bubbled in the pot. Liana coughed, her face smeared with soot, eyes wide with despair. Useless. I'm completely useless.
The kitchen door burst open. Her mother stood there, face twisted with rage.
"What are you doing now, you worthless girl?! Burning the food?! It's not enough to be a burden—you have to destroy the little we still have?!"
Liana flinched, her body trembling as Elara's memories of cruel scolding and blows came flooding back. She shut her eyes tightly, a single tear slipping down her cheek.
I… I can't take this anymore… There's no escape…