Mr Billionaire's Regret Chasing His Irresistible Wife (Jared and Arielle) novel Chapter 148

(ARIELLE’S POV)

So this was it—The Velvet Fork, our rival restaurant.

“We’re going deep undercover,” Stephen declared, adjusting his fake mustache and patting down the ridiculous green wig perched on his head.

I sighed, already regretting agreeing to this. “Are you sure that disguise won’t just make you more obvious?”

“Obvious? Ha! You’re the obvious one!” Rebecca retorted, tilting her enormous sunhat so low it practically swallowed her face. Her oversized sunglasses weren’t helping her blend in, either.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Neither of you can talk. We all look like a bad comedy sketch.”

“Speak for yourself,” Stephen said with mock indignation, twirling his fake mustache. “I’m a method actor. This is art.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, shaking my head at their antics. Once inside, I managed to steer us toward something resembling a logical plan. “Let’s get a table, place an order, and observe their operations,” I suggested, adjusting my own dark shades.

Stephen straightened his wig. “Got it. Time to give an Oscar-worthy performance.”

Rebecca smiled mischievously. "Time to put my spy skills into use and gather as much intel as we need."

We spotted an empty table of three and approached, taking our seats. Afterwards, we beckoned a waiter, and he handed us a menu.

As we skimmed through, our eyes widened in unison. I quickly forced a neutral expression when the waiter asked, “Is something wrong?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” I said with a too-bright smile, handing back the menu. “Your design is... impressive.”

He smiled, his face relaxing. "Can I take your orders now?"

"Of course. I'll have grilled chicken and rice," I said.

"And I'll have the chicken parmesan," Stephen chimed.

"I will have the vegetarian quinoa bowl," Rebecca said.

The waiter scribbled the orders on his iPad before walking away. The moment he was out of earshot, Stephen, who was already fuming, spoke up.

“That menu is a ripoff! It’s basically ours! Even the design!”

Rebecca nodded, her voice hushed but furious. “They didn’t just copy the look; they stole your recipes. This is outrageous!”

I gritted my teeth. They weren’t wrong. “It’s infuriating, but let’s not make a scene,” I said, trying to stay composed.

Rebecca, already in her critique mood, loudly commented. "Their chicken sauce is over–reduced by the way, and the ingredients are off."

Unfortunately, a waiter was nearby and he seemed to have overheard Rebecca as he looked in our direction. He finished tending to the customer he was with and approached us.

"Is there a problem?" He asked, eyeing us wearily. "I heard you complaining about our sauce."

"Of course not, I was referring to the restaurant we visited yesterday. Their sauce was nothing to write home about," Rebecca quickly chimed, forcing a smile.

"Exactly," Stephen and I chorused.

"We were just drawing a comparison," I added sweetly.

"I'm not sure that was the case, I heard her clearly," he said pointing to Rebecca.

I tried to intervene again so things don't escalate and our covers are blown. But fortunately, the other waiter arrived with our orders.

As he served us, a mere glance at the dish with my experienced and professional eyes, I knew instantly that it was undercooked.

I flagged down the waiter politely. “Excuse me, but I believe this chicken isn’t fully cooked. Could you please check with the kitchen?”

The waiter’s expression didn’t even flicker. “That’s how it’s meant to be served,” he said dismissively. “Perhaps you’re unfamiliar with international cuisine? This is inspired by the Japanese and Spanish styles.”

I raised an eyebrow, incredulous.

“Undercooked chicken and raw rice? I’ve been to Japan and Spain. That’s not a ‘style’; that’s a health hazard, Sir.”

I picked up a spoon and scooped up some rice. The texture was off, and the smell was unpleasant—a mix of uncooked and stale spices.

Rebecca chimed in, her tone sharp. “Maybe we should take a sample to a lab. You know, for ‘research purposes.’”