The Billionaire's Silent Wife (Ryan and Eve) novel Chapter 143

Chapter 143 “Risotto Under Fire”

Ryan’s POV

The first challenge hit like a blade.

Not because it was complex in an impressive way.

Because it was simple in a merciless way.

Risotto.

A dish that didn’t let anyone hide.

No dramatic plating tricks could save you. No fancy garnish could distract from poor technique. There was nowhere to run once the rice told the truth: too tight, too wet, too broken, too raw, too salty, too bland,

too proud of itself.

The MC stood centre stage with the grin of a man about to start a fight on purpose.

“Alright!” his voice boomed through the studio. “You’ve met our judges! You’ve met our producers! You’ve heard the speech that just gave some of you courage and gave the rest of you heart palpitations!”

The crowd laughed, loud and eager.

The contestants didn’t laugh.

They stood at their stations like soldiers waiting for an order that might kill them.

The MC angled his head, pretending to listen to the room. “I can hear your thoughts from here,” he teased. “Please don’t let it be something hard. Please let it be something I’ve cooked a hundred times. Please let

it be, “”

He paused long enough for the audience to lean in.

Eve sat beside Ryan, composed the way she always was when the world got loud. Her posture was calm. Her expression was neutral. But he could feel it anyway, the tension in her, like a string pulled tight beneath

skin.

Not because of the dish.

Because of the room.

Because of who was in it.

The MC spread his arms wide.

“For Round One…” he announced, dragging the words out until the crowd began to shout, “…your dish is…”

The studio held its breath.

“RISOTTO!”

–

4

Chapter 143 “Risotto Under Fire

The reaction came in layers.

Cha

The audience roared first, because they knew what it meant: mistakes, drama, plates that would make them gasp or laugh. They weren’t here just to watch people win. They were here to watch people crumble.

Then came the contestants, sharp, immediate movement. A collective shift like a bomb had gone off in

their minds.

“Time starts NOW!”

A siren blared. Lights pulsed. And the kitchen floor became a war zone.

Pots clanged. Burners flared. Stock steamed in tall metal pots. Someone knocked a ladle and swore under their breath, eyes wide like they’d just committed a crime.

Cameras rolled forward on tracks, closing in, hungry.

The contestants moved with frantic precision, hands flying, eyes darting, bodies tight with adrenaline.

Some looked like they’d rehearsed this exact moment in their sleep. Others looked like the dish had ripped open the fear they’d been trying to keep hidden.

Ryan leaned forward slightly without realising he’d done it.

In business, failure was quiet. It happened behind closed doors. People covered it with soft words: market

conditions, unforeseen delays, adjusted expectations.

Here, failure showed up on a plate under lights, with microphones capturing every tremor in your voice.

And the audience wanted it.

Tevin sat like he belonged in this seat more than the actual chefs did. He was already talking before the

rice had even hit the pan.

“Listen, listen,” Tevin called out, loud enough for the cameras and half the room to catch it. “If I see one of

you throwing that rice into cold fat, I’m personally coming down there.”

The crowd laughed.

A contestant near the front stations laughed too, nervously.

Maxwell didn’t laugh.

Maxwell didn’t even blink.

He watched like a man who missed nothing. Not a tremor. Not a misstep. Not a lie.

His gaze moved slowly across the stations, and Ryan understood why people found his friend

intimidating. He didn’t need to speak. His silence did the work.

One of the judges pointed dramatically. “Station three, too much heat! You’re going to murder that onion!”

The contestant jerked, fumbling with the burner.

Chapter 143 Risotto Under Fire”

Clam

Eve’s eyes flicked once toward Tevin, then back to the contestants, her expression still calm. But Ryan

saw the slight narrowing of her gaze, the chef in her reacting to spectacle being layered over something

sacred.

Cooking wasn’t supposed to be a circus.

But they had built a circus.

Ryan glanced at her. “You okay?”

Her head didn’t turn, but her answer came immediately, soft. “I’m fine.”

He knew what that meant when Eve said it like that.

I’m controlling it.

He let his hand rest on the edge of the table, close to hers. Not touching. Just there.

The MC moved along the outer line of the kitchen, microphone in hand, narrating like the battlefield

needed a poet.

“Look at the pace!” he shouted. “Look at the intensity! This is what you call pressure!”

He leaned toward one station. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m good,” the contestant said too fast.

The MC grinned. “That’s what they all say before the risotto humbles them!”

Laughter again.

And then Ryan’s attention caught, hard, on Mathew.

Mathew was at his station, shoulders rigid, movements controlled in a way that wasn’t confidence.

It was restraint.

Like he was holding himself back from something.

He started too fast, hands flying, opening containers, measuring rice with a sharp, almost angry precision. He stirred aggressively at first, like he was trying to beat the dish into submission.

Then he caught himself.

He paused, barely a second, and forced his hand to slow down. He tasted his stock, jaw clenching like the

flavour offended him, then tasted again as if trying to find something wrong with it so he could blame it.

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