For the new dating reality show, my agent, Dana, told me to play the part of the pretty airhead. So when I showed up hauling a chef’s case as tall as my hip, the live chat crucified me for being a diva. “Who brings a butcher’s block to a desert island?” But when a freak storm cut off our supplies, the A-list actor was so hungry he was chewing on tree bark. That’s when I set up my little charcoal stove and started simmering a fish soup. The award-winning actor, Bob Vance, squatted by my pot, practically begging for a second bowl, while the pop idol, Leo Nash, tried to snatch a fish right out of the broth. It wasn't until a Michelin-starred chef crashed the livestream, dropping a fortune in virtual rockets, that everything changed. [That knife work, the kind needed for a perfect micro-brunoise... in the entire world, only a disciple of the great August Thorne could pull that off!] The chat exploded. [Thorne? As in, THE August Thorne? The grandfather of modern gastronomy?] The director, trembling, held up the heavy case I’d left behind. “Ms. Thorne,” he stammered, “The name ‘August Thorne’ is carved into the bottom of this case. Who is he to you?” I wiped my hands on my jeans. “My grandpa. He said the case was old and told me to just do whatever I wanted with it.” 1 The day the show’s promotional posters dropped on Instagram, I was staring down the behemoth in the corner of my tiny apartment. It was an ebony wood case that came up to my hip, bound with brass corners and heavy enough to be filled with lead. Dana’s voice memos blew up my phone like a string of firecrackers. “Scarlett! Are you out of your goddamn mind? I get you a spot on a dating show so you can look pretty, act a little dumb, and win over some fans for a comeback, and you’re planning to show up with a coffin? Are you moving in?!” My phone screen was still lit, showing the promo shot of me with a sweet, vacant smile—a perfect porcelain doll. The top comment, liked into oblivion, read: [Who is this girl? Some nepo baby? Get the bimbo off the show!] A long chain of “+1”s followed. I scrolled past it, feeling nothing. I was used to it. In this industry, being irrelevant is the original sin, especially for a former rising star like me who’d fizzled out and was now, years later, still a nobody. Dana was right. This was my last shot. A reality show about hot people falling in love on a deserted island. All I had to do was be beautiful, be stupid, and be good background scenery. After all, a pretty vase makes the best foil for Bob Vance’s icy charisma, Leo Nash’s sunshine-boy charm, and that sweet new ingénue Lily Winters’ delicate innocence, right? Easy enough. Less work for me. “Dana,” I said, kicking the heavy case with the toe of my boot. It answered with a dull thud. “It was my grandpa’s,” I lied smoothly. “His pride and joy. Told me I had to keep it with me always. For luck.” I let my voice drop to a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t worry. I promise I’ll nail the ‘dumb but beautiful’ role. I’ll be the damsel in distress, the one holding everyone back. I won’t steal anyone’s spotlight.” Dana’s voice was a shriek. “Scarlett! It’s a desert island! A survival-themed show! You’re taking an antique chest to a desert island?! Do you want the internet to tear you to shreds?!” I hung up and dragged the case to the door. It was so heavy it screeched against the floorboards. On the lid, a single, ornate ‘T’ was carved into the wood, its edges worn smooth by time. My grandfather’s voice, old and stubborn, echoed in my memory. “Scarlett, a chef’s tools are their courage. You never leave them behind, no matter where you go.” I sighed. Fine. Grandpa’s courage, my burden. 2 Azure water, white sand, swaying palms—the island filming location was straight off a postcard. The moment the helicopter’s rotors slowed, a wave of hot, salty air slapped me in the face. The cameras were already rolling, the livestream broadcasting across every major platform. The chat instantly flooded the screen: [OMG BOB!!! I’M WEAK!] [LEO BABY, MOMMY’S HERE FOR YOU ~~~] [Lily is a literal angel on earth today!!!] I was the last one off the helicopter. When two crew members, grunting and straining, hauled my massive ebony case off the aircraft and dropped it onto the sand with a heavy thump, the air seemed to freeze for a second. The next second, the chat went nuclear. [Wait, what the hell did she just bring with her?] [HOLY SH*T?? Is that her suitcase? What’s in there, a whole cow?] [LMAO, bringing a trunk that big to a survival show? Is that where she keeps her giant ego?] [Certified Diva! We knew it!] [RIP to the crew members who had to carry that…] [Did this bimbo bring her brain? Is this a dating show or a moving company?] The camera cleverly caught the expression on the face of the ingénue, Lily Winters. Dressed in a flowing white sundress, her makeup was flawless and ethereal. She glanced at my case, then at her own chic, 24-inch hot pink suitcase. Her lips pursed for a fraction of a second before she plastered on a perfect, sweet smile and playfully stuck her tongue out at the camera. “Wow, Scarlett, you really came prepared! Unlike me, I just brought a few changes of clothes.” The chat immediately erupted with praise: [Lily is such a sweet angel.] [See, that’s how a normal person packs.] [I feel so bad for Lily, having to film with a diva.] Leo Nash, the pop idol famous for his sunny disposition, bounced over, his bleached-blond hair catching the light. He gave my case a curious pat. “Scarlett, what’s in the treasure chest? A pop-up tent? An inflatable raft? Don’t tell me you brought a mini-fridge.” His tone was light, playing it up for the cameras, but his eyes held a hint of condescending curiosity. Bob Vance stood a little further away, his sunglasses hiding most of his face, leaving only a glimpse of his sharp, sculpted jawline. He stood with his arms crossed, an effortless portrait of cool detachment, as if the chaos around him was nothing more than background noise. Did his gaze, hidden behind those dark lenses, flicker over to my case? I couldn’t tell. He was like a perfect marble statue, radiating an unapproachable aura. A bunch of phonies, and he’s the phoniest of them all, I thought to myself. Braving the storm of judgmental stares, I turned to the main camera and offered up a perfect, innocent, and sufficiently stupid smile. My voice was a soft, slow drawl. “Oh, this? It’s just… some things for cooking. The director said we had to make our own food, right?” I fluttered my eyelashes, trying to look as clueless as possible. The chat was instantly flooded with “LMAO” and “???”: [Cooking?? Is she for real?] [Cooking on a desert island? I’d believe a frying pan, but a chest this big? Did she pack the entire kitchen from a Michelin restaurant?] [There’s a limit to how much you can fake it for the camera! I’m gonna be sick!] [I predict this woman will single-handedly drag down the quality of the entire show…] [Just a casual viewer here, but I’m already feeling second-hand embarrassment for the other contestants…] Just off-camera, the director’s face twitched. He forced a smile and tried to smooth things over. “Haha… well, Scarlett is certainly… creative. Alright everyone, welcome to Heartbreak Island! For the next seven days, this beautiful island will be your home!” He paused, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Of course, you’ll have to work together to find your own food, water, and shelter! Now, please open your luggage. Other than clothing and basic toiletries, any unnecessary items will be confiscated by the production team!” Lily and Leo obediently opened their suitcases, revealing neatly folded clothes, sunscreen, and small bottles of skincare products. The chat immediately filled with compliments like [So organized!] and [She gets it!]. Then it was my turn. Every camera, every pair of eyes, zeroed in on my ebony case. I slowly crouched down, undid the brass latches, and lifted the heavy lid. Inside, packed tightly and gleaming with a cold, metallic sheen, was an arsenal of… knives. Knives of every conceivable shape and size. Long slicers, short paring knives, heavy cleavers, serrated blades… There were also strange, nameless metal tools, a few cast-iron pans of varying thickness, and a full set of wooden-handled spatulas and ladles. Tucked in a corner was a small, hand-cranked stone grinder and several oil-paper packets filled with mysterious powders. The sunlight hit the blades, reflecting a blinding glare. Silence. A dead, absolute silence. Even the ever-present live chat went blank for several seconds, as if the sight of my murderous collection had crashed the servers. A few seconds later, the screen was completely submerged in a tidal wave of comments: [WHAT THE F*CK?!!!] [KNIVES? A WHOLE CHEST OF THEM???] [This girl isn’t here for a date, she’s here to dismember someone!] [DEAR GOD! Someone call the police! There’s a psycho on set!] [Bringing a case of knives to a survival show, what kind of performance art is this?!] [DIVA! She’s the queen of all divas! Kick her off the show!] [The other contestants need to run! Get away from the crazy person!] The director’s smile was frozen solid on his face, his lips twitching uncontrollably. He pointed a trembling finger at the case, his voice cracking. “Scar… Scarlett! Th-these… you can’t have these! It’s too dangerous! This is… this is insane!” He was nearly incoherent. I put on my most innocent expression and pointed to the oil-paper packets in the corner, my voice a meek whisper. “Director, those are just spices. Some ground peppercorns, star anise, and this is a special powder I made from dried bark for flavor. That’s not against the rules, is it?” My voice grew quieter and quieter, perfectly playing the part of a clueless idiot. “AGAINST THE RULES! ALL OF IT! CONFISCATE IT! IT ALL HAS TO GO!” the director roared, waving his crew forward. They scrambled to slam the lid shut and carted my armory away as if it were a ticking bomb. The chat cheered: [FINALLY!] [Good job, director!] I watched my case disappear with a hint of regret, then shrugged and sighed. Alright, Grandpa. It’s not that I didn’t want to bring my courage, but the enemy’s firepower was just too strong. I subtly patted the inner pocket of my jacket, feeling the outline of the small, ebony-handled knife, carefully wrapped in thick leather. It was no longer than my palm. The blade was razor-thin, and as I traced its shape through the fabric, I felt a whisper of its cold, sharp edge. Heh. Good thing I had a backup. We were on a desert island, after all. You can’t do everything by hand. 3 The show’s version of “island survival,” of course, wasn’t designed to actually starve the contestants. The initial supply pack contained protein bars, crackers, a few bottles of water, and a basic fishing kit. The shelter consisted of several pre-pitched, sturdy-looking tents. The real challenge was for the contestants to source and cook their own food, creating entertaining, primitive-living content for the cameras. The first two days were a chaotic mess. Leo volunteered to go fishing. After striking a series of cool poses on the rocks, he returned with a handful of tiny fish, barely enough for a single bite. Lily, in all her delicate grace, attempted to start a fire. She ended up choking on smoke, tears streaming down her face, creating a viral meme of her looking like a cute, soot-covered kitten. Bob, the A-list actor, was the most composed. Using the simple tools provided, he sharpened a stick into a spear and tried to catch fish in the shallows. His movements were clean and efficient, but his success rate was just as dismal as everyone else’s. For the most part, we subsisted on the initial supply of crackers, and everyone’s faces started to take on a pale, hungry look. And me? I perfectly followed Dana’s instructions: the clumsy, useless beauty. They asked me to gather firewood? Sure. I returned with a bundle of damp, rotting branches that successfully extinguished the tiny flame Lily had worked so hard to create. The billowing smoke sent everyone into a fit of coughing and crying. The chat went wild: [Hahaha, what a useless bimbo.] [Just as I thought. Nothing but a pretty face.] [Can someone please just tell her to sit down and not touch anything?] They asked me to help clean the few tiny fish Leo had caught? I held one of the fish, fumbling awkwardly. I barely managed to scrape off a few scales before I nearly sliced my own finger off. The chat was merciless: [Is she trying to descale the fish or perform surgery on herself?] [Production needs to get her some extra insurance, stat!] [Did she learn her knife skills from a bear?] Lily timed her entrance perfectly, holding out a cracker, her voice dripping with gentle concern. “Scarlett, honey, just stop, you’re going to hurt yourself. Here, have a cracker. It’s not much, but it’s better than losing a finger, right?” Her eyes were filled with pity, but I caught the fleeting glint of superiority in them. I took the cracker and gave the camera a grateful, slightly wounded, simpleton smile. “Thanks, Lily. You’re so sweet.” Inside, I was rolling my eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. If my grandfather saw me butchering a fish like this, he’d probably rise from his grave just to call me a disgrace. Occasionally, Bob would look my way. Across the flickering firelight, with his sunglasses now off, his deep-set eyes were as unreadable as the night sea. But when his gaze swept over my sand-covered fingers clutching the cracker, it seemed to linger for a split second. Was it curiosity? Or was he just annoyed by the sight? I couldn’t tell. An A-lister’s thoughts were probably as complex and layered as my grandpa’s signature bone broth. The internet’s animosity towards me continued to build: [Daily question: Has Scarlett been kicked off the show yet?] [I can’t even watch her eat. She’s such a burden!] [Did the producers bring her on just to make everyone else look good by comparison?] [Is it just me, or does her stupidity seem… intentional? Like she’s acting…] [Get real. You think she’s smart enough to act this dumb?] Yep. The pretty airhead persona was holding strong. Dana would be thrilled. 4 Everything changed on the evening of the third day. The island weather turned on a dime. The sky went from clear to a bruised purple in minutes. A violent wind ripped through the camp, followed by a torrent of rain that hammered down on us. “Typhoon! It’s a typhoon! Get back to the tents! Get the equipment inside!” The director’s panicked shouts were barely audible over the storm. We scrambled back to our tents just in time to hear a series of loud cracks and the desperate cries of the crew outside. The mooring lines for the small supply boat tethered to the makeshift dock had snapped under the force of the waves. The boat, along with the backup generator and the next batch of supplies, vanished into the churning, black ocean. Inside the tent, there was a dead silence, broken only by the howling wind and raging storm outside. The faint glow of the emergency light illuminated several pale, frightened faces. Lily hugged her knees and began to sob quietly. “What are we going to do? The boat is gone… the food is gone… Are we going to starve to death?” Leo ran a hand through his soaking wet blond hair, trying to maintain his sunny persona, but his voice trembled. “D-don’t be scared, Lily! The crackers… we still have some, right? We just have to hold on until the storm passes!” He rummaged through the supply pack, and his face fell even further. After two days, only a few crackers were left—barely enough to last one more day. Bob leaned against a tent pole, his eyes closed. Rainwater trickled down the sharp line of his jaw. He didn’t say a word, but the tight set of his lips and the shallow rise and fall of his chest betrayed his inner turmoil. The production crew was in chaos. Their walkie-talkies crackled with static and broken calls for help. It was clear their communications were down. A palpable sense of despair seeped through the screen, reaching every viewer watching the livestream. The chat was in a frenzy: [HOLY CRAP! This is real?!] [The boat is gone?! The supplies are gone?! This just got serious!] [Oh my god, this is terrifying! What are the contestants going to do?] [Production needs to do something! Safety first!] [Praying they all stay safe!] [Where’s that diva Scarlett? I bet she’s not acting up now. Probably scared silent.] I huddled in a corner of the tent, wrapped in a thin blanket provided by the show. My wet hair was plastered to my face, and I looked even more shaken than Lily. No one noticed that, under the blanket, my fingers were gently tracing the ebony handle of the small knife in my inner pocket. Its cool, solid feel was strangely calming. My grandfather’s voice echoed in my head again, his tone calm and knowing. “What are you panicking for? The heavens won’t starve a stray sparrow. You live off the land, you live off the sea. As long as you have a blade in your hand and a plan in your head, a true craftsman will never go hungry.” Somehow, the storm outside didn't seem so terrifying anymore. 5 The typhoon raged for a full night and the following day before finally moving on. The rain stopped and the wind died down, but the island was a wasteland. Broken branches, uprooted bushes, and scattered coconuts littered the beach, along with a mess of debris washed ashore by the waves. Our tents were still standing, but they were soaked through, cold, and smelled of mildew. The most critical problem was the complete lack of food. The last of the crackers had been divided up during the panic of the previous night. Leo, sporting a pair of dark circles under his eyes, paced around the campsite like a starved golden retriever. He rummaged through the fallen bushes, his eyes glowing as he stared at some strange-looking wild berries and mushrooms. “This red one looks edible, right?” he mumbled to himself. “It’s so… vibrant.” Just as he reached for it, a hand shot out and yanked him back. It was Bob. The actor’s face was pale, but his eyes were sharp and steady. “Don’t touch it unless you want to die,” he said, his voice hoarse. He pointed to the brightly colored berries. “First rule of survival: if you don’t recognize it, you don’t eat it.” Lily was curled up on a relatively dry rock. Her face was sallow, her lips cracked and peeling. She didn’t even have the energy to cry anymore, just weakly whispering, “Hungry… so hungry…” The director and his crew were in a similar state of despair. Communication was still spotty, and a rescue boat wouldn’t arrive until the next day at the earliest. The livestream faithfully captured every moment of their misery. The chat was filled with worry: [They haven’t eaten in over 24 hours… this is hard to watch.] [Bob’s right! Don’t eat wild berries!] [Leo, don’t do it! Wait for rescue!] [Lily looks so weak, my heart breaks for her…] [Where’s that diva Scarlett? Still playing dead?] I slowly rose from my corner. The blanket slid off, revealing a face that was just as tired as everyone else’s, but calm. Ignoring the others, I walked to the edge of the camp, toward a pile of wrecked, rain-soaked bushes. The camera followed me. The viewers watched as I knelt and started picking through the muddy, worthless-looking leaves and branches. I pulled off a few specific leaves. Chat: [What is she doing? Making mud pies?] I dug around a rotten root and pulled off a few pieces of bark. Chat: [???? Is she so hungry she’s going to eat bark?] I pushed aside a fallen bush and carefully dug up a few dirt-caked tubers that looked like small, lumpy potatoes. Chat: [WTF! What are those things! You can eat that???] I carried my meager haul back to a dry patch of ground in the center of the camp. In the middle of the soggy ashes of our old fire, I reached into my own suitcase—the one everyone had mocked as a symbol of my vanity. From inside, I pulled out a small, folded piece of sheet metal. With a few quick snaps, a simple charcoal stove, no taller than two bricks, stood steady on the damp ground. The chat stuttered for a half-second before erupting in a tidal wave of question marks: [???] [A STOVE? She had a stove in her suitcase this whole time?] [I AM LITERALLY DEAD! Is her suitcase a Mary Poppins bag?!] [Wait! Those leaves and bits of bark she just gathered… you don’t think…] Before the chat could process it, I continued, my movements fluid and practiced. Like a magician, I produced a thin iron pan from a hidden compartment in my luggage. Chat: [A PAN???] I opened the oil-paper packets, revealing my secret stash: the umami bark powder, coarse sea salt, wild peppercorns, and a small, solidified block of rendered seabird fat. Finally, my hand went to the inner pocket of my jacket. The leather-wrapped, ebony-handled knife slid free. The blade was no longer than my palm, thin as a dragonfly’s wing. It caught the sun and flashed with a cold, sharp light. The chat completely lost its mind: [A KNIFE!!! SHE STILL HAS A KNIFE!!!] [WTFWTFWTF! She hid a weapon! Isn’t that illegal?!] [Production, do something!!!] [Wait… what is she going to do with it?] The camera zoomed in, focusing tightly on my hands. I walked to the water’s edge, where the tide was receding from the murky, post-typhoon shore. I waded into a shallow tide pool and, with movements almost too fast for the camera to follow, snatched two dull, grey-scaled fish that were thrashing in the shallow water. Each was about the length of my hand. I also grabbed a few small, feisty crabs. Back at the stove, I pinned one of the fish to a flat rock. My left thumb held it firmly behind the gills. With my right hand, I brought the thin blade to its belly and, with a delicate flick of the wrist, made a single, swift cut. Zip. A hairline incision appeared on the fish’s underside. My wrist moved in a blur, the knife a flash of silver. There was no hacking, no bloody mess—just clean, efficient motion. In seconds, it was over. The fish lay still. The scales were gone, the rock beneath it clean except for a few drops of water. The gills and guts had been removed in one clean piece and discarded. What remained were two perfect, snow-white fillets of fish, trembling slightly in the sunlight, completely deboned and free of any blood. The entire process was silent, precise, and carried an air of cold, detached grace that was a world away from the clumsy idiot who’d nearly chopped her own finger off. A dead silence fell over the camp, broken only by the rustle of the wind through the trees. Lily had stopped crying, her mouth hanging open in a perfect ‘O’. Leo’s eyes were wide enough to fall out of his head. Even Bob, who had been resting with his eyes closed, suddenly opened them. His dark pupils contracted sharply, his gaze locking onto my hand, the knife, and the two flawless fillets. From the direction of the production crew, there was a collective gasp and the clatter of a walkie-talkie hitting the ground. After a moment of stunned silence, the live chat exploded again: [!!!!!!!!!!!] [WHO AM I, WHERE AM I, WHAT DID I JUST SEE???] [That knife work?? Is this f*cking magic!] [That’s better than any Michelin chef I’ve ever seen, holy sh*t!] [What just happened? Did I blink and miss it?] [Did… did the fish just fillet itself?] [SOMEONE PINCH ME! I think I’m hallucinating from hunger!] [Is this the same bimbo who couldn’t even hold a fish properly?] [The whiplash… my brain is broken…] [It’s scripted! It has to be! The producers set this up!] [Set what up, you idiot? You couldn’t create that with CGI!] I ignored the shocked stares and the mental image of the exploding chat. In my world, there was only the food in front of me and the small, struggling flame in my stove. I heated the pan, slicked it with the seabird fat, and an intoxicating, savory aroma filled the air. I sprinkled in the greyish bark powder. With a sizzle, a complex fragrance—a mix of earthy wood and subtle spice—cut through the camp’s damp, musty smell. Lily unconsciously sniffed the air. Leo’s stomach let out a loud, pathetic gurgle. The fish fillets went into the pan. The thin slices of fish hit the hot oil and instantly curled at the edges, turning a beautiful, opaque white. With a flick of my wrist, the fillets danced in the air. I tossed in a few crushed wild peppercorns, and their sharp, tingling scent exploded from the pan. Finally, I crumbled in a small piece of the last cracker to act as a thickener and poured in half a bottle of mineral water. My movements were seamless, imbued with a strange, natural rhythm, as if I weren't cooking on a makeshift stove but conducting a symphony I knew by heart. Steam billowed from the pan, carrying with it a rich, impossibly delicious aroma that settled over the entire camp. It was a fusion of the fish’s sweetness, the bark’s unique fragrance, the peppercorns’ tingle, the richness of the fat, and the subtle, toasted flavor from the cracker. “Gulp…” The sound of someone swallowing hard came from the direction of the production crew. Leo’s eyes were glued to the small pan of bubbling, milky-white soup, his Adam’s apple bobbing uncontrollably. His pop-idol image, his sunny persona—all of it crumbled in the face of pure, primal hunger. He took a few involuntary steps forward, inhaling deeply as if the scent alone could sustain him. Lily watched, her eyes wide, unconsciously licking her cracked lips. And Bob Vance, the stoic mountain of a man, finally moved. He was suddenly at my side, his intense gaze fixed on the pan. The broth was simmering, its creamy white liquid coating the tender, curled pieces of fish. I picked up a clean half-coconut shell to use as a makeshift bowl, filled it with the steaming soup and a few pieces of fish, and handed it to the person closest to me: Bob. He was clearly taken aback. He probably expected me to serve the crying Lily, or the starving Leo, or even the director. A flicker of surprise crossed his dark eyes, but it was gone in an instant. He didn’t refuse, nor did he say thank you. He simply reached out with those long, elegant hands—the same hands praised as works of art in countless cinematic close-ups—and took the simple coconut bowl from me. Our fingers brushed, his cool to the touch. He looked down at the creamy soup in his hands, the steam blurring the sharp lines of his face. He stood there for a moment, then lowered his head, blew gently on the surface, and took a large sip directly from the edge of the bowl. The camera caught the movement of his throat as he swallowed. And then, time seemed to stop. Bob froze, his head still bowed over the bowl. After a few long seconds, he slowly, very slowly, raised his head. He had forgotten to manage his expression. Unconsciously, his tongue darted out to lick a stray drop of soup from the corner of his lips. It was an instinctive, almost boyish gesture. Then, the god-like A-lister leaned in, bringing that face, insured for millions and worshipped by fans worldwide, close to mine—the face of the girl the entire internet had labeled a useless diva. His voice was still low and deep, but now it held a new, barely concealed urgency. He looked at me, his gaze terrifyingly focused. “This soup…” He paused, as if searching for the right words, but in the end, all the complexity boiled down to a single, direct question. “Can I have another?”
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