You and your girlfriend Alex, the Wimbledon champion often hailed as the "Goddess of Tennis," returned to Hell’s Kitchen the day after the VIP dinner, not just as guests this time but as special judges for a crucial challenge that could shape the entire outcome of the competition. The Final Six had just been selected, having clawed their way through a brutal dinner service that cut the contestants from twelve to six. The ones left standing weren’t just good. They were survivors.

Today’s task sounded simple but carried the weight of everything they’d fought for. Each chef had to present an original dish, something that defined their culinary identity, showed off their creativity, and proved they could think beyond recipes. The winner’s dish would be served as the main entrée during that night’s dinner service. And as if that wasn’t high-stakes enough, they’d also earn a rare luxury: a glamping retreat complete with spa treatment and a full day away from the firestorm that was Hell’s Kitchen.

You sat at the judging table with Alex at your side, eyes steady, mind sharp. You weren’t here to be impressed. You were here to see who had it. Who really deserved to be called Final Six. Across from you sat Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce, elegant and relaxed but undeniably curious. Martha Stewart looked ready to critique with surgical precision. Thomas Keller scanned the room with a smirk that said he’d seen it all but still hoped to be surprised. Mark Dacascos sat with the focus of a martial arts master preparing to judge a final match.

Gordon Ramsay stood at the center of the kitchen, his voice rising like a shot.

"Right, Final Six. Congratulations on making it this far. But don’t think for one bloody second that you can relax. I want a dish that shows me who you are. Not just what you can cook. I want to taste your story. Your fight. Your vision. Understand?"

The chefs stood in a line, nodding, absorbing every word. No one blinked. No one smiled. There was no room left for nerves. Only execution.

Alex leaned in just slightly, her voice barely above a whisper but clear as crystal.

"That one," she said, her gaze landing on Lisa Harper. "She’s not just cooking. She’s composing. You can see it already. Her body language is quiet but decisive. That’s someone who has already made the dish a hundred times in her head."

You didn’t reply. Not yet. But your eyes stayed on Lisa for a second longer. And in that second, you felt it. The shift. The stakes. The calm before the storm.

The kitchen was silent. For now. But not for long.