16 December, 2024
Death by Chocolate | A Short Story
Death by Chocolate | A Short Story
Disclaimer:
This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The characters, settings, and incidents portrayed are entirely the product of the author’s imagination and are not intended to reference, reflect, or depict any real-life individual, location, or occurrence. This story is meant solely for entertainment purposes.
Chapter 1: A Sweet Beginning
The aroma of melted chocolate and freshly baked vanilla sponge filled the air at La Dolce Vita, the quaint patisserie nestled in the heart of Willow Grove. The late afternoon sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting golden beams on marble countertops laden with delicate pastries. Customers sipped coffee, savoring every bite of éclairs, macarons, and lemon tarts, oblivious to the storm that was about to brew.
In the kitchen, Elara Bennett, head pastry chef and co-owner of La Dolce Vita, stood at the center of it all. Her dark curls were tucked beneath a red bandana, and a light dusting of flour clung to her apron.
Her fingers moved with precision as she placed the finishing touches on her pièce de résistance: the Death by Chocolate Torte. The dense, layered masterpiece was a combination of rich chocolate ganache, velvety mousse, and a crisp cocoa-infused crust. Topped with a delicate drizzle of dark chocolate glaze and a hint of edible gold dust, it was the showstopper of the patisserie, the dessert every customer spoke about long after they’d left.
Her sous-chef, Mia, leaned over the counter, her eyes filled with admiration. “I swear, Elara, this torte should be illegal. It’s almost too perfect.”
Elara chuckled, brushing a stray curl from her face. “Almost, Mia. Almost. Perfection is what keeps them coming back.”
“Elara, table five wants another round of pistachio macarons,” called out Mia, peeking her head into the kitchen. “They said they’re ‘the best they’ve ever had.’”
Elara’s lips curled into a proud smile. “Tell them I’ll have it out in five.” She’d spent years perfecting that pistachio macaron recipe, balancing the nutty earthiness with just the right amount of sweetness. Compliments like that made every sleepless night in culinary school worth it.
But today, something felt off.
The sound of the door chime jingled, drawing everyone’s attention. In walked Gabriel Frost, a name that made Elara’s chest tighten. Gabriel was the most feared food critic in the city. His reviews could make or break a restaurant overnight, and his presence was never announced in advance. His dark trench coat swirled behind him as he strode toward a table by the window. His sharp gaze swept the room, landing momentarily on Elara through the kitchen’s viewing window.
“He’s here,” Mia hissed, eyes wide with panic. “Gabriel Frost is here.”
“I know,” Elara replied, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. “Don’t panic. Just do what you always do.” But her heart was already thudding in her chest. Gabriel’s reviews were brutal. Chefs’ careers had crumbled under the weight of his scathing words.
“What’s he ordering?” she asked, attempting to maintain calm as she piped delicate strawberry mousse into chocolate tart shells.
Mia returned a moment later, eyes darting around as if she’d seen a ghost. “He’s ordered the Death by Chocolate Torte.”
Elara’s breath caught. Of course he’d pick that. It was her signature dessert, her pride and joy, the crown jewel of her patisserie’s menu.
“Okay,” she said aloud, more to herself than anyone else. “We’ve done this a hundred times. Nothing’s different.” But her hands shook ever so slightly as she placed it on the serving plate and inspected it under the light. It was flawless. Perfectly smooth. No cracks, no blemishes.
“Mia, take this to him,” Elara said, setting the plate on the counter. “Tell him I hope it’s as unforgettable as he’s heard.”
Mia’s eyes widened. “Bold.”
“Confidence tastes better than fear,” Elara said with a smirk, though her stomach felt like it was tied in a thousand knots.
Chapter 2: Death By Chocolate
From the kitchen, she watched Gabriel’s every move as he took his first bite of the Death by Chocolate Torte. He’d cut a clean slice with his fork, studying its texture before tasting it. The moment the torte hit his tongue, his eyes fluttered closed for half a second—just long enough for Elara to know it had made an impact.
But then his expression changed.
His hand went to his throat, his eyes bulging in panic. He gasped, clawing at his collar. Elara’s heart stopped.
“Mia! Call 911!” she yelled, already running toward him. Customers gasped, chairs scraped, and the patisserie’s warmth turned to icy fear. Elara’s training kicked in. “Gabriel! Can you hear me?” she asked, kneeling beside him.
He nodded weakly but couldn’t speak. His face turned red, his breaths sharp and shallow. “Allergic reaction,” she muttered, scanning the table for clues. The only thing in front of him was the torte.
“He’s allergic to nuts,” a woman’s voice said from behind her. It was Rose Fletcher, a local food blogger. “I remember from his last review. He’s deathly allergic to nuts.”
Elara’s mind raced. Her torte didn’t contain nuts. She’d made sure of it. Her recipes were precise, and every ingredient was carefully sourced. But as she glanced at the countertop, her heart stopped. There, right next to where she’d been piping the strawberry mousse, sat an open container of pistachio flour. She’d used it earlier for the macarons.
Her breath grew shallow. “No. No, no, no,” she muttered, eyes darting between the container and the torte. “It’s not possible.” She’d been so careful. Had she cross-contaminated it?
Sirens echoed in the distance as paramedics rushed in. Gabriel’s face was pale now, his breath shallow but steady. He’d be okay, but the looks on the customers’ faces said it all. Accusations hung in the air like the heavy aroma of burnt sugar.
“Did you… did you poison him?” Rose’s voice was sharp, suspicious.
Elara’s eyes widened. “What? No! It’s—it’s a mistake. I… I—” Her hands shook as she tried to piece it together.
“Looks like a mistake that could’ve killed him,” Rose replied, snapping a photo of the open pistachio flour on the counter.
The paramedics wheeled Gabriel away, his eyes flickering open briefly to look at her. His gaze held something more than fear. Accusation.
As the police arrived to “ask a few questions,” Elara’s pulse quickened. The world she’d worked so hard to build was crumbling in front of her.
Who had left the pistachio flour open?
Her eyes narrowed. She’d never forget to close it. Not on a day like this.
Someone had set her up.
Chapter 3: Secrets in the Kitchen
The patisserie had been closed for the day, but the whispers had already escaped its walls. Elara could feel them swirling in the air, as present as the smell of melted chocolate. The accusatory gazes from customers, the curious glances from her staff—all of it weighed on her like an iron cloak.
Detective Nathan Cross stood at the kitchen doorway, his sharp eyes scanning every inch of the room. His notepad was already half-filled with his tight, slanted handwriting. He was the kind of detective who missed nothing, and right now, his attention was fixed squarely on Elara.
“Miss Bennett,” he began, his voice calm but firm. “Mind walking me through exactly what happened, step by step?”
Elara’s fingers tightened around the hem of her apron. “I—I was piping mousse into the chocolate torte. Mia called out that Gabriel had ordered the Death by Chocolate Torte. I placed it on the serving plate, checked it for imperfections, and handed it off. That’s it.”
Cross’s eyes flicked to the countertop. “And this?” he asked, pointing his pen at the open container of pistachio flour, now sealed in an evidence bag.
“That wasn’t there when I started,” Elara said firmly. “I’m meticulous, Detective. I’d never leave an allergen container open on a prep day, especially not during a shift.”
Mia?” Cross’s eyes shifted to the young server.
Mia shook her head quickly. “I didn’t see anyone touch it, Detective. I—I was running orders the whole time. Nobody but Elara touched the desserts.” Her eyes darted nervously between Elara and Cross, like she was watching a tennis match she couldn’t win.
“Convenient,” Cross muttered, jotting something in his notebook. “No cameras back here, huh?”
“Not in the kitchen,” Elara admitted. “Only in the front.”
“Guess I’ll have to check those too,” Cross said, slipping his notebook into his coat pocket. “Don’t go anywhere, Miss Bennett. This isn’t over.”
As he left, Mia’s eyes met Elara’s, wide with fear. “You’re going to be okay, right?” Mia’s voice was thin, like she didn’t fully believe her own words.”
Elara’s jaw clenched. “I don’t know, Mia.”
But one thing was clear—someone had framed her.
Chapter 4: A Crumb of Clue
Elara sat at the kitchen table, her eyes fixed on the container of pistachio flour that now sat in an evidence bag. Detective Nathan Cross leaned against the counter, his notebook open, eyes studying her like she was one of his unsolved puzzles.
“You’re telling me you didn’t leave it open?” he asked, his voice even but firm.
“I’m telling you, Detective, I’m meticulous,” Elara snapped. “I’d never leave it out on a day when Gabriel Frost walks in.”
Cross’s gaze shifted to Mia. “And you didn’t see anyone else back here?”
Mia shook her head. “No one but us.”
“Convenient,” Cross muttered again, his gaze narrowing. “Here’s what I know. You have a motive. Gabriel Frost’s review of La Dolce Vita could ruin you. And this?” He tapped the evidence bag with his pen. “This makes you look reckless—or worse.”
“If I wanted him gone, I wouldn’t have done it like this,” Elara shot back. “I’d do it cleaner, smarter. I—” She stopped herself, realizing how bad it sounded.
Cross’s eyes gleamed with interest. “Good to know.”
She pressed her fingers against her temples. Who had been in the kitchen that day? She pictured each moment. Every clang of a dish, every request from the servers. Mia had been in and out. Rose Fletcher had hovered longer than usual, but she was always looking for “behind-the-scenes” shots for her blog.
“Detective,” Elara said suddenly. “Check Rose’s phone. She’s a blogger. She’s always taking pictures of everything.”
Cross raised an eyebrow. “You think she caught something on camera?”
Elara nodded. “She’s a “photo everything” type. If someone tampered with that pistachio flour, there’s a chance it’s in one of her shots.”
“Not a bad lead,” Cross admitted. “I’ll request her phone records. But until then, Miss Bennett, stay reachable. And stay out of trouble.”
He strode toward the exit, but before he left, he glanced back at her. “Just remember, even the sharpest knives get dull eventually.”
Elara’s fingers curled into fists. Someone had played a dirty trick, and now she was the one bleeding for it.
Elara’s heart pounded like a stand mixer at full speed. She couldn’t sit still. Her mind buzzed with every possible suspect. Rose? She’d been unusually nosy, snapping pictures of everything from the éclairs to the empty prep counters. Mia? No, Mia was loyal. She’d never betray her.
Her eyes darted to the back entrance of the kitchen. It was always locked, but she’d seen Ethan, her part-time cleaner, propping it open on occasion to bring in fresh deliveries. Could someone have slipped in unnoticed?
Her phone buzzed. It was a text from Mia.
“Elara, you need to see this. Rose just posted something about the ‘Death by Chocolate’ incident. Check her blog.”
Elara’s eyes narrowed as she clicked the link Mia had sent. Rose’s latest blog post loaded. There it was—a crisp image of the pistachio flour container, captured perfectly in frame.
But something was off.
Elara’s eyes zoomed in. In the reflection of the stainless steel counter, there was a figure—a flash of red.
Her breath hitched. A red bandana. Just like hers.
Only, she’d been wearing her red bandana inside the kitchen the entire time.
Someone else had worn one too.
Chapter 5: Crust of Deceit
Elara’s pulse thundered in her ears as she stared at the screen. The image wasn’t just a clue—it was a revelation. Someone had gone to great lengths to mimic her.
Her fingers hovered over her phone’s call button, ready to dial Detective Cross. But something stopped her. If they knew she’d seen this, would they act again?
Her eyes flicked to the back door of the kitchen. If someone had slipped in once, they could do it again. Her gaze settled on the shelf where she kept her spare red bandanas. One was missing.
Her phone buzzed again. Another text from Mia.
“Rose is live-streaming at La Dolce Vita right now! She’s talking about ‘the woman behind the scandal’—Elara, she’s talking about you!”
Anger surged through Elara’s chest. Her eyes darted to the security feed on her phone. The front-facing cameras of La Dolce Vita showed Rose pacing towards it, phone in hand, her voice animated as she spoke to her followers.
“Unbelievable,” Elara muttered. “She’s turning this into content.”
Her fingers moved across the phone screen. Time to turn the tables.
Chapter 6: A Table for Revenge
Elara strode toward the front of the shop with purpose. Every step she took was measured, her mind sharp with clarity. She could see Rose now, smiling at her phone’s camera as if she were hosting her own reality show.
“…and that’s why I always say, you never really know who’s behind the apron,” Rose said, panning the camera around the shop. “Elara Bennett, head chef of La Dolce Vita, is currently at the center of a mystery as sticky as caramel.”
Elara’s eyes narrowed as she approached. “Interesting commentary, Rose. Mind if I join the live stream?”
Rose’s eyes widened for a moment, but she quickly plastered on a smile. “Oh, Elara! Perfect timing. My viewers have so many questions for you.” She turned the camera toward Elara. “Everyone, here she is, the chef at the heart of it all.”
Elara tilted her head, her smile icy but controlled. “Happy to answer questions. But first, Rose, can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” Rose replied, still beaming for the camera.
Elara leaned in, voice low but firm. “How long have you had access to my kitchen?”
Rose blinked. “Access? I don’t—”
“Oh, I think you do,” Elara said, her eyes darting to the live-streaming phone. “And I think your audience would love to know why there’s a reflection of a red bandana in one of your blog photos. A bandana I keep exclusively in my kitchen.”
The camera shook slightly as Rose’s grip faltered. Her smile twitched. “That’s—That’s ridiculous. I never—”
“Sure, Rose,” Elara said, her smile never wavering. “We all know you love an exclusive shot for your blog. But you slipped up. And I’m sure Detective Cross will be very interested in that reflection. You know, the one with the red bandana.”
The live chat on Rose’s stream exploded with comments:
“Omg did she just get caught?!”
“Someone screenshot that reflection!”
“Rose, girl, just log off.”
Rose’s face flushed as she stepped back, her phone tilted awkwardly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. You’re just trying to shift blame!”
“Shift blame?” Elara tilted her head, letting out a short laugh. “Rose, I know a faker when I see one. And I think your fans do too.”
Rose’s phone suddenly went dark as she ended the stream.
“Not so chatty now, are you?” Elara muttered, crossing her arms.
Detective Cross arrived 20 minutes later, his coat still damp from the rain. “You better have something good, Bennett,” he said, shaking off droplets of water.
“I do,” Elara replied, tapping her phone. She showed him the photos. “See that reflection?” She noticed the image of the red bandana in the counter’s stainless steel. “It’s subtle, but it’s there.”
Cross leaned in, eyes narrowing.
Cross nodded, impressed. “This changes things.” He looked at Elara. “You might have just saved yourself.”
Elara exhaled slowly, her first real breath of relief in days. “Now, do me a favor, Detective.”
Cross raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
“Don’t just catch her,” Elara said, a fire in her eyes. “Make sure she never forgets that she underestimated me.”
Chapter 7: The Missing Ingredient
Elara sat at the counter, her eyes fixed on the empty display shelves of La Dolce Vita. The shop was closed for the day, but her mind was wide awake. Something still didn’t add up.
Her gaze shifted to the stack of recipe cards neatly arranged in her personal collection. Each card bore the marks of countless baking sessions—flour smudges, butter stains, and the occasional handwritten note. Her eyes settled on the card for her signature dessert: Death by Chocolate Torte.
She traced a finger over the ingredients list. Flour, sugar, cocoa powder, butter, dark chocolate, and vanilla. It was simple, elegant, and undeniably hers. But as she read the list, something flickered in her memory. The missing ingredient.
Her heart skipped a beat. She reached for her phone and opened the notes app where she’d jotted down every new variation of the recipe. One note, dated three months ago, caught her eye:
“New twist: Orange zest in the mousse layer. Subtle, but unforgettable.”
Her breath hitched. The Death by Chocolate Torte she’d made for the festival—she’d added orange zest to the mousse. It was the only batch she’d ever made with it, and she hadn’t told a soul about the change. Not even Mia.
Her mind raced. Who else could have known?
The sound of the door chime snapped her out of her thoughts. Her eyes shot to the front of the shop. It was past closing, and the door should have been locked. But it wasn’t.
Her heart thudded in her chest. Slowly, she reached for the closest thing she could find—a rolling pin. Her grip tightened as she moved toward the front of the store, her breath shallow but steady.
“Hello?” she called, her voice firm but cautious. “We’re closed.”
The silence that followed was as thick as ganache. Then, a soft shuffle. From behind the counter. Someone was still inside.
Her fingers itched to call Detective Cross, but she needed to see for herself. She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing as she peered around the edge of the counter.
“Looking for something?” Her voice rang out sharp as a paring knife.
A figure darted out from behind the counter. Elara’s heart lurched as she saw them sprint for the back door. The red hoodie, the familiar shape of their frame—it clicked all at once.
“Stop right there, Mia!” she shouted, her voice raw with disbelief.
But Mia was already out the back door, her footsteps echoing in the alley.
Elara stood frozen, her mind a storm of confusion and betrayal. Mia? Her own assistant? The one person she had trusted with everything—her recipes, her kitchen, her friendship.
Her eyes darted to the shelves. The missing bandana. The orange zest. The reflection in Rose’s blog photo. It wasn’t Rose. It was Mia all along.
Her breathing grew shallow, her mind replaying every moment. Every shift, every small slip of information, every “mistake” that suddenly didn’t seem like a mistake at all. Mia had been in her kitchen from the start.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, pulling her back to reality. She pulled it out and saw a message from Detective Cross.
“New evidence on the Rose case. Call me.”
Elara exhaled slowly. She typed a reply.
“It’s not Rose. It’s Mia. I have proof.”
Her eyes lifted to the back door, still swinging from Mia’s escape. She wouldn’t run far. Not this time.
Chapter 8: The Final Crumble
Elara didn’t think. She moved. Her sneakers pounded the tiled floor of La Dolce Vita as she bolted through the kitchen and out the back door. The alley behind the shop was damp with the day’s drizzle, and the glow of a distant streetlight made the puddles shimmer like molten silver.
Up ahead, Mia’s red hoodie was a streak of color in the grey alleyway. Elara’s lungs burned, but she kept running.
“Mia!” she yelled, her voice echoing off the brick walls. “Stop running! You won’t get away with this!”
Mia glanced over her shoulder, eyes wild with panic. “I’m sorry, Elara! I didn’t mean for it to go this far!” she shouted back, her breath ragged. “You don’t understand!”
“I understand perfectly,” Elara snapped. Her heart pounded harder, fueled by anger and adrenaline. “You stole from me. You lied. And now you’re running?”
Mia skidded to a stop near the corner of the alley, her hands on her knees as she gasped for air. Her eyes darted left and right, searching for a way out. But there was nowhere to go.
“Please, Elara,” Mia said, raising her hands as if to surrender. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
Elara’s breath came in short, hard bursts. She approached slowly, keeping her eyes locked on Mia. “Then tell me how it was supposed to be, Mia. Tell me why you did it.”
Mia’s gaze dropped to the ground. “I just… I just wanted to be seen. Everyone talks about ‘Elara Bennett, the pastry queen.’ Do you know how many times I’ve had to listen to people act like I’m invisible? Like I’m just the girl who stirs the pot?”
Elara’s eyes narrowed. “So you thought stealing my recipe and framing Rose was the way to get attention?”
“No! I wasn’t going to frame her,” Mia snapped, her face twisting in frustration. “It got out of hand. I thought if I made the torte at the festival, people would notice me. Just me.”
Elara stepped closer, shaking her head. “They would have noticed you, Mia. As a thief.”
The distant wail of sirens cut through the night. Mia’s eyes darted in the direction of the sound, panic flooding her features. “Elara, please. Don’t do this.”
Elara crossed her arms, her face hard as tempered chocolate. “You did this to yourself.”
Red and blue lights flashed against the walls of the alley. Detective Cross’s voice rang out. “Police!
Mia’s hands shot up. Tears filled her eyes. Elara watched as two officers approached, cuffs in hand.
“Justice tastes sweeter than chocolate,” she muttered under her breath.
This is the ending of “Death By Chocolate” Story.
