Disguised Darling|✓

Episode 6

Time passes by quickly for Mishti, without her getting any breather, and in the week that she has spent in this house, she realizes many things at once.

Samrat is a very hardworking individual as opposed to what she had thought of him formerly. He works all day long, spending the time between nine to two in his office and the rest of the time in his home office. But that's not all. The devil in him makes sure that everyone works just as hard as him, be it his office staff, house help, his valet - who willingly runs behind him holding different coloured ties asking his boss what he'd like better, all that with a pleased smile on his face, what a weirdo - or Mishti.

She can't leave herself out when Samrat torments her the most, or at least that's what she likes to believe because what else excuse can be given to the unpronounceable dishes (yes, he had guessed it right) he demands Mishti to make for him?

The way after every meal he gives his much-needed review, with Mishti posing as a five-star sous chef and him as a food critic. That's a routine.

He makes sure to incorporate all three meals of the day in his busy schedule, starting from breakfast at sharp 8:30 which is surprisingly very easy to make, consisting of nothing but two pieces of buttered toasts with a glass of pineapple juice to satisfy the man.

He takes his lunch as soon as he arrives back from the office at 2, loosening his tie, rolling up his sleeves and calling up a 'Lunch, please!' in which he usually takes a pesto pasta dish, or some savoury Korean pancakes, or just a beetroot and kidney bean sandwich. The dinner time spans from 9 to 10 and honest to god, is the most excruciating meal of all, of course for Mishti and not for him. He expects a new dish from her every day at nine as he sits in his sweatpants at the dining table, busy typing away on his laptop, taking a look through the kitchen window every once in a while, when he smells something nice. It's an endearing habit, one that Mishti can't find it in herself to mind.

Currently, though, it's time for that same meal of the day and Mishti doesn't find her boss endearing not at all, not when he has asked her to make a Panko-crusted cottage cheese with a Moroccan chickpea stew, and a salted caramel pie to be served as dessert. She is freaking out, to say the least, because she knows absolutely nothing about the dish, having spent the whole day mugging up the step-by-step recipe of the dish, still not having started on it.

Not to forget the call that she had got from her brother today, telling her that she'll have to carry out her first task anytime this week, the thing that she is supposedly here for, asking her to get ready.

Oh, but she isn't; not for the dinner, not for the task, not to hurt the man she had come here for only assuring the wellbeing of.

It's inevitable the way she jumps when a voice, right behind her wonders, "What's taking you so long?"

She sees with horrified eyes and a yelp when the sauce laden ladle slips from her hand and falls on the ground but not before marring the man's pristine white coloured shirt with the red substance right in the middle.

"Oh, God!" She exclaims, terrified, her gaze flitting from the man's now dirtied shirt to his face that she can't properly see because he too is busy assessing the damage of his god knows how many thousands worth shirt.

"I'm sorry," Mishti screeches, looking around the kitchen to find a remedy for this disaster, any rag or wet napkins. Though she knows none of it will be able to undo this. "I didn't mean to, I am sorry," She frets, her hands flailing in the air in front of the dirtied spot on Samrat's shirt, not knowing what to do, where to touch - whether to touch at all or not.

Her attention though immediately averts to the silence that is prevailing in the kitchen if you substract Mishti's panic-filled voice.

The man isn't saying anything.