The Lies He Told | PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER ROMANCE |

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

The evening's repast was an undeniable accomplishment. I scurried about the spacious kitchen with indefatigable zeal, a veritable gastronomic maestro who executed a symphony of textures and flavours.

Being proud of my achievements would be an understatement.

To commence the epicurean adventure, a medley of seared scallops atop a velvety truffle puree crowned with a dollop of caviar set the tone for an exquisite dining experience, the crisp, elegant notes of a fine Chardonnay perfectly complementing each bite.

For the main course, I presented a pièce de résistance that epitomised culinary artistry – Beef Wellington, a succulent tournedos of beef encased in a flaky pastry crust, accompanied by a rich, decadent foie gras, paired with a robust Bordeaux, blending seamlessly with the richness of the dish.

To conclude the evening's successful dinner service, I unveiled a lemon verbena soufflé for dessert accentuated by a drizzle of vibrant raspberry coulis.

All the photo-worthy dishes were recorded on camera, ready for my horrendous website.

My feet throbbed in protest as I settled into my chair at the dining table, ready to unwind and de-stress with my friends. I was half-tempted to kick off my shoes, but my better half would undoubtedly voice his disapproval because indulging in a relaxed posture at the dinner table is deemed a violation of societal norms and a breach of customary protocol.

The day had been a whirlwind of activity--cleaning, shopping, more cleaning, and preparing a three-course feast--and my body was paying the price. I ached all over.

But despite the discomfort in my limbs, I was determined to savour this rare moment of downtime with some of the people I cherished most. In other words, Keith did not make the cut. That insufferable pig can stay on my bad side.

Technically, it was a four-course experience if one incorporated the hors d'oeuvres, which I sadly missed. The watermelon and feta skewers vanished before I could even dream of a morsel, leaving me bereft, as I adore fresh watermelon.

Thank the stars that I had saved a quarter of the watermelon and tucked it into the refrigerator. I had intended to enjoy it for breakfast tomorrow, but a late-night poolside snack with Hannah sounded equally appealing.

The husbands, including Daniel, had fallen prey to the immoderate imbibing of strong spirits, plunging them into a state of intoxication that obscured their sanity and propriety. Their uproarious guffaws and unrestrained utterances, devoid of finesse or empathy, fostered an ambience of disquiet and ill-at-ease.

Solomon, with a venomous tongue and a malicious glint in his eyes, launched into a verbal assault on a gentleman who was not present at the dinner table, painting a picture of him as a moral pariah.

"A scoundrel, I tell you." Solomon partook of the wine glass with a refined air, taking a dainty sip. "He is into all sorts of shady dealings--cooking the books, embezzling funds, bribing officials, and corrupting the system. He is a stain on our community, a blight on our society."

"Inflated the company's earnings by five billion?" Daniel processed the import of his friend's disquieting pronouncements, the weight of such information pressing heavily on his consciousness. "That is a staggering amount."

"Oh, I saved the best for last." Solomon's countenance gleamed with vicious schadenfreude. "Apparently, he poured considerable capital into a questionable investment in the Middle East. According to the rumour mill, there are indications that the entire venture is on the cusp of bankruptcy."

"A well-deserved comeuppance," Oscar retorted, his voice steeped in acrimony. "Perpetually chasing the next elusive chimaera, oblivious to the impending consequences. His inextinguishable acquisitiveness shall be his downfall."