Emii didn't just enter the supermarket; she annexed it. Pushing her chrome cart with the regal poise of a queen leading a cavalry charge, she navigated the aisles with an intensity that bordered on the theatrical.
"Masalas, organic greens, aged Basmati, stone-ground flour, and paneer," she tallied, her eyes darting across the shelves. Suddenly, she paused, her hand hovering over a display of artisanal cocoa. "And dark chocolate. A woman cannot survive on spice alone."
Trailing in her wake, Mrs. Lynn clutched the grocery list as if it were a shield. "Miss, are you quite certain about the chili powder? It looks… formidable."
Emii winked, tossing a final bag of crimson spice into the cart. "Spice is life, Mrs. Lynn. If we burn their tongues, at least they'll remember the meal forever. We have a brother to shock and a fiancé to feed. Let's move."
The following hour was a whirlwind of bewildered cashiers and a trolley boy who looked like he had survived a natural disaster. By the time they returned to the estate, Emii was ready for what she had internally dubbed the Kitchen Battle of the Century.
She rolled up her sleeves, a glint of madness in her eyes. "Let's do this."
The onions didn't stand a chance. It wasn't chopping; it was a massacre. Some slices were crescent moons; others looked like they had been attacked by a blunt object. Emii remained undeterred.
"Shape is a social construct, Mrs. Lynn! What matters is the soul!" she declared. Her eyes were streaming—partially from the sulfuric vapors, but mostly from the sheer adrenaline of the moment.
The pan hit the flame. Sizzle.
"Do you hear that?" Emii whispered dramatically. "That is the sound of destiny."
Mrs. Lynn watched in paralyzed fascination as Emii navigated the stove. Cumin seeds flew like shrapnel, turmeric dusted her cheekbones like war paint, and she stirred with the fervor of a woman possessed.
"I may not have the recipe," Emii shouted over the roar of the exhaust fan, "but I have the rhythm!"
By the time the stovetop fell silent, Emii stood amidst a cloud of aromatic smoke, covered in a fine patina of flour and victory. She surveyed the wreckage of the kitchen with a grin that was equal parts pride and exhaustion.
"This," she panted, "is what the critics would call 'emotional damage in edible form.'"