Before he can respond, I spot a familiar figure approaching from the corner of my eye, and my smile freezes on my face.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the little baker that could.”
Gabriel Moreau saunters toward us, all sleek elegance in his tailored suit, his smile sharp enough to cut glass. His bakery, Ethereal, is the darling of food critics and monster elites alike. And he has never, not once in the five years I’ve known him, passed up an opportunity to remind me that I don’t belong in the same culinary universe as him.
“Gabriel.” I straighten my spine, lifting my chin. “Still wearing suits to baking competitions, I see. Very practical.”
He laughs, the sound practiced and hollow. “Some of us understand the importance of presentation, darling.” His gaze slides to Thorne, then back to me with a knowing smirk. “Though I see you’ve found your own idea of... presentation.”
Thorne stiffens beside me. I lay a calming hand on his arm.
“This is Thorne,” I say coolly. “Master carpenter and the artist behind our display.”
Gabriel barely acknowledges him with a nod before turning his attention to our setup. He runs a manicured finger along the edge of the display, his expression calculating.
“Quaint,” he says finally. “Very... rustic. I suppose there’s always a market for the homespun aesthetic.”
My cheeks burn, but I keep my smile firmly in place. “Not everyone needs smoke and mirrors to make their food taste good, Gabriel.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “No, some people just need gimmicks and cheap wordplay.” He gestures to my bakery’s name on the placard. “Moist. Really, Lena? Still going with that?”
“The name gets attention,” I shrug. “And unlike some bakeries that shall remain nameless, my customers come back for the flavor, not just the Instagram opportunity.”
Gabriel’s perfect composure cracks, just slightly. A small victory. His bakery, Ethereal, is famous for its visually stunning but often bland creations—beautiful but soulless, just like its owner.
“Well,” he says, straightening his cuffs, “I suppose we all find our level. Speaking of which, I was surprised to see your name on the contestant list. I thought this competition was invitation-only for established talents.”
I feel Thorne tensing beside me, ready to intervene, but this is my battle.
“It is invitation-only, Gabriel. Maybe check your reading comprehension along with your ego.” I step closer, lowering my voice. “Or did it burn when you saw my name on the same list as yours?”
His smile tightens. “Hardly. I just worry about the competition being... watered down.”
“Funny, that’s what the critics said about your last showpiece. All flash, no flavor.” I cock my head. “By the way, how did that review in Monster Gourmet go? The one that called your work ‘technically perfect but emotionally vacant’?”
A muscle twitches in his jaw. Direct hit.
“At least my techniques are at a professional level,” he counters. “Not everyone thinks throwing random Filipino flavors together counts as innovation.”
The casual dismissal of my heritage makes my blood boil, but I keep my voice sweet. “You’re right, Gabriel. It’s not innovation—it’s tradition. The kind passed down through generations, with love and history. Something you might not recognize since your entire personality came from a cookbook.”
Thorne makes a sound that might be a suppressed laugh, and Gabriel’s face flushes an unattractive shade of pink.
“We’ll see who the judges prefer,” he says tightly. “Enjoy your moment in the spotlight, Lena. It won’t last.”
He turns on his heel, stalking away toward his own display area—twice the size of mine, already populated with assistants arranging elaborate glass and metal structures.
I exhale slowly, the tension draining from my shoulders.
“Well,” Thorne says after a moment, “that was...”
“Tuesday with Gabriel,” I finish, forcing a laugh that comes out shakier than I’d like. “He’s been trying to intimidate me out of the industry since culinary school.”
Thorne’s hand finds mine, his thumb tracing circles against my palm. “He didn’t succeed then?”
“No,” I say, squeezing his fingers. “And he won’t now either.”
But as I watch Gabriel directing his team with imperious gestures, doubt creeps in. His display already looks like something from a design magazine, while ours—though beautiful—is simpler, more honest. In this glittering hall of culinary celebrities and monster royalty, what if honest isn’t enough?
