Thorne seems to read my thoughts. He tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Your food makes people feel something, Lena. That matters more than whatever that peacock is preening about.”
I rise on my tiptoes, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “When did you get so wise?”
“I’ve always been wise,” he deadpans. “You were too busy setting things on fire to notice.”
This time, my laugh is genuine. I turn back to our display, running my hand over the smooth wood, imagining how it will look tomorrow with my creations nestled in each tier. Whatever Gabriel thinks, this is mine—my vision, my heritage, my heart on a plate.
And I’m not about to let anyone make me doubt that again.
The convention center looks different this morning—smaller somehow, less intimidating. It’s amazing what a good night’s sleep and mind-blowing sex can do for your confidence. I slide my hand into Thorne’s, giving his fingers a squeeze as we weave through the early-morning bustle of contestants checking on their displays.
The nervous energy from yesterday has crystallized into something sharper, more focused. Today is about final preparations, last adjustments, making sure everything is perfect for tomorrow’s judging. I’m actually excited, the kind of excited that buzzes under your skin like electricity, making your fingers tingle and your heart race.
“I think we should add more stability to the top tier,” I say, mentally reviewing our setup as we walk. “Just in case some judge bumps into it or something.”
Thorne grunts in agreement. “I brought some extra supports. Better safe than sorry.”
I lean into him, savoring his solid warmth. “Always prepared.”
The exhibition floor is already alive with activity—assistants scurrying between displays, contestants barking orders, judges making preliminary rounds. I spot Chef Lumière in the distance,her luminous skin casting gentle light over a contestant’s chocolate sculpture as she examines it with critical eyes.
“Oh, there’s our section,” I say, gesturing toward the far corner where our display stands. But even as the words leave my mouth, something feels wrong. From this distance, the shape looks... different. Off.
Thorne must feel it too, because his pace quickens, his grip on my hand tightening slightly.
“Lena,” he says, voice low with warning.
I pull away from him, breaking into a jog, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs. No. No, no, no.
The world narrows to a tunnel as I approach our booth. All other sounds—the chatter, the laughter, the bustle of the convention—fade to white noise.
Our display—our beautiful, carefully crafted display—is in ruins.
The wooden structure that Thorne spent weeks perfecting is splintered and broken, the delicate carved details crushed beyond recognition. The middle tier has completely collapsed, pulling down part of the top with it. Jagged pieces of wood stick out at odd angles, like bones through broken skin.
But that’s not the worst part.
The worst part is the sticky, foul-smelling liquid that coats everything—some kind of rancid oil or syrup that has seeped into the wood, staining it irreparably, filling the air with a putrid stench that would make anything placed on it inedible.
I can’t breathe. I literally cannot pull air into my lungs as I stare at the devastation before me. My hand rises to my mouth, trembling.
“Who would—“ Thorne starts, his voice a dangerous rumble, but I already know.
My eyes scan the exhibition floor, landing on Gabriel’s booth. His display stands pristine and untouched—a toweringconfection of glass and metal that gleams under the lights. And there he is, watching us from across the room, his expression a mask of false concern that doesn’t reach his eyes.
I feel myself fracturing inside, like one of my delicate sugar sculptures hit with a hammer. All those weeks of preparation, the late nights, the testing and retesting of recipes, Thorne’s careful craftsmanship—all destroyed in what must have been a few vicious minutes of sabotage.
“Ms. Reyes?” A convention staff member approaches, clipboard in hand. “Is there a problem?”
A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat. “A problem? My display has been destroyed. Someone deliberately sabotaged it.”
The woman’s eyes widen as she takes in the damage. “I’ll get security right away. This is completely unacceptable.”
She hurries off, but I know it’s pointless. There are no security cameras in this section of the exhibition hall—I checked during setup, paranoid about my desserts being safe overnight. And even if there were, what would they show? Someone in uniform, someone who belongs here, casually approaching our booth in the early hours when the hall was nearly empty?
I turn to Thorne, who’s examining the damage with dark, furious eyes. His hands hover over the wood, careful not to touch the foul liquid.
“This was deliberate,” he says, voice tight. “Professional. The breaks are strategic—designed to look accidental while ensuring maximum damage.”
