I sink into the nearest chair, my legs suddenly unable to support me. “It was Gabriel.”
Thorne’s eyes meet mine. He doesn’t question it, doesn’t ask for proof. He simply nods. “What do you need me to do?”
Before I can answer, security arrives, followed by one of the competition organizers—a severe-looking Sphinx with golden fur and sharp, analytical eyes.
“Ms. Reyes,” she says, her voice clipped and efficient, “I understand there’s been an incident.”
I gesture wordlessly to the wreckage of my dreams.
She examines it, expression unreadable. “This is most unfortunate. However, without evidence of tampering...”
“Without evidence?” My voice rises, breaking slightly. “Look at it! This wasn’t an accident!”
The Sphinx’s tail twitches—the only indication that my outburst has affected her. “I understand your distress, but we cannot accuse another contestant without proof. We have strict policies about contestant conflicts.”
“So what am I supposed to do?” I ask, gesturing helplessly to the destroyed display. “The showcase is tomorrow.”
“Perhaps you can repair it,” she suggests, though her tone makes it clear she thinks this unlikely. “Or use a simplified presentation. The judges will be informed of the... circumstances.”
With a nod that’s probably meant to be sympathetic but comes across as dismissive, she moves away, taking security with her. I’m left staring at the ruins, surrounded by the curious, pitying glances of nearby contestants.
Thorne kneels beside me, his large hand covering mine. “We can fix this.”
“How?” The word comes out hollow, empty.
“I can rebuild the structure. A simpler version, but still?—“
“In one night?” I shake my head. “This took you weeks, Thorne. And even if you could, look at the wood. It’s soaked with... whatever this is. The smell would contaminate any food placed on it.”
“Then we start over. New materials. I have some in my workshop?—”
"And the sugar glass elements? The carved wood? The…everything else?” I stare at the wreckage of my dreams, mythroat so tight it feels like I'm swallowing glass. The sphinx walks away, her golden tail flicking with dismissal, and I'm left with splinters—literal and metaphorical. Thorne's hand on mine should be comforting, but it's just a distant pressure, like I'm feeling it through layers of gauze. Nothing is real except the destruction in front of me, the stench of rancid oil, and Gabriel's smirking face across the exhibition hall.
“We can rebuild,” Thorne says again, his voice low and urgent.“Stop.” The word comes out sharper than I intend, slicing between us. “Just stop, Thorne.”
His jaw tightens, but he falls silent, those dark eyes watching me with an intensity that hurts.
“Look at it,” I whisper, gesturing to the splintered wood, the putrid liquid seeping deeper into the grain. “Really look. This isn’t just broken. It’s poisoned.”
He doesn’t argue, because he sees it too. The oil—or whatever the hell Gabriel used—isn’t just surface damage. It’s penetrated the wood, transforming Thorne’s beautiful craftsmanship into toxic waste. Even if we could somehow repair the structure, no one could eat anything that touched it.
Around us, the exhibition hall continues its relentless buzz of activity. Other contestants steal glances our way, their expressions a mix of pity and relief—there but for the grace of the gods go I. Each look is a needle under my skin, a reminder that I’m the outsider here, the small-town baker playing at being a professional.
“I brought tools,” Thorne says, his voice so gentle it makes me want to scream. “And I can get fresh wood. Start over.”
I shake my head, a hysterical laugh bubbling up my throat. “Start over? In twelve hours? This took us weeks, Thorne. Weeks of planning, carving, testing. The sugar glass alone took three tries to get right.” My voice cracks. “And my recipes—they weredesigned specifically for this display. The textures, the plating, all of it.”
Before he can answer, I see Gabriel making his way toward us, his face arranged in a mask of concern so fake it makes my teeth ache. His assistant trails behind him, carrying a pristine white box tied with silver ribbon.
“Lena, darling,” Gabriel says, his voice dripping with false sympathy. “I just heard. What a catastrophe.”
I stand up so quickly the chair nearly topples behind me. “Don’t,” I hiss, my hands curling into fists at my sides. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
He blinks, the picture of innocence. “I beg your pardon?”
“You did this.” Each word is a bullet I wish could pierce his polished exterior. “You sabotaged my display.”
Gabriel’s face hardens, though his smile remains fixed in place. “That’s a serious accusation, Lena. One I’d advise you not to make without evidence.”
