“I know it was you.” My voice trembles with rage. “No one else would stoop so low.”
He laughs, the sound like glass shattering. “Your paranoia is showing, darling. Why would I bother sabotaging your little...” he waves dismissively at the ruined display, “...project? We’re not even in the same league.”
The casual cruelty of it hits me like a physical blow. I step forward, and for a moment, I think I might actually hit him. Thorne’s hand on my arm pulls me back, his grip firm but gentle.
“Not worth it,” he murmurs, though his own eyes burn with a dangerous light when he looks at Gabriel.
Gabriel smirks, reading the situation perfectly. “Listen to your handler, Lena. Wouldn’t want to make a scene.” He gestures to his assistant, who steps forward with the white box. “I brought you a little something. A consolation, if you will.”
The assistant opens the box, revealing a delicate sugar sculpture—a perfect miniature replica of Gabriel’s own display. A trophy of his victory, handed to me in front of everyone.
“Perhaps you could use it,” Gabriel suggests, his voice silky with mock concern. “A centerpiece for whatever you manage to cobble together.”
My vision blurs with tears I refuse to let fall. Not here. Not in front of him.
“Get out,” I manage, my voice so tight it barely sounds like mine.
Gabriel shrugs, as if my reaction is just another boring disappointment. “If you insist. But Lena—” he leans in, his voice dropping to a whisper only I can hear, “—we both know you never belonged here. This just saves you the humiliation of the judges telling you so.”
He walks away, his assistant trailing behind him like an obedient shadow, leaving the white box on the table beside my destroyed display. A perfect, gleaming reminder of what I’m up against.
As soon as he’s out of earshot, Thorne turns to me, his expression murderous. “I could break every bone in his body.”
“That won’t fix my display,” I say numbly. I pick up the sugar sculpture, so delicate and perfect in my hands. One squeeze and it would shatter. Just like my dreams.
Instead, I set it down carefully. Evidence of premeditation, if anyone would believe me.
A small crowd has gathered nearby, pretending not to watch. I can hear their whispers, see their sidelong glances. Some look genuinely sympathetic, but most just seem relieved it’s not happening to them. The competition is cutthroat, after all. Better me than them.
Thorne steps closer, blocking their view of me with his broad shoulders. “What if we simplified? Just one tier, focus on your strongest pieces?—”
“It wouldn’t work,” I cut him off, scrubbing a hand across my face. “The whole concept was about the journey, the layers, the way the flavors and textures told a story together. Without that...” I shake my head. “It would be like trying to tell a novel in a tweet.”
“Then we adapt. Tell a different story.”
I look up at him, this stubborn, beautiful man who refuses to accept defeat. Under different circumstances, his determination would warm me. Now, it just feels like another pressure I can’t bear.
“There is no other story,” I say quietly. “Not one I can tell overnight.”
I turn back to the remains of our display, running my fingers over a piece of wood that’s somehow escaped the worst of the damage. The carving is still visible—a tiny mountain range, each peak lovingly detailed by Thorne’s careful hands. I’d planned to place my mango toffee islands there, a sweet finale to the culinary journey.
All that work. All that hope. Gone.
“I’m withdrawing,” I say, the words dropping like stones.
Thorne stiffens. “Lena…”
“There’s no point, Thorne.” I look up at him, too tired even for tears now. “Even if we could throw something together, it wouldn’t be what I wanted to show. It would be a pale imitation, a desperate attempt to save face. And for what? So the judges can pity me? So Gabriel can watch me scramble and fail anyway?”
“You’re giving him exactly what he wants,” Thorne argues, his hands gentle on my shoulders. “He did this to make you quit.”
“Well, it worked.” I step back, out of his reach. “I don’t belong here. I never did.”
“That’s not true?—”
“It is.” My voice rises, drawing more stares. I lower it, but the intensity remains. “Look around, Thorne. Look at these people, their assistants, their equipment. I’m the only independent baker here without a team. The only one with a display made of wood instead of crystal and metal. I was fooling myself thinking I could compete at this level.”
Thorne’s eyes flash with something like anger. “You belong here more than any of them. Your food has soul, Lena. It means something.”
