“Meaning doesn’t win competitions.” I gesture to Gabriel’s booth, where judges are already gathering, admiring his elaborate creation. “That does.”
I grab my bag from under the table, unable to look at the wreckage any longer. “I need to go fill out the withdrawal forms. And then I need to be alone.”
Thorne follows me, his presence at my back a warmth I can’t handle right now. “Let me come with you.”
“No.” I turn to face him, summoning the last of my strength to keep my voice steady. “Please, Thorne. I need space. I just need to not be here anymore.”
Something in my face must convince him, because he stops, though every line of his body radiates reluctance. “Where will you go?”
“Home,” I say, though the word feels hollow. “Back to my kitchen where things make sense.”
I step away before he can argue further, before I can change my mind and collapse into the comfort of his arms. Because I know if I let myself break now, I might never put myself back together again.
The last thing I see as I walk away is Thorne standing beside our ruined display, his massive frame impossibly still, watching me leave. And Gabriel beyond him, raising a champagne flute in silent, smug triumph.
I push through the exhibition hall doors and into the cool morning air, gulping it down like I’ve been drowning. The tears come then, hot and angry, streaming down my face as I fumble for my car keys.
There’s no fixing this. No starting over. No happy ending.
Just the bitter taste of defeat and the knowledge that sometimes, dreams are just that—dreams. Not meant for people like me to actually live.
CHAPTER 12
thorne
DONUT GIVE UP
The drive back to the bakery is a wasteland of silence. Lena stares out the window, her profile a study in defeat, her shoulders curved inward like she’s trying to make herself smaller.
It kills me to see her like this—hollowed out, emptied of that spark that makes her so painfully, beautifully herself. I’ve spent months pretending she’s a thorn in my side when the truth is, I can’t imagine my world without her in it now. And I’m not about to let some pretentious asshole with a sugar sculpture take her from me—take this from her.
When we arrive, she fumbles with her keys, dropping them once before managing to unlock the door. I want to help, to take them from her, but I know her pride is already bruised raw. Instead, I stand back, letting her do this one small thing for herself.
The bell above the door chimes as she pushes it open—that cheerful sound now a mockery of the heaviness hanging between us. She steps inside and just... stops. Like her body has forgotten what to do next. Like whatever invisible string was holding her upright has been cut.
I watch her shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. She doesn’t turn on the lights. Doesn’t move toward the kitchen where she always goes first. Just stands there in the half-dark, her silhouette small and still against the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the windows.
I close the door behind us, the click of the lock unnaturally loud in the silence. The bakery smells the same as always—sugar and butter and yeast—but there’s something bitter underneath now. The scent of her disappointment, maybe. Or my rage.
I can’t stand it anymore—this stillness, this surrender. I cross my arms, lean against the counter, the edge digging into my back. “So that’s it?”
She doesn’t turn around. “What?”
I jerk my chin toward the mess of supplies she still has piled on her worktable. The ingredients she’d been prepping all week. The extra pastries wrapped carefully in plastic. The backup decorations she made “just in case.”
“You’re just gonna quit?”
She lets out a sharp, bitter laugh that scrapes against my ears. “What else am I supposed to do, Thorne? Everything’s ruined.”
“So fix it.”
Now she turns, her eyes flashing with something—anger, finally, instead of that terrible emptiness. “Are you serious? I don’t have time. The competition is tomorrow. Even if I could redo everything, I don’t have a display. That took weeks to build, and now it’s?—“
She cuts herself off, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes, her voice cracking on the last word. I hate seeing her like this—fractured and raw. But at least this is something. At least this is fight.
I soften my voice, just slightly. “You still have all your recipes. All your work.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She drops her hands, shaking her head. “Even if I could recreate everything overnight, I have nowhere to put it. The display was the foundation of the whole concept. Without it?—“
