She studies me for a long moment, her dark eyes searching mine. I don’t look away. I let her see everything—my determination, my anger at what happened to her, my absolute certainty that I can do this.
Finally, she exhales, rubbing her temples. “Okay.”
Just that.
Just okay.
And that’s enough.
She hesitates like she wants to say something else. Thank me, maybe. Or tell me I’m crazy. But instead, she just gives me one last look—half disbelief, half something softer—before turning away.
“I’ll be upstairs if you need anything,” she says, already moving toward the door that leads to her apartment.
I nod, even though her back is to me. “Get some sleep, Reyes. You have desserts to make tomorrow.”
She pauses with her hand on the doorknob, and for a second, I think she might turn around. Might come back and kiss me, or argue some more, or just look at me with that smile that makes me feel like I could lift a mountain.
But she just nods once and slips through the door, closing it softly behind her.
The second she’s gone, I roll my shoulders, exhale deeply, and get to work.
I pull out my phone, make a few calls. I text my supplier—the one who owes me a favor after I built his daughter’s wedding arch on two days’ notice. I message the craftsman who keeps exotic woods in stock for emergency commissions. I call in every marker, every connection, every debt owed.
Because Lena Reyes is going to compete tomorrow.
And her display is going to be fucking magnificent.
The hours blur. I don’t count them. Don’t need to. Time becomes irrelevant when measured against what matters—her dream, her work, that light in her eyes that dimmed tonight. I drag the worktable to the center of her kitchen, clear a space large enough to build something new. My muscles burn with the effort, with the rage still simmering beneath my skin. Good. I can use that. Channel it into something constructive instead of doing what I really want—hunting down that smug bastard Gabriel and showing him exactly what happens when you mess with someone I care about.
I grab my tools from the truck. Saw, hammer, plane, chisels. The familiar weight of them in my hands centers me. Grounds me. These tools have built beautiful things before. They’ll do it again tonight.
The supplies arrive within the hour—favors called in, debts collected. Exotic hardwoods, hardware, fresh stain. The craftsman who delivered them takes one look at my face and doesn’t ask questions. Just nods and says, “Good luck.”
I spread everything out, assess what I’m working with. The original display was intricate, layered with meaning and detail. Cultural motifs that took weeks to research and carve. We don’t have weeks now. We have hours. But maybe that’s not a bad thing. Maybe this display can say something different. Something more immediate. More powerful.
Measure twice, cut once. The old carpenter’s rule. But tonight, I’m measuring once and cutting with absolute certainty. No time for second-guessing. No room for error.
I salvage what I can from the wreckage Lena brought back—a few carved pieces that escaped the worst of the damage. The rest is contaminated, the stink of rancid oil penetrating deep into the grain. Whatever that asshole used, he chose it deliberately. Cruel and calculating, making sure nothing could be saved.
It makes my hands shake with fury as I sort through the pieces. I set down my tools for a moment, press my palms flat against the workbench, breathe deep.
Focus. Channel that anger into precision.
I start with the base—wider than before, more stable. Strong enough to support everything without a wobble. I use walnut for this, its rich, dark color almost black in the dim light of the kitchen. It speaks of earth, of foundation, of things that endure.
The air fills with the scent of wood dust and varnish, the steady rhythm of hammering, the slow scrape of sandpaper over fresh-cut edges. I work like I’m possessed.
Because I am.
Because I am so goddamn furious that someone dared to take this from Lena.
Because I saw the look in her eyes when it happened.
The display won’t have the intricacy of the original. Can’t. Not in the time I have. But it can have power. Impact. I build upward, creating three tiers like before, but with cleaner lines, sharper angles. Less ornate, more bold. A display that doesn’t ask for attention, but demands it.
I carve a simple pattern into each tier—an homage to the Filipino sun in a simple geometric pattern. A motif of growth, of climbing, of rising. From the lowest level to the highest, the pattern evolves, becomes more complex, more confident.
More bold.
