“Thank you,” I say, the words inadequate for what I’m feeling. “For everything.”
He nods once, eyes still on the road. “You’d do the same.”
And the thing is—I would. For him, I absolutely would.
The drive to the convention center feels endless yet too short. My stomach twists with each mile, anxiety building in waves that crash against my ribs. What if Gabriel sabotages us again? Whatif the judges have already written me off? What if my desserts don’t taste as good as they should because I rushed them?
I twist my hands in my lap, trying to focus on breathing. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Don’t throw up in Thorne’s truck.
When we finally pull into the parking lot, I’m half convinced I might pass out. But then Thorne cuts the engine, turns to me, and says simply:
“You belong here.”
Three words. That’s all. But they hit me like a revelation, clearing the fog of doubt.
I nod, more to myself than to him. “Let’s show them why.”
The convention center is already buzzing when we enter through the service doors, contestants making final adjustments to their displays, judges conferring in small groups, media setting up cameras and lights. A few heads turn when we walk in, whispers following in our wake.
I ignore them, keeping my chin high and my gaze forward as Thorne carries the display while I manage the dessert containers. We make our way to my assigned booth, now conspicuously empty after I cleared out yesterday.
When people realize who I am—the dropout who’s somehow returned—the whispers grow louder. I catch fragments as we pass:
“...thought she withdrew...”
“...completely new display...”
“...Gabriel will be furious...”
That last one makes a smile tug at my lips. Good. Let him be furious. Let him see that his sabotage failed.
The exhibition hall buzzes with more energy than a beehive that’s discovered a sugar factory. I wheel my display cart toward my assigned booth, Thorne following with the larger containers.Heads turn, whispers flare up like little fires, and I pretend not to notice any of it.
I keep my eyes forward, chin up, focusing on the rhythmic squeak of the cart wheels against the polished floor. One foot in front of the other. Just breathe. Don’t vomit. Simple goals.
Our booth is at the far end, nestled between a vampire patissier who specializes in blood-infused chocolates and a Selkie whose seafoam macarons literally float above the plate. Last year’s finalists. Big leagues.
I don’t belong here.
No. Stop it. I do. I absolutely do.
I belong here with my ube chiffon and my calamansi tarts and my history that tastes like home.
Thorne sets down the display while I unpack the desserts, my hands steady now that there’s actual work to do. The rhythm of preparation calms me—checking temperatures, adjusting garnishes, polishing serving plates.
“Need anything else?” Thorne asks, his bulk blocking some of the curious onlookers.
“Just stand there and look scary,” I mutter, arranging the mango toffee islands on the top tier. “Make sure nobody gets close enough to ‘accidentally’ bump into my display.”
His mouth twitches. “That I can do.”
I’m just placing the final garnish—a delicate sugar glass wave that managed to survive the transport—when I sense a shift in the atmosphere. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. I don’t need to look to know who’s approaching.
“Well, well, well,” comes that perfectly modulated voice, dripping with fake surprise. “The prodigal baker returns.”
I turn slowly, wiping my hands on my apron, to face Gabriel Moreau. He’s immaculate as always—tailored suit, not a hair out of place, smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Gabriel,” I say, keeping my voice light. “How nice of you to stop by. Checking to see if your handiwork was permanent?”
