thorne
SWEET VICTORY
The judges circle the room one last time, their faces impossible to read as they make notes on little silver tablets. The Sphinx’s tail twitches with each step, while Chef Lumière’s skin pulses with subtle colors that give away nothing. The convention center falls into an unnatural hush—hundreds of people trying not to breathe too loudly, as if the slightest sound might influence the outcome. I hate this part. The waiting. The pretense that any of this is still in question when it’s been obvious since the moment the judges tasted Lena’s desserts that she’d won. I cross my arms, shift my weight, and resist the urge to tell everyone to just get on with it already.
Beside me, Lena fidgets, fingers plucking at invisible threads on her apron. I’ve never seen her so still and so restless at the same time. Her nervous energy feels like a physical thing, pressing against my side, making my own skin itch.
“Stop worrying,” I murmur, low enough that only she can hear.
She shoots me a look that’s half irritation, half terror. “I’m not worrying. I’m mentally preparing for defeat with dignity.”
I snort. “Waste of time.”
“Is being supportive physically painful for you, or do you just enjoy being contrary?”
“Both,” I say, and I’m rewarded with a flicker of a smile.
The tension between her shoulders eases, just slightly, and I count it as a victory. She doesn’t need to know that I spent the entire night mentally rehearsing what I’d say to her if—impossibly—she didn’t win. Or that I’ve already made a list of creative threats I’d deliver to the judges if they somehow overlooked her work. Threats that involve very specific descriptions of Minotaur anatomy and the damage it can do to human bodies.
My eyes drift across the exhibition hall to where Gabriel stands with his team, all of them immaculate in matching white jackets, their display a towering monstrosity of sugar and light that still, somehow, manages to say absolutely nothing. He catches me looking and has the audacity to smirk, like he’s already practicing his victory speech.
I narrow my eyes, let him see the full weight of my contempt. The smug bastard flinches, just slightly, before turning away.
Good. He should be afraid. After what he did to Lena’s original display, he’s lucky to still have functioning limbs.
The Sphinx moves to the center of the room, tail swishing as she taps a microphone. The feedback whine cuts through the hushed murmurs, and the crowd falls silent.
“Welcome, contestants and guests, to the final judging of this year’s New Vegas Dessert Showcase.” Her voice carries without effort, each word perfectly enunciated. “We have seen remarkable creativity, technical skill, and artistry over these past two days. Every participant should be proud of their contributions.”
Next to me, Lena takes a deep breath, holds it. Her hand finds mine without looking, fingers cold and small against mypalm. I close my hand around hers, careful not to squeeze too hard.
Chef Lumière steps forward, her translucent skin glowing soft blue. “The theme of Wanderlust challenged our contestants to take us on a journey—through flavors, through techniques, through memories and aspirations. Some chose to interpret this literally, with desserts that transported us to distant locations. Others took us on more personal journeys, inviting us to experience the world through their unique perspective.”
Maxwell Thornwood nods, his expression solemn. “Before we announce our winner, we would like to commend all finalists for their outstanding work. Each display demonstrated exceptional skill and vision.”
The platitudes drag on, each judge taking their turn to praise the contestants while saying absolutely nothing of substance. I resist the urge to check the time. Beside me, Lena has gone completely still, her breathing shallow, her grip on my hand tightening.
Finally, the Sphinx steps forward again. “It is with great pleasure that we announce the winner of this year’s New Vegas Dessert Showcase.”
The room holds its collective breath.
“For a display that transported us not just across distance, but through time and heritage, blending tradition with innovation in a way that was both deeply personal and universally resonant...”
My chest tightens. I already know. Of course I know.
“...The winner is Lena Reyes of Moist Bakery!”
The world tilts.
For a second, she doesn’t move. She just stands there, wide-eyed, frozen, like her brain hasn’t caught up to reality yet. Like she doesn’t believe what she just heard.
And then?—
The room erupts.
Applause. Cheers. The flash of cameras, the low murmur of judges speaking among themselves. Lena still hasn’t moved.
I exhale sharply, reach out, and—very gently—press a hand against her lower back.
