She jolts, spinning toward me.
I smirk. “Told you.”
Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. And then?—
She laughs.
Not a dazed, shocked laugh. A full, radiant, delighted laugh that makes something in my chest tighten.
Before I can stop her, she throws her arms around me.
It’s quick. Sudden.
But I freeze.
Because she’s soft, warm, small against me, and she smells like sugar and citrus and something entirely her own.
And I—Gods.
I let my arms come up slowly, carefully, resting one broad hand between her shoulders, the other at her waist.
Just for a second.
Just long enough to feel the way she melts into me, completely unguarded, completely real.
Then she pulls back, still grinning like she won the whole damn world.
Which, honestly—she kind of did.
“Go,” I tell her, nodding toward the stage where the judges wait. “Collect your prize before they change their minds.”
She bounces on her toes, practically vibrating with excitement, then turns to make her way through the crowd. People part for her, offering congratulations, reaching out to touch her shoulders, her arms, as if victory might be contagious.
I watch her climb the steps to the stage, watch the way she straightens her spine and lifts her chin, suddenly every inch theprofessional baker accepting her due. Chef Lumière embraces her, whispering something in her ear that makes Lena’s eyes widen. Maxwell Thornwood shakes her hand with both of his, nodding emphatically. The Sphinx presents her with a crystal trophy that catches the light in fractal patterns.
Through it all, Lena shines brighter than anything in the room.
I become aware of someone watching me and turn to find Gabriel staring, his perfect composure fractured by disbelief. The look on his face is better than any trophy. I stare back, unblinking, letting him see every ounce of satisfaction I feel at his defeat. Let him wonder what I know. Let him wonder what comes next.
When Lena returns, clutching her trophy and a check that will keep Moist running for months, she’s still floating on victory. Her smile is so wide it must hurt.
“Can you believe it?” she asks, breathless. “They want to feature me in Monstrous Eats. A whole spread, Thorne! And Chef Lumière wants to collaborate on a pop-up event!”
I grunt, but there’s no hiding the twitch at the corner of my mouth. “Of course they do. Your desserts make their fancy sugar sculptures look like kindergarten projects.”
She laughs again, the sound cutting through the noise of the crowd like a bell. “We did it, Thorne. We actually did it.”
I don’t correct her use of “we.” Because she’s right. This isn’t just her victory—it’s ours. The display I built, the desserts she created, the story they tell together. Neither of us could have done it alone.
As she turns to accept more congratulations from admirers, I watch her. The way she moves, the way she laughs, the way she belongs here among the best in the city. And I think—this. This is what victory looks like.
Not the trophy, not the check, not even the defeat on Gabriel’s face.
Just Lena Reyes, finally getting everything she deserves.
The security footage appears on the massive screens above the exhibition floor like some kind of divine revelation. There’s Gabriel, unmistakable in his pretentious white suit, sneaking into the hall at 4 AM, approaching our display with deliberate intent. He looks directly at the camera—the same camera the convention staff swore didn’t exist when Lena reported the sabotage—and smiles before pulling out a bottle of something viscous and dark. The collective gasp from the crowd is almost theatrical. I, however, am not gasping. I’m calculating exactly how many steps it would take to reach him and how many bones I could break before security pulls me off.
“I think that pretty much settles it,” the head of security announces, her voice amplified through the hall. “Mr. Moreau, in light of this evidence, you are hereby disqualified from this competition and blacklisted from all future events.”
