"This. Any of this." But he doesn't pull away. If anything, he leans closer. "The cameras. The show. I have responsibilities..."
"So do I," I whisper. "But maybe some things are worth the risk?"
For a moment, I think he might kiss me. The tension between us feels electric, charged with possibility. His eyes drop to my lips, and I find myself swaying toward him without conscious thought.
Then Jessica's voice slices through the moment like a knife: "WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON IN HERE?"
We spring apart, the spell broken by harsh reality. Jessica stands in the doorway flanked by two camera operators and a very harried-looking assistant, her expression cycling through horror, fury, and calculation.
"The mixer," she says through gritted teeth, "is still happening. With twenty-two other contestants who are following the rules and staying in the designated areas."
"We were just—" I start.
"Making a mess," she interrupts, gesturing at the flour-covered kitchen. "This is a controlled environment, people. We have schedules, lighting requirements, sound considerations..."
I glance at Korgan, expecting to see regret or embarrassment. Instead, he's looking at Jessica with the same calm intensity he brought to our conversation.
"The cinnamon rolls were excellent," he says simply. "Worth the time."
Worth the time.Such a small phrase, but it feels like a declaration.
Jessica's eye twitches. "Clean up. Both of you. And get back to the ballroom in ten minutes, or I'm calling security."
She stalks out, muttering about primadonna contestants and production nightmares. The camera crew lingers for a moment, capturing our flour-dusted aftermath, then follows her.
Leaving Korgan and me alone again in the wreckage of our impromptu baking lesson.
"Well," I say finally. "That was..."
"Worth it," he says firmly. "Whatever consequences come, it was worth it."
And looking at him—suit ruined, hair dusted with flour, amber eyes still warm with laughter. I can't help but agree.
Even if Jessica does call security.
CHAPTER 4
KORGAN
The kitchen challenge arena sprawls before us like a battlefield I don't understand. Gleaming steel surfaces, mysterious contraptions with blinking lights, and enough sharp objects to outfit a small army. The producers have arranged forty cooking stations in precise rows, each equipped with identical supplies and enough space for cameras to weave between contestants like scavengers picking over a carcass.
Strategic assessment,I tell myself, falling back on familiar territory.Know your terrain before engaging.
But my eyes keep finding Trinity.
She's claimed a station near the center, smart positioning, I note with approval. Maximum access to shared resources, clear sightlines to judge competitors' progress, close enough to hear the judges' comments to others. Her movements as she surveys her workspace are economical, purposeful. She tests the oven temperature with a quick hand motion, checks the mixer's settings, arranges her tools with the precision of a soldier preparing weapons.
This isn't the flour-dusted woman who laughed in my arms an hour ago. This is Trinity in her element, and watching her work is unsettling in ways I don't care to examine.
"Today's challenge," announces the head judge, a human with silver hair and the kind of smile that never reaches the eyes, "is all about innovation under pressure. You have two hours to create an original dessert that showcases both technical skill and creative vision. The winning contestant receives immunity from elimination and a featured segment inCulinary Arts Monthly."
Politics disguised as competition,I think, recognizing the game beneath the spectacle. But Trinity's expression shifts into something I can only describe as predatory focus. She's not thinking about immunity or magazines. She's thinking about what she'll create.
The timer starts.
Trinity moves like water finding its path, fluid, certain, unstoppable. While other contestants scramble for premium ingredients or frantically flip through provided recipe books, she stands still for exactly thirty seconds, eyes closed, fingers tapping against her thigh in some internal rhythm.
Then she explodes into motion.
