I automatically convert to Celsius in my head. It’s lower than I’d like, but not concerning. But as I stand there, the display drops—395°F.
Seconds later, it’s down to 385°F.
I dash back to my station and check my oven’s temperature reading, finding it right where I left it.
Quickly, I make a lap around the tent, stealing glances at the other contestants’ ovens. They’re all steady, too.
Just hers, then.
My eyes dart to the entrance of the tent as pieces begin slotting into place. These ovens can be controlled remotely. Production has to be behind this.
Motherfuckers.
Without a second thought, I stalk to the corner of the tent where the producers are huddled, walkie-talkies in hand. One of the senior producers notices my approach and meets my gaze without hesitation.
“Taylor’s oven is off.”
They don’t even have the decency to feign concern. “Must be a display glitch. We tested the ovens this morning.”
“Turn it back on,” I demand, widening my stance. I cross my arms and narrow my eyes, leveling them all with the full weight of my accusation. “Now.”
Silence.
“Alex, there’s nothing wrong with Taylor’s oven. Everything is working exactly the way it’s supposed to. Go back to your station.”
Un-fucking-believable.
A slow burn rises from deep in my chest as I take in their blank expressions. Fury begging to be unleashed, I lower my voice. “Exactly the way it’s supposed to? I don’t think so. First, you pulled her. Then her oven fails while she’s gone. That’s not a coincidence. Fix it.”
My final words are punctuated by two steps forward. I can feel the stares of the other bakers burning into my back. The cameras circle in, capturing the moment. Fuck the optics, and fuck this production crew. I’ve kept my mouth shut through all their manipulations, but I won’t be quiet when it comes toTaylor. They can do whatever the fuck they want with anyone else—just not her.
Never her.
I don’t blink, and the producer folds under my glare. She nods once, then gestures behind her. Two fingers flick upward.
I breathe a sigh of relief, but I’m still seething.
“Call your boss and tell him I’m on my way in. Trust me, you don’t want me making the phone call we both know I can make. Because if I do, we won’t be discussing oven calibration—we’ll be discussing contract violations.” I grind the words out before storming out of the tent.
Loose rocks crunch beneath my shoes as I pound up the steps to the main house on the property. I keep my eyes fixed on the terracotta building, afraid that if I glance back toward the tent, I’ll catch a glimpse of Taylor returning from her interview. If I see her, I might soften. And I need all my hard edges right now.
The back door crashes open with enough force to make a PA near the entrance flinch, her phone clattering to the floor.
“Where is he?”
I don’t raise my voice—I don’t need to. I also don’t need to clarify who I’m looking for, which means the degenerate producer down in the tent did exactly what I told her to do.
The girl in front of me doesn’t break eye contact as she reaches for the phone lying at her feet. “He’s in his office. It’s—”
“I’ll find it.”
I don’t wait for permission. I ascend the stairs, taking them two at a time. The hallway feels narrower than it is. It’s too quiet compared to the whirring chaos of the tent. My pulse hammers a furious rhythm in my ears, but my hands are steady.
I shove open the office door without knocking.
The executive producer, Hal Gordon, looks up from behind his desk, irritation already forming in his expression.
“You’re supposed to be baking.”
