I flick my eyes up to meet his stare.
“Finales aren’t about showing everything you know. We’ve already seen how incredibly skilled you are. There’s no doubt about it. But finales are about rising to an old challenge in a new way. Show usexactlywho you are, in here.” He taps two fingers against my chest above my heart.
I nod, trying to imprint the words in my head.Exactly who I am.Not perfect, not flashy,just Alex.
Closing my eyes, I think about what makes me, well… me.
Not my last name. Not the experts I’ve trained beneath or the kitchens I’ve commanded. Not what my father demands of me.
My mind conjures up a memory, standing outside my house back in Vancouver. It’s so alive and real that I can feel the crisp mountain air against my skin. Smell the pine and damp woods in the fog. Hear the faint rush of a creek behind the house. I crumple the page I started with, tossing the paper ball into the trash at the end of my station.
It was all wrong. I can do better.
That sketch is what’s expected of me, not who I am.
After a moment to gather my thoughts, I start to sketch out a design that pays homage to my home. Where I don’t have to perform for anybody, and am just wholly myself. Little doodles of mountains tucked behind cascading tiers, a thin layer of maple icing to represent the forest floor, flourishes that hint at the misty mornings I grew up in.
“Good man,” Garrett claps a hand on my shoulder, squeezing, before he heads back to the front of the tent.
I smile to myself. This is going to be the best damn cake I’ve ever made.
While I’m plotting the tiered supports and sketching delicate piping, I notice Magnolia hovering beside Taylor, a quiet conversation that I can only catch in fragments.
“Bake the cake that made you fall in love with baking,” Magnolia says softly. “That’s what will makeusfall in love withyou.”
Taylor’s shoulders rise on a deep inhale, then she relaxes into a small smile. Magnolia’s words—her encouragement and reassurance—feel tangible, and I can see Taylor’s relief across the tent.
Ahead of us, Diane is methodically moving back and forth across her station, checking her sketchbook, then measuring out ingredients I can’t name from here.
I can’t help but notice the judges hovering a little longer around her station, leaning in to inspect sketches, discussing angles quietly among themselves.
My chest tightens with an unfamiliar twinge—panic?
Diane has been a quiet frontrunner this entire season; her designs are always ambitious, elegant, and somehow effortlessly perfect. And her flavors? I don’t think she’s ever been criticized on that front either.
I roll my shoulders, cracking my neck in the process, and focus back on my own task at hand.
By mid-afternoon, our prep work is done for the day. We’ve each pre-baked components, set decorations, and arranged the more delicate elements that need to cure or settle. The tent is quieter now without appliances whirring, but the aroma of caramelized sugar and buttery cake still lingers like a faint perfume.
All three of us are quietly wiping flour from our hands, re-checking our notes, or wiping down our equipment when production calls for our final pre-finale interviews.
When we exit the tent, we see three stools lined up next to one another with the festivity preparations set as the backdrop. Guests’ chairs are arranged in neat rows, napkins folded in crisp triangles on the tables, bunting now fluttering gently in the evening breeze.
“Bakers, please.” Hal, the executive producer who never shows his face on set, gestures with a sweep of his hand. “With this being the finale, we thought a group interview would round the moment out nicely.”
Annoyance claws at the back of my throat. I still don’t like the idea of giving Hal anything more than the bare minimum. God knows he doesn’t deserve it, but we’re so close to the end, I give in and follow Diane and Taylor to the stools, taking the one furthest to the right.
“Okay, let’s make this short and sweet. This is mostly for soundbites, understand? Diane, you’re up first. How does it feel to be in the final three?”
Diane takes a moment, then smiles, serene and composed, before speaking. “This is what I came here to do.” Her Boston-lilted voice is steady. “I didn’t make it this far to lose.”
“Great!” Hal clasps his hands behind his back. “Taylor?”
Taylor straightens, her hands fidgeting as she speaks. Her hazel eyes catch the light as she stares directly into the camera. “I never imagined I’d make it this far. Winning would meaneverything.”
I linger without speaking, knowing it’s my turn to answer, but I’m absorbing fragments of her words. I catch the slight tremor in her voice, the unspoken mix of nerves and excitement.
The sight of her—vulnerable and open—hits like a punch to the chest, and my heart clenches on impact. I know the stakes feel different to each of us, but her sincerity cuts straight through the noise.
