29. Elena
Chapter twenty-nine
Elena
The event board stands proudly at the entrance of the competition area, its bold letters announcing today's challenge: 'TASTE IT, NOW MAKE IT.'
A sharp, exhilarating thrill zips through me. This is exactly the kind of event that builds on yesterday’s Foraging Challenge. It's less about memorized recipes, more about technical skill and on-the-fly innovation.
As I weave my way through the gathering crowd of contestants, something feels…
different. Off. Several alphas I don’t even know turn their heads as I pass, their nostrils flaring with an unmistakable, almost primal interest. It’s subtle at first, a surprised double-take here, a lingering, slightly unfocused glance there, but the pattern is undeniable.
Nearly every alpha I pass seems to notice me.
My gut churns with unease. No way my reduced dose is already ineffective right?
It can't be. It’s probably just the lingering smell of smoke from this morning.
That’s got to be it. Eau de Burnt Breakfast, irresistibly smoky.
I casually sniff my sleeve. Yep. Definite hint of char.
And alphas do have those hyper-sensitive noses. That explains it. Phew.
James is already at our station, meticulously organizing his array of gleaming pastry tools.
He glances up as I bustle in, attempting to look like I haven’t a care in the world.
I watch as his pupils visibly dilate, his hands stilling mid-motion as he polishes a whisk.
The look he gives me is different from his usual playful flirtation.
"Morning, Elena," he says, his voice a little huskier than normal. "Sleep well? You look… particularly radiant this morning." His eyes do a slow, appreciative sweep that makes me want to blush like a schoolgirl.
Before I can reply, Dorian’s commanding presence fills the entire area, his voice, smooth and rich as dark chocolate.
"Welcome, contestants, to Day Four of the Lakeview Baking Festival!
" Dorian's voice cuts through the buzz via a microphone. He’s immaculate, as always, in a crisp white linen shirt and perfectly tailored dark pants; exuding an aura of effortless power.
"Today's challenge, ‘Taste It, Now Make It,’ will test not just your technical skills, but also your ability to think on your feet."
He gestures toward a display table in front of him, where several absolutely perfect, tartes tatin sit nestled under sparkling glass domes, their caramelized, burnished apple surfaces gleaming.
"You will each have the opportunity to taste one of Beaumont Patisserie’s signature creations: our classic Tarte Tatin.
Then," his gaze sweeps across us, "you will be tasked with recreating it. But, with your own twist. You’ll find everything you need at your stations to get creative. "
A collective murmur, a mixture of excitement and sheer terror, ripples through the contestants.
Everyone, everyone , in the baking world knows the legendary Beaumont Tarte Tatin.
It’s a masterpiece of deceptive simplicity, a notoriously difficult balancing act of bitter caramel, sweet apples, and impossibly flaky pastry.
To recreate it with a twist under pressure?
That’s just cruel. Beautifully, brilliantly cruel.
"Unlike our previous challenges," Dorian continues, his eyes, I swear, lingering on mine for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, "today, there will be one, and only one, winner.
And the prize for that exceptional baker?
" He pauses, a showman’s instinct for dramatic timing clearly one of his many unfair advantages.
"The winner of today’s challenge will have the distinct honor, and strategic advantage, of presenting first tomorrow, in the Grand Final Competition.
You will set the tone, the standard, for the entire day. "
My pulse quickens, a thrill of pure, competitive adrenaline shooting through me.
Presenting first… it’s a double-edged sword.
A huge advantage if you nail it, setting the bar impossibly high for everyone who follows.
A terrible, crushing disadvantage if your creation doesn’t quite live up to the opening slot hype.
But I’m definitely not planning on setting any low bars. This is my chance.
"Tomorrow's champion," Dorian adds, his gaze sweeping across us again, but somehow, I feel like he’s speaking directly to me , "will be the baker who doesn't simply try to reinvent the wheel for the sake of novelty.
They will be someone who understands tradition, respects the classics, but also has the courage, the vision, to add something authentically theirs to their creation.
Innovation within tradition. Evolution, not revolution.
That, ladies and gentlemen, is the hallmark of a true champion baker. "
The message, so perfectly timed with my own recent creative awakening, lands with the force of a perfectly thrown football. It’s as if the universe itself, or at least the billionaire alpha demigod currently holding us all captive with his gaze, is aligning to give me exactly the push I need.
When my turn finally comes to taste the legendary Beaumont Tarte Tatin, I step up to the display table with a strange mix of reverence and nerves. Dorian stands like a sentinel beside it, as if personally safeguarding every perfectly caramelized inch of his intellectual property.
When our eyes meet, his nostrils flare ever so slightly. And for a fleeting moment, his silver-gray gaze darkens before his expression shutters back into polished judge mode.
He slices a gleaming wedge and places it in front of me with deliberate care.
“Mademoiselle Avery,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble meant only for me.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. I quickly turn my attention to the tarte, trying to regain my composure.
The first bite is… a revelation. A symphony.
The pastry, impossibly thin, shatters with a delicate, buttery sigh, giving way to layers of perfectly caramelized, tender-yet-still-slightly-firm apples that melt on my tongue.
Butter, rich and nutty. Vanilla, fragrant and warm.
A subtle hint of cinnamon, a whisper of star anise…
My baker’s mind automatically begins to deconstruct each layer, cataloging flavors, textures, techniques.
It’s… flawless. Utterly, intimidatingly flawless.
"Ready to lose to me today, Elena?" James’s voice, smug and far too close, purrs in my ear, making me jump and nearly choke.
I turn to find him grinning, that competitive glint back in his bright blue eyes. There’s an edge to his playfulness today, though, a sharper, more focused intensity that I haven’t seen since our very first, rather contentious, challenge encounter.
"In your dreams," I retort, surprising myself with the sudden surge of confidence my own voice. "Watch and learn. And try not to drool on your side of the station."
His grin widens, but I catch something else in his expression too. A flicker of calculation, maybe?
"Big talk from someone who still smells of burned toast," he says, leaning closer. "Let’s see if you can actually back it up, sugar."
"Contestants, to your stations!" Parker's voice suddenly booms through the area, interrupting our little standoff. "You have two hours! Your time… begins… NOW!"
The area erupts into a controlled, adrenaline-fueled chaos as everyone rushes to their station.
As I gather my ingredients, my mind races with possibilities. The Beaumont Tarte Tatin is a classic for a reason. How will I not mess with that kind of perfection?
I take a deep breath. I can add my own twist. Maybe that lavender-infused honey I’ve been experimenting with, it will add a delicate, almost ethereal floral sweetness… yes. And maybe a subtle whisper of orange blossom water in the caramel, to give it an unexpected lift.
My hands, thank God, move with their usual practiced certainty, measuring flour, cutting butter into perfect, chilled cubes.
The familiar, comforting rhythm of baking begins to settle over me like a warm, weighted blanket, soothing some of my earlier anxieties.
This is where I belong. This is where I’m most myself. This is where I can shine.
I’m just coaxing the apples and caramel toward that perfect amber hue when I sense a familiar, steady presence at my side.
“Hey, Elena.”
It's Cole. He’s checking the fire extinguisher mounted on the edge of my station, but his eyes keep drifting my way. And I don’t miss the subtle flare of his nostrils.
Suddenly, I’m acutely aware of my potential scent.
“Everything… alright over here, Elena?” he asks. His tone is casual. Too casual. But his gaze is anything but.
“Perfectly fine, Cole,” I say, aiming for breezy and unconcerned. Not at all like someone whose omega scent might be sending out unintentional come hither signals to every alpha within a five-mile radius. “Just, you know… trying not to set anything on fire today.”
Boy, if he knew…
He nods, but there’s something unsettled in his expression. "You just… you seem a little different today."
A shiver of dread grips my center. Different how?
Different like I’m about to go into full-blown heat in the middle of a locally televised baking competition?
Different like I reek of desperate omega pheromones?
"Different?" I manage, hoping my voice doesn’t betray the sudden surge of panic. "Good different, I hope?"
He opens his mouth, as if to elaborate, then seems to think better of it, closing it again with a slight shake of his head. "Never mind," he says, his voice rough. "Just… good luck with your bake, Elena."
As he moves away, resuming his rounds, I catch him taking one last surreptitious sniff in my direction. A chill, cold and sharp, runs down my spine, and it has absolutely nothing to do with the temperature at my station.
Focus, Elena! Focus! You have a Tarte Tatin to make.