Chapter 11
lena
THAT’S HOW THE COOKIE CRUMBLES
The convention center doors part before us like the entrance to another world. I clutch Thorne’s arm, my breath catching in my throat as we step inside.
The space unfolds in a dazzling expanse of light and color—crystal chandeliers suspended from impossibly high ceilings, elegant displays arranged like jewels in a crown, and everywhere, the intoxicating blend of sugar, chocolate, and magic.
This is the New Vegas Dessert Showcase in all its glory, and I’ve never felt smaller or more desperate to belong.
“Holy shit,” I whisper, tightening my grip on Thorne’s solid forearm. “It’s like walking into Willy Wonka’s fever dream.”
Thorne grunts, but I can feel the tension in his muscles. He’s as overwhelmed as I am, though he’d rather die than admit it. His dark eyes scan the room, assessing exits, measuring distances, doing whatever that hyper-vigilant Minotaur brain of his does in new environments.
“It’s just a room,” he says finally, but I notice how his gaze lingers on the intricate ice sculptures that form the centerpiece of the main hall—a massive frozen waterfall that somehow glitters with rainbows despite never melting.
I bump his shoulder with mine. “Just a room filled with the most prestigious pastry competition in the country, you mean. That’s Chef Lumière over there—she has three Michelin stars and once made a soufflé so perfect that a food critic cried.”
Thorne follows my gaze to where a tall, willowy woman with translucent skin is gesturing to a group of assistants. Light seems to emanate from within her, pulsing gently with her emotions—a Fae trait that makes her both ethereal and impossible to lie to. Perfect for a judge.
“And over there,” I continue, tugging Thorne toward our designated setup area, “that’s Maxwell Thornwood. He specializes in gravity-defying chocolate sculptures. Rumor has it he uses actual levitation spells, but he swears it’s all technique.”
I’m babbling, I know, but I can’t help it. Nerves make me talk. Terror makes me overshare. And right now, I’m terrified that I’ve made a terrible mistake thinking I belong here.
Our display area is marked with a simple placard: “MOIST - Lena Reyes.” Seeing my name there, official and permanent, sends a fresh wave of panic through me.
“Breathe,” Thorne murmurs, his hand settling at the small of my back. The warmth of it anchors me, pulls me back from the edge of spiraling. “Your work belongs here.”
I swallow hard, nodding. “Right. Yes. Totally.”
We begin unpacking the components of our display—Thorne’s magnificent wooden structure with its three tiers that will showcase my dessert creations.
The craftsmanship is exquisite, each level featuring carved details that echo Filipino designs, just as he promised.
The base resembles terraced rice fields, the middle evokes ocean waves, and the top tier looks like distant mountains, all connected by flowing, organic curves.
“This is...” I run my fingers over the polished wood, feeling the love embedded in every grain. “This is incredible, Thorne.”
He shrugs, but I don’t miss the pleased twitch at the corner of his mouth. “It’s adequate.”
“Adequate, he says,” I roll my eyes, but I’m grinning. “Just admit you’re a genius already.”
Before he can respond, I spot a familiar figure approaching from the corner of my eye, and my smile freezes on my face.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the little baker that could.”
Gabriel Moreau saunters toward us, all sleek elegance in his tailored suit, his smile sharp enough to cut glass.
His bakery, Ethereal, is the darling of food critics and monster elites alike.
And he has never, not once in the five years I’ve known him, passed up an opportunity to remind me that I don’t belong in the same culinary universe as him.
“Gabriel.” I straighten my spine, lifting my chin. “Still wearing suits to baking competitions, I see. Very practical.”
He laughs, the sound practiced and hollow. “Some of us understand the importance of presentation, darling.” His gaze slides to Thorne, then back to me with a knowing smirk. “Though I see you’ve found your own idea of... presentation.”
Thorne stiffens beside me. I lay a calming hand on his arm.
“This is Thorne,” I say coolly. “Master carpenter and the artist behind our display.”
Gabriel barely acknowledges him with a nod before turning his attention to our setup. He runs a manicured finger along the edge of the display, his expression calculating.
“Quaint,” he says finally. “Very... rustic. I suppose there’s always a market for the homespun aesthetic.”
My cheeks burn, but I keep my smile firmly in place. “Not everyone needs smoke and mirrors to make their food taste good, Gabriel.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “No, some people just need gimmicks and cheap wordplay.” He gestures to my bakery’s name on the placard. “Moist. Really, Lena? Still going with that?”
“The name gets attention,” I shrug. “And unlike some bakeries that shall remain nameless, my customers come back for the flavor, not just the Instagram opportunity.”
Gabriel’s perfect composure cracks, just slightly. A small victory. His bakery, Ethereal, is famous for its visually stunning but often bland creations—beautiful but soulless, just like its owner.
“Well,” he says, straightening his cuffs, “I suppose we all find our level. Speaking of which, I was surprised to see your name on the contestant list. I thought this competition was invitation-only for established talents.”
I feel Thorne tensing beside me, ready to intervene, but this is my battle.
“It is invitation-only, Gabriel. Maybe check your reading comprehension along with your ego.” I step closer, lowering my voice. “Or did it burn when you saw my name on the same list as yours?”
His smile tightens. “Hardly. I just worry about the competition being... watered down.”
“Funny, that’s what the critics said about your last showpiece. All flash, no flavor.” I cock my head. “By the way, how did that review in Monster Gourmet go? The one that called your work ‘technically perfect but emotionally vacant’?”
A muscle twitches in his jaw. Direct hit.
“At least my techniques are at a professional level,” he counters. “Not everyone thinks throwing random Filipino flavors together counts as innovation.”
The casual dismissal of my heritage makes my blood boil, but I keep my voice sweet. “You’re right, Gabriel. It’s not innovation—it’s tradition. The kind passed down through generations, with love and history. Something you might not recognize since your entire personality came from a cookbook.”
Thorne makes a sound that might be a suppressed laugh, and Gabriel’s face flushes an unattractive shade of pink.
“We’ll see who the judges prefer,” he says tightly. “Enjoy your moment in the spotlight, Lena. It won’t last.”
He turns on his heel, stalking away toward his own display area—twice the size of mine, already populated with assistants arranging elaborate glass and metal structures.
I exhale slowly, the tension draining from my shoulders.
“Well,” Thorne says after a moment, “that was...”
“Tuesday with Gabriel,” I finish, forcing a laugh that comes out shakier than I’d like. “He’s been trying to intimidate me out of the industry since culinary school.”
Thorne’s hand finds mine, his thumb tracing circles against my palm. “He didn’t succeed then?”
“No,” I say, squeezing his fingers. “And he won’t now either.”
But as I watch Gabriel directing his team with imperious gestures, doubt creeps in. His display already looks like something from a design magazine, while ours—though beautiful—is simpler, more honest. In this glittering hall of culinary celebrities and monster royalty, what if honest isn’t enough?
Thorne seems to read my thoughts. He tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Your food makes people feel something, Lena. That matters more than whatever that peacock is preening about.”
I rise on my tiptoes, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “When did you get so wise?”
“I’ve always been wise,” he deadpans. “You were too busy setting things on fire to notice.”
This time, my laugh is genuine. I turn back to our display, running my hand over the smooth wood, imagining how it will look tomorrow with my creations nestled in each tier. Whatever Gabriel thinks, this is mine—my vision, my heritage, my heart on a plate.
And I’m not about to let anyone make me doubt that again.
The convention center looks different this morning—smaller somehow, less intimidating.
It’s amazing what a good night’s sleep and mind-blowing sex can do for your confidence.
I slide my hand into Thorne’s, giving his fingers a squeeze as we weave through the early-morning bustle of contestants checking on their displays.
The nervous energy from yesterday has crystallized into something sharper, more focused.
Today is about final preparations, last adjustments, making sure everything is perfect for tomorrow’s judging.
I’m actually excited, the kind of excited that buzzes under your skin like electricity, making your fingers tingle and your heart race.
“I think we should add more stability to the top tier,” I say, mentally reviewing our setup as we walk. “Just in case some judge bumps into it or something.”
Thorne grunts in agreement. “I brought some extra supports. Better safe than sorry.”
I lean into him, savoring his solid warmth. “Always prepared.”
The exhibition floor is already alive with activity—assistants scurrying between displays, contestants barking orders, judges making preliminary rounds.
I spot Chef Lumière in the distance, her luminous skin casting gentle light over a contestant’s chocolate sculpture as she examines it with critical eyes.
“Oh, there’s our section,” I say, gesturing toward the far corner where our display stands. But even as the words leave my mouth, something feels wrong. From this distance, the shape looks... different. Off.