Chapter 11 #2
Thorne must feel it too, because his pace quickens, his grip on my hand tightening slightly.
“Lena,” he says, voice low with warning.
I pull away from him, breaking into a jog, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs. No. No, no, no.
The world narrows to a tunnel as I approach our booth. All other sounds—the chatter, the laughter, the bustle of the convention—fade to white noise.
Our display—our beautiful, carefully crafted display—is in ruins.
The wooden structure that Thorne spent weeks perfecting is splintered and broken, the delicate carved details crushed beyond recognition. The middle tier has completely collapsed, pulling down part of the top with it. Jagged pieces of wood stick out at odd angles, like bones through broken skin.
But that’s not the worst part.
The worst part is the sticky, foul-smelling liquid that coats everything—some kind of rancid oil or syrup that has seeped into the wood, staining it irreparably, filling the air with a putrid stench that would make anything placed on it inedible.
I can’t breathe. I literally cannot pull air into my lungs as I stare at the devastation before me. My hand rises to my mouth, trembling.
“Who would—“ Thorne starts, his voice a dangerous rumble, but I already know.
My eyes scan the exhibition floor, landing on Gabriel’s booth. His display stands pristine and untouched—a towering confection of glass and metal that gleams under the lights. And there he is, watching us from across the room, his expression a mask of false concern that doesn’t reach his eyes.
I feel myself fracturing inside, like one of my delicate sugar sculptures hit with a hammer. All those weeks of preparation, the late nights, the testing and retesting of recipes, Thorne’s careful craftsmanship—all destroyed in what must have been a few vicious minutes of sabotage.
“Ms. Reyes?” A convention staff member approaches, clipboard in hand. “Is there a problem?”
A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat. “A problem? My display has been destroyed. Someone deliberately sabotaged it.”
The woman’s eyes widen as she takes in the damage. “I’ll get security right away. This is completely unacceptable.”
She hurries off, but I know it’s pointless.
There are no security cameras in this section of the exhibition hall—I checked during setup, paranoid about my desserts being safe overnight.
And even if there were, what would they show?
Someone in uniform, someone who belongs here, casually approaching our booth in the early hours when the hall was nearly empty?
I turn to Thorne, who’s examining the damage with dark, furious eyes. His hands hover over the wood, careful not to touch the foul liquid.
“This was deliberate,” he says, voice tight. “Professional. The breaks are strategic—designed to look accidental while ensuring maximum damage.”
I sink into the nearest chair, my legs suddenly unable to support me. “It was Gabriel.”
Thorne’s eyes meet mine. He doesn’t question it, doesn’t ask for proof. He simply nods. “What do you need me to do?”
Before I can answer, security arrives, followed by one of the competition organizers—a severe-looking Sphinx with golden fur and sharp, analytical eyes.
“Ms. Reyes,” she says, her voice clipped and efficient, “I understand there’s been an incident.”
I gesture wordlessly to the wreckage of my dreams.
She examines it, expression unreadable. “This is most unfortunate. However, without evidence of tampering...”
“Without evidence?” My voice rises, breaking slightly. “Look at it! This wasn’t an accident!”
The Sphinx’s tail twitches—the only indication that my outburst has affected her. “I understand your distress, but we cannot accuse another contestant without proof. We have strict policies about contestant conflicts.”
“So what am I supposed to do?” I ask, gesturing helplessly to the destroyed display. “The showcase is tomorrow.”
“Perhaps you can repair it,” she suggests, though her tone makes it clear she thinks this unlikely. “Or use a simplified presentation. The judges will be informed of the... circumstances.”
With a nod that’s probably meant to be sympathetic but comes across as dismissive, she moves away, taking security with her. I’m left staring at the ruins, surrounded by the curious, pitying glances of nearby contestants.
Thorne kneels beside me, his large hand covering mine. “We can fix this.”
“How?” The word comes out hollow, empty.
“I can rebuild the structure. A simpler version, but still—“
“In one night?” I shake my head. “This took you weeks, Thorne. And even if you could, look at the wood. It’s soaked with... whatever this is. The smell would contaminate any food placed on it.”
“Then we start over. New materials. I have some in my workshop—”
"And the sugar glass elements? The carved wood? The…everything else?” I stare at the wreckage of my dreams, my throat so tight it feels like I'm swallowing glass.
The sphinx walks away, her golden tail flicking with dismissal, and I'm left with splinters—literal and metaphorical.
Thorne's hand on mine should be comforting, but it's just a distant pressure, like I'm feeling it through layers of gauze.
Nothing is real except the destruction in front of me, the stench of rancid oil, and Gabriel's smirking face across the exhibition hall.
“We can rebuild,” Thorne says again, his voice low and urgent.“Stop.” The word comes out sharper than I intend, slicing between us. “Just stop, Thorne.”
His jaw tightens, but he falls silent, those dark eyes watching me with an intensity that hurts.
“Look at it,” I whisper, gesturing to the splintered wood, the putrid liquid seeping deeper into the grain. “Really look. This isn’t just broken. It’s poisoned.”
He doesn’t argue, because he sees it too. The oil—or whatever the hell Gabriel used—isn’t just surface damage. It’s penetrated the wood, transforming Thorne’s beautiful craftsmanship into toxic waste. Even if we could somehow repair the structure, no one could eat anything that touched it.
Around us, the exhibition hall continues its relentless buzz of activity.
Other contestants steal glances our way, their expressions a mix of pity and relief—there but for the grace of the gods go I.
Each look is a needle under my skin, a reminder that I’m the outsider here, the small-town baker playing at being a professional.
“I brought tools,” Thorne says, his voice so gentle it makes me want to scream. “And I can get fresh wood. Start over.”
I shake my head, a hysterical laugh bubbling up my throat.
“Start over? In twelve hours? This took us weeks, Thorne. Weeks of planning, carving, testing. The sugar glass alone took three tries to get right.” My voice cracks.
“And my recipes—they were designed specifically for this display. The textures, the plating, all of it.”
Before he can answer, I see Gabriel making his way toward us, his face arranged in a mask of concern so fake it makes my teeth ache. His assistant trails behind him, carrying a pristine white box tied with silver ribbon.
“Lena, darling,” Gabriel says, his voice dripping with false sympathy. “I just heard. What a catastrophe.”
I stand up so quickly the chair nearly topples behind me. “Don’t,” I hiss, my hands curling into fists at my sides. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
He blinks, the picture of innocence. “I beg your pardon?”
“You did this.” Each word is a bullet I wish could pierce his polished exterior. “You sabotaged my display.”
Gabriel’s face hardens, though his smile remains fixed in place. “That’s a serious accusation, Lena. One I’d advise you not to make without evidence.”
“I know it was you.” My voice trembles with rage. “No one else would stoop so low.”
He laughs, the sound like glass shattering. “Your paranoia is showing, darling. Why would I bother sabotaging your little...” he waves dismissively at the ruined display, “...project? We’re not even in the same league.”
The casual cruelty of it hits me like a physical blow. I step forward, and for a moment, I think I might actually hit him. Thorne’s hand on my arm pulls me back, his grip firm but gentle.
“Not worth it,” he murmurs, though his own eyes burn with a dangerous light when he looks at Gabriel.
Gabriel smirks, reading the situation perfectly. “Listen to your handler, Lena. Wouldn’t want to make a scene.” He gestures to his assistant, who steps forward with the white box. “I brought you a little something. A consolation, if you will.”
The assistant opens the box, revealing a delicate sugar sculpture—a perfect miniature replica of Gabriel’s own display. A trophy of his victory, handed to me in front of everyone.
“Perhaps you could use it,” Gabriel suggests, his voice silky with mock concern. “A centerpiece for whatever you manage to cobble together.”
My vision blurs with tears I refuse to let fall. Not here. Not in front of him.
“Get out,” I manage, my voice so tight it barely sounds like mine.
Gabriel shrugs, as if my reaction is just another boring disappointment. “If you insist. But Lena—” he leans in, his voice dropping to a whisper only I can hear, “—we both know you never belonged here. This just saves you the humiliation of the judges telling you so.”
He walks away, his assistant trailing behind him like an obedient shadow, leaving the white box on the table beside my destroyed display. A perfect, gleaming reminder of what I’m up against.
As soon as he’s out of earshot, Thorne turns to me, his expression murderous. “I could break every bone in his body.”
“That won’t fix my display,” I say numbly. I pick up the sugar sculpture, so delicate and perfect in my hands. One squeeze and it would shatter. Just like my dreams.
Instead, I set it down carefully. Evidence of premeditation, if anyone would believe me.
A small crowd has gathered nearby, pretending not to watch. I can hear their whispers, see their sidelong glances. Some look genuinely sympathetic, but most just seem relieved it’s not happening to them. The competition is cutthroat, after all. Better me than them.
Thorne steps closer, blocking their view of me with his broad shoulders. “What if we simplified? Just one tier, focus on your strongest pieces—”
“It wouldn’t work,” I cut him off, scrubbing a hand across my face. “The whole concept was about the journey, the layers, the way the flavors and textures told a story together. Without that...” I shake my head. “It would be like trying to tell a novel in a tweet.”
“Then we adapt. Tell a different story.”
I look up at him, this stubborn, beautiful man who refuses to accept defeat. Under different circumstances, his determination would warm me. Now, it just feels like another pressure I can’t bear.
“There is no other story,” I say quietly. “Not one I can tell overnight.”
I turn back to the remains of our display, running my fingers over a piece of wood that’s somehow escaped the worst of the damage.
The carving is still visible—a tiny mountain range, each peak lovingly detailed by Thorne’s careful hands.
I’d planned to place my mango toffee islands there, a sweet finale to the culinary journey.
All that work. All that hope. Gone.
“I’m withdrawing,” I say, the words dropping like stones.
Thorne stiffens. “Lena…”
“There’s no point, Thorne.” I look up at him, too tired even for tears now.
“Even if we could throw something together, it wouldn’t be what I wanted to show.
It would be a pale imitation, a desperate attempt to save face.
And for what? So the judges can pity me?
So Gabriel can watch me scramble and fail anyway? ”
“You’re giving him exactly what he wants,” Thorne argues, his hands gentle on my shoulders. “He did this to make you quit.”
“Well, it worked.” I step back, out of his reach. “I don’t belong here. I never did.”
“That’s not true—”
“It is.” My voice rises, drawing more stares.
I lower it, but the intensity remains. “Look around, Thorne. Look at these people, their assistants, their equipment. I’m the only independent baker here without a team.
The only one with a display made of wood instead of crystal and metal.
I was fooling myself thinking I could compete at this level. ”
Thorne’s eyes flash with something like anger. “You belong here more than any of them. Your food has soul, Lena. It means something.”
“Meaning doesn’t win competitions.” I gesture to Gabriel’s booth, where judges are already gathering, admiring his elaborate creation. “That does.”
I grab my bag from under the table, unable to look at the wreckage any longer. “I need to go fill out the withdrawal forms. And then I need to be alone.”
Thorne follows me, his presence at my back a warmth I can’t handle right now. “Let me come with you.”
“No.” I turn to face him, summoning the last of my strength to keep my voice steady. “Please, Thorne. I need space. I just need to not be here anymore.”
Something in my face must convince him, because he stops, though every line of his body radiates reluctance. “Where will you go?”
“Home,” I say, though the word feels hollow. “Back to my kitchen where things make sense.”
I step away before he can argue further, before I can change my mind and collapse into the comfort of his arms. Because I know if I let myself break now, I might never put myself back together again.
The last thing I see as I walk away is Thorne standing beside our ruined display, his massive frame impossibly still, watching me leave. And Gabriel beyond him, raising a champagne flute in silent, smug triumph.
I push through the exhibition hall doors and into the cool morning air, gulping it down like I’ve been drowning. The tears come then, hot and angry, streaming down my face as I fumble for my car keys.
There’s no fixing this. No starting over. No happy ending.
Just the bitter taste of defeat and the knowledge that sometimes, dreams are just that—dreams. Not meant for people like me to actually live.