Chapter 13
lena
YOU BATTER BELIEVE IT
I stare at the display, my fingers tracing the edges where the wood is still warm from Thorne’s hands.
It’s different from what we had before—bolder, stronger, defiant in its simplicity.
Less delicate, more powerful. Just like what I need to be right now.
My heart pounds against my ribs, a war drum counting down the hours until the showcase.
I have desserts to remake, a story to rebuild, a point to prove.
And suddenly, sleep is the last thing on my mind.
“You built this overnight?” My voice comes out softer than I intend, filled with wonder I can’t disguise.
Thorne shrugs like he hasn’t just performed a miracle in my kitchen. “Had help. Called in some favors.”
I run my palm over the walnut base—dark, solid, unapologetically strong. The middle tier of maple catches the light in rippling patterns, warm and inviting. And the cherry wood on top glows with a defiant reddish hue, carved with subtle swirls that remind me of frosting piped by a steady hand.
It’s not our original display. But it’s something even better.
It’s a statement.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper, something thick and hot rising in my throat.
“It’ll do,” Thorne says, but I catch the satisfied twitch at the corner of his mouth. He’s proud of it—as he should be.
I don’t have time to dwell on the emotion threatening to overwhelm me. I have work to do. I clap my hands together, the sound sharp in the early morning quiet.
“Okay, let’s do this. I’ve got most of the desserts prepped already. Just need to finish assembling and pack everything up.”
I pull out trays of half-assembled desserts—my ube chiffon cake layers, already baked and waiting to be filled; calamansi tarts that need only their final glaze; the mango toffee pieces I’d made as backup.
Thorne’s expression shifts, something like pride flickering in his eyes. “You weren’t giving up either.”
I busy myself with pulling out more ingredients, not quite ready to admit that he’s right. That even at my lowest point, some stubborn part of me refused to quit completely.
“I just hate wasting ingredients,” I mutter.
He doesn’t call me on the lie. Just nods and rolls up his sleeves. “What do you need me to do?”
For the next few hours, we work in focused silence. I assemble the ube chiffon cake, layering it with coconut mousse that’s light as air. The purple and white look like clouds against a twilight sky, and when I slice it, the layers hold their shape perfectly.
The calamansi tarts get their honey glaze, the citrus scent sharp and bright in the kitchen. I arrange the mango toffee pieces into the archipelago pattern I’d originally planned, the golden shards catching the light like little sun fragments.
Last are the details—edible flowers made from thinly sliced dried fruits, delicate sugar decorations that had miraculously survived in their storage containers, sprigs of fresh herbs as garnish.
By the time we finish packing everything into specialized transport containers, the sun is high in the sky, and my nerves have transformed from dull dread to electric anticipation.
This might actually work.
We load Thorne’s truck carefully, the new display secured in the back, my desserts nestled in temperature-controlled containers. I climb into the passenger seat, suddenly exhausted and wired all at once, like I’ve had ten cups of coffee on an empty stomach.
“Ready?” Thorne asks, his hand pausing on the ignition.
I inhale deeply, the scent of sawdust and sugar still clinging to both of us. “No. But let’s go anyway.”
He starts the truck, and we pull away from the bakery.
I watch it recede in the side mirror—my little shop with the name that makes people snicker, the place that’s become more of a home than anywhere else I’ve lived.
Whatever happens today won’t change that.
I still have Moist. I still have my kitchen.
I still have my hands and my recipes and my stubborn determination.
And apparently, I have Thorne too.
I glance over at him, his profile strong and certain against the passing scenery. He drove all night collecting supplies, worked until dawn building me a new display, and now he’s taking me back to face the competition without a word of complaint.
“Thank you,” I say, the words inadequate for what I’m feeling. “For everything.”
He nods once, eyes still on the road. “You’d do the same.”
And the thing is—I would. For him, I absolutely would.
The drive to the convention center feels endless yet too short.
My stomach twists with each mile, anxiety building in waves that crash against my ribs.
What if Gabriel sabotages us again? What if the judges have already written me off?
What if my desserts don’t taste as good as they should because I rushed them?
I twist my hands in my lap, trying to focus on breathing. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Don’t throw up in Thorne’s truck.
When we finally pull into the parking lot, I’m half convinced I might pass out. But then Thorne cuts the engine, turns to me, and says simply:
“You belong here.”
Three words. That’s all. But they hit me like a revelation, clearing the fog of doubt.
I nod, more to myself than to him. “Let’s show them why.”
The convention center is already buzzing when we enter through the service doors, contestants making final adjustments to their displays, judges conferring in small groups, media setting up cameras and lights. A few heads turn when we walk in, whispers following in our wake.
I ignore them, keeping my chin high and my gaze forward as Thorne carries the display while I manage the dessert containers. We make our way to my assigned booth, now conspicuously empty after I cleared out yesterday.
When people realize who I am—the dropout who’s somehow returned—the whispers grow louder. I catch fragments as we pass:
“...thought she withdrew...”
“...completely new display...”
“...Gabriel will be furious...”
That last one makes a smile tug at my lips. Good. Let him be furious. Let him see that his sabotage failed.
The exhibition hall buzzes with more energy than a beehive that’s discovered a sugar factory. I wheel my display cart toward my assigned booth, Thorne following with the larger containers. Heads turn, whispers flare up like little fires, and I pretend not to notice any of it.
I keep my eyes forward, chin up, focusing on the rhythmic squeak of the cart wheels against the polished floor. One foot in front of the other. Just breathe. Don’t vomit. Simple goals.
Our booth is at the far end, nestled between a vampire patissier who specializes in blood-infused chocolates and a Selkie whose seafoam macarons literally float above the plate. Last year’s finalists. Big leagues.
I don’t belong here.
No. Stop it. I do. I absolutely do.
I belong here with my ube chiffon and my calamansi tarts and my history that tastes like home.
Thorne sets down the display while I unpack the desserts, my hands steady now that there’s actual work to do. The rhythm of preparation calms me—checking temperatures, adjusting garnishes, polishing serving plates.
“Need anything else?” Thorne asks, his bulk blocking some of the curious onlookers.
“Just stand there and look scary,” I mutter, arranging the mango toffee islands on the top tier. “Make sure nobody gets close enough to ‘accidentally’ bump into my display.”
His mouth twitches. “That I can do.”
I’m just placing the final garnish—a delicate sugar glass wave that managed to survive the transport—when I sense a shift in the atmosphere. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. I don’t need to look to know who’s approaching.
“Well, well, well,” comes that perfectly modulated voice, dripping with fake surprise. “The prodigal baker returns.”
I turn slowly, wiping my hands on my apron, to face Gabriel Moreau. He’s immaculate as always—tailored suit, not a hair out of place, smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Gabriel,” I say, keeping my voice light. “How nice of you to stop by. Checking to see if your handiwork was permanent?”
His smile freezes, eyes darting quickly to Thorne who stands like a sentinel behind me. “I have no idea what you’re implying, darling.”
“Of course not,” I say sweetly. “Just like you have no idea how rancid oil ended up all over my original display. Funny coincidence.”
Gabriel’s nostrils flare slightly—the tiniest crack in his perfect facade. “You should be careful making accusations without proof, Lena. It reflects poorly on your... professionalism.”
I step closer to him, lowering my voice. “Let me be perfectly clear, Gabriel. I know it was you. And if you try anything like that again, I won’t be so quiet about it.” I smile, all teeth. “I wonder what the judges would think if they knew one of their contestants was sabotaging the competition?”
The pulse in his throat jumps, his eyes hardening to flint. “You have nothing.”
“Not yet,” I agree. “But I’m watching you now. And so are others.” I glance meaningfully at Thorne, whose scowl could curdle milk at twenty paces.
Gabriel steps back, smoothing his expression. “Well, I suppose we’ll let the judges decide who truly deserves to be here, won’t we?” His gaze sweeps over my display dismissively. “Good luck with your project.”
He saunters away, and I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Thorne moves to stand beside me. “Want me to follow him? Make sure he doesn’t try anything else?”
I shake my head. “No need. He’s too smart to try the same trick twice. Besides,” I add with more confidence than I feel, “he’s already seen that it didn’t work. I’m still here.”
I turn back to my display, making one final adjustment to the ube cake. It looks beautiful against the rich cherry wood—vibrant purple and white layers nestled on a bed of edible flowers that echo the carved patterns in the wood.