Chapter 14
thorne
SWEET VICTORY
The judges circle the room one last time, their faces impossible to read as they make notes on little silver tablets.
The Sphinx’s tail twitches with each step, while Chef Lumière’s skin pulses with subtle colors that give away nothing.
The convention center falls into an unnatural hush—hundreds of people trying not to breathe too loudly, as if the slightest sound might influence the outcome.
I hate this part. The waiting. The pretense that any of this is still in question when it’s been obvious since the moment the judges tasted Lena’s desserts that she’d won.
I cross my arms, shift my weight, and resist the urge to tell everyone to just get on with it already.
Beside me, Lena fidgets, fingers plucking at invisible threads on her apron. I’ve never seen her so still and so restless at the same time. Her nervous energy feels like a physical thing, pressing against my side, making my own skin itch.
“Stop worrying,” I murmur, low enough that only she can hear.
She shoots me a look that’s half irritation, half terror. “I’m not worrying. I’m mentally preparing for defeat with dignity.”
I snort. “Waste of time.”
“Is being supportive physically painful for you, or do you just enjoy being contrary?”
“Both,” I say, and I’m rewarded with a flicker of a smile.
The tension between her shoulders eases, just slightly, and I count it as a victory.
She doesn’t need to know that I spent the entire night mentally rehearsing what I’d say to her if—impossibly—she didn’t win.
Or that I’ve already made a list of creative threats I’d deliver to the judges if they somehow overlooked her work.
Threats that involve very specific descriptions of Minotaur anatomy and the damage it can do to human bodies.
My eyes drift across the exhibition hall to where Gabriel stands with his team, all of them immaculate in matching white jackets, their display a towering monstrosity of sugar and light that still, somehow, manages to say absolutely nothing.
He catches me looking and has the audacity to smirk, like he’s already practicing his victory speech.
I narrow my eyes, let him see the full weight of my contempt. The smug bastard flinches, just slightly, before turning away.
Good. He should be afraid. After what he did to Lena’s original display, he’s lucky to still have functioning limbs.
The Sphinx moves to the center of the room, tail swishing as she taps a microphone. The feedback whine cuts through the hushed murmurs, and the crowd falls silent.
“Welcome, contestants and guests, to the final judging of this year’s New Vegas Dessert Showcase.
” Her voice carries without effort, each word perfectly enunciated.
“We have seen remarkable creativity, technical skill, and artistry over these past two days. Every participant should be proud of their contributions.”
Next to me, Lena takes a deep breath, holds it. Her hand finds mine without looking, fingers cold and small against my palm. I close my hand around hers, careful not to squeeze too hard.
Chef Lumière steps forward, her translucent skin glowing soft blue.
“The theme of Wanderlust challenged our contestants to take us on a journey—through flavors, through techniques, through memories and aspirations. Some chose to interpret this literally, with desserts that transported us to distant locations. Others took us on more personal journeys, inviting us to experience the world through their unique perspective.”
Maxwell Thornwood nods, his expression solemn. “Before we announce our winner, we would like to commend all finalists for their outstanding work. Each display demonstrated exceptional skill and vision.”
The platitudes drag on, each judge taking their turn to praise the contestants while saying absolutely nothing of substance. I resist the urge to check the time. Beside me, Lena has gone completely still, her breathing shallow, her grip on my hand tightening.
Finally, the Sphinx steps forward again. “It is with great pleasure that we announce the winner of this year’s New Vegas Dessert Showcase.”
The room holds its collective breath.
“For a display that transported us not just across distance, but through time and heritage, blending tradition with innovation in a way that was both deeply personal and universally resonant...”
My chest tightens. I already know. Of course I know.
“...The winner is Lena Reyes of Moist Bakery!”
The world tilts.
For a second, she doesn’t move. She just stands there, wide-eyed, frozen, like her brain hasn’t caught up to reality yet. Like she doesn’t believe what she just heard.
And then—
The room erupts.
Applause. Cheers. The flash of cameras, the low murmur of judges speaking among themselves. Lena still hasn’t moved.
I exhale sharply, reach out, and—very gently—press a hand against her lower back.
She jolts, spinning toward me.
I smirk. “Told you.”
Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. And then—
She laughs.
Not a dazed, shocked laugh. A full, radiant, delighted laugh that makes something in my chest tighten.
Before I can stop her, she throws her arms around me.
It’s quick. Sudden.
But I freeze.
Because she’s soft, warm, small against me, and she smells like sugar and citrus and something entirely her own.
And I—Gods.
I let my arms come up slowly, carefully, resting one broad hand between her shoulders, the other at her waist.
Just for a second.
Just long enough to feel the way she melts into me, completely unguarded, completely real.
Then she pulls back, still grinning like she won the whole damn world.
Which, honestly—she kind of did.
“Go,” I tell her, nodding toward the stage where the judges wait. “Collect your prize before they change their minds.”
She bounces on her toes, practically vibrating with excitement, then turns to make her way through the crowd. People part for her, offering congratulations, reaching out to touch her shoulders, her arms, as if victory might be contagious.
I watch her climb the steps to the stage, watch the way she straightens her spine and lifts her chin, suddenly every inch the professional baker accepting her due.
Chef Lumière embraces her, whispering something in her ear that makes Lena’s eyes widen.
Maxwell Thornwood shakes her hand with both of his, nodding emphatically.
The Sphinx presents her with a crystal trophy that catches the light in fractal patterns.
Through it all, Lena shines brighter than anything in the room.
I become aware of someone watching me and turn to find Gabriel staring, his perfect composure fractured by disbelief.
The look on his face is better than any trophy.
I stare back, unblinking, letting him see every ounce of satisfaction I feel at his defeat.
Let him wonder what I know. Let him wonder what comes next.
When Lena returns, clutching her trophy and a check that will keep Moist running for months, she’s still floating on victory. Her smile is so wide it must hurt.
“Can you believe it?” she asks, breathless. “They want to feature me in Monstrous Eats. A whole spread, Thorne! And Chef Lumière wants to collaborate on a pop-up event!”
I grunt, but there’s no hiding the twitch at the corner of my mouth. “Of course they do. Your desserts make their fancy sugar sculptures look like kindergarten projects.”
She laughs again, the sound cutting through the noise of the crowd like a bell. “We did it, Thorne. We actually did it.”
I don’t correct her use of “we.” Because she’s right. This isn’t just her victory—it’s ours. The display I built, the desserts she created, the story they tell together. Neither of us could have done it alone.
As she turns to accept more congratulations from admirers, I watch her. The way she moves, the way she laughs, the way she belongs here among the best in the city. And I think—this. This is what victory looks like.
Not the trophy, not the check, not even the defeat on Gabriel’s face.
Just Lena Reyes, finally getting everything she deserves.
The security footage appears on the massive screens above the exhibition floor like some kind of divine revelation.
There’s Gabriel, unmistakable in his pretentious white suit, sneaking into the hall at 4 AM, approaching our display with deliberate intent.
He looks directly at the camera—the same camera the convention staff swore didn’t exist when Lena reported the sabotage—and smiles before pulling out a bottle of something viscous and dark.
The collective gasp from the crowd is almost theatrical.
I, however, am not gasping. I’m calculating exactly how many steps it would take to reach him and how many bones I could break before security pulls me off.
“I think that pretty much settles it,” the head of security announces, her voice amplified through the hall. “Mr. Moreau, in light of this evidence, you are hereby disqualified from this competition and blacklisted from all future events.”
Gabriel stands frozen in the center of a rapidly expanding circle of empty space, as attendees step away from him like he’s contagious. His perfect composure finally cracks, his face cycling through shock, outrage, and panic in rapid succession.
“This is—this is clearly doctored footage,” he sputters, his accent thickening with stress. “Someone is trying to frame me!”
Lena, standing beside me with her trophy still clutched in her hands, lets out a small, incredulous laugh. “Are you serious right now? There you are, on camera, literally pouring rancid oil all over my display.”
“It wasn’t rancid oil,” Gabriel snaps, then immediately realizes his mistake. The hall falls silent. “I mean—that’s not me. Obviously.”
Security personnel converge on him from multiple directions. I take a single step forward, but Lena’s hand on my arm stops me.
“Don’t,” she says, her voice low. “He’s not worth it.”