Chapter 4
The soft chime of the seatbelt indicator pings on, and the flight attendant’s voice cuts through the cabin.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll be landing at Los Angeles International in about twenty minutes. Due to congestion in the airspace, we’ll need to circle until a landing slot becomes available. Please return your seats to the upright position and fasten your belts.”
Incredible.
Regular traffic isn’t enough; LA has to bring its overcrowding problem to the sky, too.
I shift in my seat, feeling the plane dip through a smear of haze that hangs stubbornly over the city.
From my window, the sprawling chaos below spreads out like an invasive species.
Freeways twist and overlap, crisscrossing the beige and gray monotony.
Even the water looks muted, like someone drained it of its color.
I lean back with a low groan and snap my laptop closed. Already regretting leaving Vancouver. Back home, the city isn’t perfect, but it has breath. Life. Shimmering sapphire waters curl around inlets, emerald forests climb the hills, and mountains loom majestic, their peaks lost in pillowy clouds.
The spring drizzle has its own appeal, a charm the sun here could never quite achieve. LA doesn’t illuminate. It assaults you, pressing against your skin and clogging your senses.
God, I cannot stand this city.
The second I step out of the airport in search of the car the producers arranged for me, my hatred for the city is confirmed.
The air hits like a ton of bricks—too warm, too bright, too everything.
Vancouver smells of cedar and rain. LA smells of car exhaust and desperation simmering in a smoggy haze.
Anxiety tightens my chest as the driver opens the trunk for my bags. I shove them inside without waiting for help. Sliding across the leather seat, I glare in the direction of the honking, crawling traffic beyond.
Stop-and-go brake lights stretch like a river of red lava, punctuated by oversized billboards and construction zones that feel permanent. A convertible zips past my window and cuts in front of the SUV with inches to spare.
Five miles takes half an hour.
According to GPS, this was supposed to be the faster way.
Hours of life are wasted, stranded out here on this damned freeway. Everyone acts like this is normal. I don’t understand it—and I don’t want to.
Finally, we reach the Hollywood Hills area. The air feels a little cleaner, though that might just be the elevation. Streets narrow, houses climb the hillside, each screaming wealth and architectural one-upmanship. Palm trees sway, and the SUV pulls into a gated driveway.
The house is enormous, its glass walls reflecting the city sprawled below. Immaculate landscaping surrounds an infinity pool that seems to spill seamlessly into the valley. Inside, sunlight floods the open-concept living room through towering floor-to-ceiling windows.
I step out onto the patio, taking in the sweeping view below. Everything about this is designed to impress.
“Gorgeous at this hour, right?”
I flinch, arm flying up across my chest. “Fuck, when did you get there?”
At the far end of the patio sits a sweet, grandmotherly type with a steaming mug of tea in front of her. She has a neat, pin-straight bob, tortoise-shell glasses perched on her nose, and despite the heat, she’s wrapped in a cream knit cardigan embroidered with tiny apples.
She gestures to the empty chair.
“Been right here the whole time.” Her Boston accent comes through thick. Vowels flattened, r’s almost nonexistent. “Well, would you look at you! What’s your name, kid?”
I sit with a quiet huff. “Alex.”
“Alex, that’s a good name. Strong name.” Sharp brown eyes bore into mine. I stare back, unsure what she’s after.
“This is where you ask me for my name,” she says, tapping the table lightly with one finger. “That’s generally how introductions work. The name’s Diane.”
I raise an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. “Nice to meet you, Diane.”
She sits up straighter as her smile widens and her eyes flare. Spitfire. I feel sorry for anyone who underestimates her.
Not a mistake I’m about to make.
Cackling voices and booming laughs erupt from inside the house. Diane’s gaze flicks to the chaos, then back to me. We cringe at the same time.
“Did you meet any of the others yet?” I ask.
She shakes her head once, rising to her feet.
“No.” She smooths her cardigan down and lifts her mug of tea. “We better get to it, though. Before they scream the whole house down.”
She’s right, but I don’t want to. Raucous, chatty types are the worst—too loud, too much, like an ice pick to the skull.
Begrudgingly, I follow Diane inside, cracking my knuckles in rapid succession. She halts for a moment, eyeing me.
“Awful habit, Alex.” She tsks. I smirk at her like I used to when my grandma would chastise me for the same reason.
Two of the most camera-ready people I’ve ever seen descend the stairs from the second floor.
The young woman is petite, all energy, and probably not a day older than twenty-one.
Her long, wavy, platinum-blond hair sways behind her as she pans her phone around the room, yapping in a high-pitched, energetic voice.
“That’s it for now, lovelies! Lila out!”
The man next to her is tall—at least a couple of inches taller than me—and muscular, with a presence that demands attention. Deep brown skin, cropped hair, and a smile that he probably paid a lot of money for.
“Bro, finally another dude! I was starting to think I might be the only one. Not that I’d really complain, if you know what I mean.” His eyes slide to Lila. “I’m Ace.”
“Alex,” I say, giving his hand a firm squeeze. To my surprise, he yanks me into a hug, patting my back enthusiastically. Awkwardly, I tap his back with one hand a few times before pulling away.
“Did you see how they have the rooms set up?” I ask as the two of them sprawl on opposite couches. “More specifically, are the rooms assigned?”
“Yeah, bro. They have our names on the doors and everything.” Ace stretches an arm across the back of the couch, spreading his long legs out in front of him and nestling into the seat.
Lila doesn’t say anything; she just gives me a dead stare that’s in stark contrast to the bubbly persona she used while recording.
I nod once, heading up the stairs.
It doesn’t take long to find the door with my name attached. In crisp gold letters on heavy white cardstock to the left of the door is my name. Right below it, Brandon.
I rap my knuckles on the door, but don’t wait for a response before entering. Maybe I’ll get lucky and he won’t be here yet. I need a minute to collect my thoughts.
But of course, luck isn’t on my side.
Brandon’s pristine chef coat, embroidered with his full name, hangs on a hook by the door. My new roommate is kicked back on one of the beds with his legs crossed at the ankles and arms propped behind his head.
Brandon pops up to stand when he hears me approach. He’s tall, with honey-brown eyes, and sandy-blond hair that’s somehow overly styled yet still messy. Obviously intentional.
When I introduce myself, he shakes my hand for a little too long as a smirk spreads wide across his face.
“Yeah, I know.”
Fuck.
My reaction almost betrays me.
He laughs, claps a hand on my shoulder, then drops back onto his bed. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me. I’m not exactly a home baker either, but nobody else here needs to know that.”
I don’t trust him.
“Right.” My response is short. I’m not here to make friends or allies. I have no use for either, especially in this competition.
“Did you meet the ditz twins out there? They’re all noise and no talent. Probably just here to stir up drama.”
“We’ll see.”
One thing I’ve learned throughout my career is that you can’t count anybody out. People surprise you every day. I hope he underestimates Diane. That would be gold.
Somehow, my bags have already been deposited next to my bed. Small favors. Snagging my toiletry bag, I head into our ensuite to brush my teeth.
I spit, rinse, and glare at my reflection in the mirror. The minty taste barely cuts through the ghost of coffee on my breath, so I go again.
My father’s voice echoes in my head, sharp and biting. The same blade he used to slice through every misstep I ever made in the kitchen. “Precision, Alexander. You’re a Harrington. Always aim higher. Perfection isn’t optional.”
I used to genuinely love baking. I’d spend hours in the kitchen, making gruesome but mouth-watering concoctions that my grandparents raved over. Baking used to be fun. Before my father decided that passion was a weakness.
Before he drilled the whimsy and spectacle out of baking and replaced it with timing charts, perfect plating, and relentless pressure. Every dessert became a performance. Every critique, a test I couldn’t pass.
And now here I am, shoved into a house with a bunch of strangers, cameras, and reality TV personalities, expected to smile and charm my way through this asinine show.
Lila and Ace are prancing around like this is some social media playground, while I’m here wondering how much patience I can muster before cracking.
I scrub my molars harder, wishing I had a little bit of that old spark still inside me. But it’s gone. Snuffed out by Daddy Dearest. Hot rage spikes in my chest that the man who killed my love of pastry is the same bastard forcing me into this confectionery contest now.
With one last swish, I shove those thoughts back down into the deepest part of me. Then spit and exit the bathroom. Brandon is already gone, probably on the main floor with the rest of the group.
And even though I’d rather be doing anything else, I pop a piece of gum in my mouth and head downstairs anyway.
For the next forty-five minutes, the front door is a constant stream of new faces and names I’m not going to remember. Still, I make an effort to match them—because, supposedly, remembering is crucial to my image.
Chloe walks in like she owns the place. Sleek bun, gold hoops, and a no-nonsense look in her eyes. She gives me a tiny nod, polite but unreadable. She’s cool and detached, and I appreciate that about her.
Jasper’s a stocky guy with a baseball cap and bad jokes for days. It’s like he can’t wait to fill the silence with a punchline that makes anyone within earshot groan. Right down to his off-white New Balances, he looks like he walked straight out of a suburban dad magazine.
RaeAnn scampers in behind him. She’s all freckles, messy bun, and oversized glasses, looking like she sprinted here straight from a PTA meeting. She has frantic eyes and keeps apologizing for making everyone repeat their names.
I’m getting secondhand anxiety just being near her.
Khalil is tall and lanky, with headphones resting against his collarbone. He’s wearing relaxed thrift-store layers with an iced coffee in hand, and has sharp, assessing eyes. He glances at the rest of us, sizing us up.
Doing a quick count, I notice there are only nine of us when there are supposed to be ten. I glance at the watch on my wrist; it’s a couple minutes past seven.
“Attention, everybody!”
I snap my gaze to the guy in the foyer holding a clipboard—probably a producer. “We’re going to start tonight by filming personal introductions. There’s an interview room upstairs where you’ll each get five minutes to give us your best elevator pitch for why you deserve to be on the sh—”
The front door swings open and cracks him right in the back. Clipboard Guy shoots forward with a yelp, papers exploding everywhere as he hits the ground.
A bright-eyed blonde barrels through the doorway, smile fading fast as she realizes she’s committed a door-induced, full-body tackle.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” She drops her bags and falls to her knees, scrambling to help collect the papers. “I didn’t know if I should knock or just come in, and I definitely didn’t expect anyone to be standing right behind the door.”
She squeezes her eyes shut and takes a breath. “I’m really sorry. I’m Taylor. I’m here for the baking competition... Are you okay?”
She’s stammering, tripping over her own words, face bright red, spiraling. Her curls bounce as she moves, her hair clip barely hanging on.
Looks like contestant ten finally showed up—and she’s a fucking disaster.