Chapter 20
The tent feels smaller today.
It’s the same white canopy. Same polished benches. Same too-bright lights reflecting off gleaming countertops. But the air is heavier than it should be, like static before a storm that hasn’t decided whether it’s going to break.
Or maybe that’s just me, still ruminating on my confrontation with Hal and the production team yesterday.
I roll my shoulders once, flexing my fingers against the edge of the counter. Dough rests beneath a linen cloth in front of me, proofing quietly, indifferent to everything else happening around it.
Bread doesn’t care about narrative arcs.
But cameras do.
“Alex.”
I don’t need to look up to know who it is. Theo’s voice has that taunting lilt to it, like he already knows how this conversation is going to go.
When I finally lift my gaze, both hosts are already closing in on my station. They wear matching smiles—small, calculated, and entirely too pleased with themselves.
“Just the man we were hoping to catch,” Judy singsongs. “You really stirred things up yesterday. Anything to say for yourself?”
I scoff, barely resisting the urge to roll my eyes.
My movements are neutral, controlled in a way that doesn’t betray anything, as I wipe my hands on the towel tucked into my apron.
I don’t owe them an explanation. And I’m definitely not going to give them something they can twist later.
“I stood up for something,” I say evenly. “For someone that matters.”
They tilt their heads in unison, a practiced, almost rehearsed reaction. A pause stretches between us, the intentional kind that lives for editing rooms.
“Would you do it again?” Theo asks.
My first instinct is simple: tell them to go straight to hell.
My second is far more strategic. Deflect. Smile. Give them something clean they can package into a soundbite. I guess all the PR training wasn’t a complete waste of time.
Instead, Taylor flashes in my periphery.
Flour covers her station like it spontaneously exploded, her hair slightly undone, cheeks flushed. She’s laughing with RaeAnn, completely unaware of how quickly I’d escalate if anything threatened her again. Of how far I’d go.
A smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it.
“Yes,” I say, without hesitation.
I lift the linen from my dough, checking the surface, even though I already know it’s fine. The motion gives me something to do with my hands.
Theo’s smile sharpens and Judy crosses her arms, expression shifting, subtle but satisfied. Like they’ve pulled something out of me they can use.
“Even if it puts a target on your back?” Theo presses.
My jaw ticks at the implied threat, and I press my fingers into the dough, feeling its resistance.
“If fairness puts a target on my back,” I say, voice even, “that says more about you than it does about me.”
The second it leaves my mouth, I know it was a mistake. And now they know exactly where to aim when they come for me.
Across the aisle, Taylor glances over. She catches my eye and offers a small smile, and the tension lodged in my chest eases. I drag a hand across my chest, fingers pressing lightly over my sternum as I hold her gaze a beat longer than I should.
“Fair enough,” Judy says, too quickly. “Tell us about your showstopper.”
Her smile returns like a switch flipped. It’s warm and welcoming, like the last minute never happened.
The shift is disorienting.
I inhale a sharp breath, then launch into a safe, automatic explanation. A whole lot of technical details that most people don’t pay attention to and are way easier to talk about.
To their credit, the hosts nod along, listening like I’m saying something meaningful. Then they move on, redirecting their attention to Diane as if I’d already been filed away.
I drop my head and let out a slow breath, tension bleeding out of my shoulders.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Taylor again, completely absorbed in her work. I hold the sight for another second, then square my shoulders and get back to mine.
The rest of the time in the tent flies by. Judging goes as expected. Brandon and I land at the top. Taylor and Diane take the middle. RaeAnn and Lila fall into the bottom two.
Our resident influencer smiles like she’s in the top, not at risk of going home. It’s the same bright, polished expression she’s worn every week she’s survived when she shouldn’t have.
I watch the judges speak, hands folded loosely in front of me, my expression neutral. Inside, however, irritation coils low and familiar.
Not at her, necessarily, but at the machine itself.
Production and the network have been protecting her. I should have noticed it sooner. I mean, for fuck’s sake—I grew up in this. Different industry, sure. But same mechanics.
Marketability, retention, leverage, relevance.
It’s the same beast hiding behind a different face.
When her name is finally called, the tent stills.
For a fraction of a second, Lila looks genuinely shocked. Like she believed she was safe again this week. If there was any doubt before, it’s clear now that she knew what they were doing, and expected it to keep working.
Then her face collapses, and she puts on a different kind of performance for the cameras, full of crocodile tears and breathless hiccups.
It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes at her.
Her elimination is long overdue.
Applause swells as people gather around her, offering hugs and promises to stay in touch, to call, to meet up after this is all over. The cameras move in closer, hungry for every second of it.
I clap because it’s expected, but my attention drifts.
Not to Lila or production, but to something else entirely. A thought I can’t seem to shake. Nothing here goes untouched. Not the judging. Not the narratives. Not the way conflict gets shaped into episodes.
My stomach drops, a sickening realization settling in.
Not the way I handled things yesterday.
All day, I’ve been telling myself I did the right thing by defending fairness and protecting the integrity of the competition. Making sure production didn’t hurt Taylor. And that’s true.
But it isn’t the whole truth.
It was also instinct, a reflex as natural as breathing.
Power and influence, applied without hesitation. I didn’t stop to consider alternatives, didn’t weigh consequences.
I just reached for the most effective tool I had and used it.
Just like him.
The realization is a hard pill to swallow.
I don’t regret defending her. I don’t.
But I can’t ignore how easy it was. How quickly I defaulted to a version of myself I’ve spent years trying not to become. I didn’t hesitate to throw my weight around, didn’t stop to think—I just acted, because I knew it would work.
Even if the outcome was justified, the method feels… uncomfortably familiar. Uncomfortably close to the man I’ve spent my life trying to differentiate myself from.
“You okay?”
Taylor’s voice pulls me out of it, her fingers brushing up my bicep, over my shoulder in a light, grounding gesture.
“Yeah.” I nod. “It’s just been a long weekend.”
It isn’t a lie. It’s not the whole truth either.
I’m not ready to give her the parts of me she doesn’t already know. Not yet. Because right now, I’m just Alex to her. Not Chet Harrington’s son, heir to Canada’s most influential culinary empire.
She studies me for a beat like she might push—and for one terrifying second, I think she will and I’ll cave because the thought of lying to her makes me sick—but then she smiles instead, her fingers playing with the hair at the nape of my neck.
“Coffee later before I head out?” she asks.
Something in my chest softens despite everything.
“Deal.”
I watch her walk away, my gaze locked on her as she heads toward interviews. She reaches up, undoing her hairclip. Golden curls spill loose as she disappears through the tent opening.
I drop my head into my hands, the thought comes back louder now. I need to tell her everything, and soon.
Because the longer I wait to tell her the truth, the harder it’s going to be to say.
And harder still for her to hear.
?????????
I wait until the noise dies down to do what I know I need to do. Until interviews pull most people away. Until the tent feels temporarily hollow, like an empty shelf of a space between performances.
My phone sits heavier in my palm than it ever has before, and I stare at my father’s name in my contact list, dread gathering in my chest.
Chet Harrington.
I exhale, hitting call before I can second-guess it.
“Alexander.”
My father answers on the second ring. There’s no greeting. Just acknowledgment and annoyance, which means he already knows what’s happened. Fucking perfect.
My jaw tightens. “You heard.”
There’s a pause, followed by an exasperated sigh on the other end of the line, like he’s counting down from ten before responding.
“I heard you threatened production with legal action on a televised competition,” Chet says, too calm for comfort.
I crack my knuckles one by one.
“I didn’t threaten anyone.” The accusation needles under my skin. “I set a boundary.”
I exhale sharp through my nose, familiar frustration creeping up my throat. Every conversation with my father makes me feel like I’m seventeen again instead of a grown man capable of making his own choices.
“They crossed a line. They’re sabotaging—”
“You are not there to manage production ethics.” His voice sharpens. “Get in your lane, son. Your purpose there is bigger than being a regular contestant.”
Don’t I know it. I’ve been a piece on a board since the moment my father decided to send me on the show.
“You chose this, now get it done.”
“No,” I say, more firmly this time. “You forced me to come here. You threatened to pull funding from Northern Flame if I didn’t.”
There’s another brief pause on the other end of the line, the kind that isn’t hesitation so much as recalibration.
“You agreed,” he replies. “Which means you chose the exposure and the visibility that come with it.”