Chapter 25
When I step up onto the freshly mowed grass leading to the tent, the details of production are in full swing. Patriotic bunting flutter from the fences with string lights crisscrossing overhead, and long banquet tables are lined with chairs for family and friends.
A small platform stage waits at the far end, cameras set and cables snaking across the lawn, a silent reminder of tomorrow’s finale ceremony. The aroma of cut grass tangles with the smell of the tent as it’s being steamed to perfection.
The air hums with the low buzz of generators and the distant voices of crew members moving props and equipment.
Garrett is already there, surveying the space with that calm, measured expression of his. Magnolia stands nearby, arms crossed, eyes scanning the horizon where the decorations catch the early light. Theo and Judy step onto the platform, arms linked, smiling wide.
“Finale day,” Garrett says directly into the camera, but there’s a weight to it that makes me pause.
“Three bakers left.” Magnolia lets a small smile tug at her lips.
Theo waves a hand toward the lawn, voice rising so it carries across the quiet morning. “By tomorrow evening, this space will be full of friends, family, and all of our previous contestants.”
“That’s right, Theo.” Judy beams. “And one of our final three will be dubbed America’s Next Great Baker!”
I nod, taking it all in, committing the moment to memory as they finish their promo shot. The calm before the storm—the moment before all hell breaks loose.
Right before we enter the tent, my hand shoots out, catching Taylor by the wrist and pulling her toward me. She turns, a question forming on her lips, but before she can say anything, I brush my mouth against hers.
“Good luck,” I whisper with a wink.
Her cheeks turn the most delicious shade of pink.
I saunter into the tent first, allowing the cameras to get my entrance shot and move to my station. Taylor follows immediately behind, eyes wide with nerves and excitement.
Diane is already at her station, quietly unfolding her sketchpad before tying her apron tight around her waist. She notices my gaze, squints playfully, and points two fingers from her eyes to me in the universal “I’m watching you” move. Then her eyes crinkle at the edges, and she winks.
Fucking Diane.
I shake my head, chuckling to myself.
The final challenge is here and it’s go time.
Taylor gives my hand a quick squeeze as she passes, then she’s gone. Off to her own station while we wait for the judges and hosts to do the official introduction to the challenge.
“For your final challenge, you’ll create the ultimate showstopper cake,” Garrett explains, the authority in his voice carrying above the buzz of the tent.
“A centerpiece worthy of a national celebration,” Magnolia adds, hands clasped in front of her and eyes soft but serious.
Judy gestures toward the tent opening. “Tomorrow, this lawn will be filled with guests. Friends, family, viewers, and previous contestants will all be here to cheer you on!”
“But don’t get too hung up on that, bakers. Because this is the finale, and the stakes have never been higher.” Theo chimes in, tone dry as ever.
“You have two days to create a cake that represents everything you’ve learned in this competition,” Garrett concludes.
Magnolia extends her hands, palms facing up, as she elaborates on Garrett’s instructions. “Your cake needs to show us who you are as a baker. Let us see your creativity. Your technical mastery. Nothing less than your absolute best will do.”
“Over the next two days, you can use your time however you see fit,” Judy explains. “So, plan out how to best bring your ideas to life. Handle any prep, decorations, or long-setting items today, because tomorrow, you will bake in the tent for the final time.”
I pull out my sketchbook, the pencil in my hand hovering over the clean page. I think of every lesson Garrett and Magnolia have given me. Of what I’ve learned from Taylor about tapping back into the joy of baking.
Without thinking, the design starts to flow out of me, the pencil moving in quick bursts. I make little notes in the margins: ‘multiple tier heights’, ‘stability rods?’, ‘flavors that contrast but complement’.
Garrett steps toward me, crouching to get a better look at my draft. He stands there wordlessly, watching me work, as if he’s weighing his words carefully.
The show’s toughest critic clears his throat.
I flick my eyes up to meet his stare.
“Finales aren’t about showing everything you know. We’ve already seen how incredibly skilled you are. There’s no doubt about it. But finales are about rising to an old challenge in a new way. Show us exactly who you are, in here.” He taps two fingers against my chest above my heart.
I nod, trying to imprint the words in my head. Exactly who I am. Not perfect, not flashy, just Alex.
Closing my eyes, I think about what makes me, well… me.
Not my last name. Not the experts I’ve trained beneath or the kitchens I’ve commanded. Not what my father demands of me.
My mind conjures up a memory, standing outside my house back in Vancouver.
It’s so alive and real that I can feel the crisp mountain air against my skin.
Smell the pine and damp woods in the fog.
Hear the faint rush of a creek behind the house.
I crumple the page I started with, tossing the paper ball into the trash at the end of my station.
It was all wrong. I can do better.
That sketch is what’s expected of me, not who I am.
After a moment to gather my thoughts, I start to sketch out a design that pays homage to my home.
Where I don’t have to perform for anybody, and am just wholly myself.
Little doodles of mountains tucked behind cascading tiers, a thin layer of maple icing to represent the forest floor, flourishes that hint at the misty mornings I grew up in.
“Good man,” Garrett claps a hand on my shoulder, squeezing, before he heads back to the front of the tent.
I smile to myself. This is going to be the best damn cake I’ve ever made.
While I’m plotting the tiered supports and sketching delicate piping, I notice Magnolia hovering beside Taylor, a quiet conversation that I can only catch in fragments.
“Bake the cake that made you fall in love with baking,” Magnolia says softly. “That’s what will make us fall in love with you.”
Taylor’s shoulders rise on a deep inhale, then she relaxes into a small smile. Magnolia’s words—her encouragement and reassurance—feel tangible, and I can see Taylor’s relief across the tent.
Ahead of us, Diane is methodically moving back and forth across her station, checking her sketchbook, then measuring out ingredients I can’t name from here.
I can’t help but notice the judges hovering a little longer around her station, leaning in to inspect sketches, discussing angles quietly among themselves.
My chest tightens with an unfamiliar twinge—panic?
Diane has been a quiet frontrunner this entire season; her designs are always ambitious, elegant, and somehow effortlessly perfect. And her flavors? I don’t think she’s ever been criticized on that front either.
I roll my shoulders, cracking my neck in the process, and focus back on my own task at hand.
By mid-afternoon, our prep work is done for the day.
We’ve each pre-baked components, set decorations, and arranged the more delicate elements that need to cure or settle.
The tent is quieter now without appliances whirring, but the aroma of caramelized sugar and buttery cake still lingers like a faint perfume.
All three of us are quietly wiping flour from our hands, re-checking our notes, or wiping down our equipment when production calls for our final pre-finale interviews.
When we exit the tent, we see three stools lined up next to one another with the festivity preparations set as the backdrop. Guests’ chairs are arranged in neat rows, napkins folded in crisp triangles on the tables, bunting now fluttering gently in the evening breeze.
“Bakers, please.” Hal, the executive producer who never shows his face on set, gestures with a sweep of his hand. “With this being the finale, we thought a group interview would round the moment out nicely.”
Annoyance claws at the back of my throat. I still don’t like the idea of giving Hal anything more than the bare minimum. God knows he doesn’t deserve it, but we’re so close to the end, I give in and follow Diane and Taylor to the stools, taking the one furthest to the right.
“Okay, let’s make this short and sweet. This is mostly for soundbites, understand? Diane, you’re up first. How does it feel to be in the final three?”
Diane takes a moment, then smiles, serene and composed, before speaking. “This is what I came here to do.” Her Boston-lilted voice is steady. “I didn’t make it this far to lose.”
“Great!” Hal clasps his hands behind his back. “Taylor?”
Taylor straightens, her hands fidgeting as she speaks. Her hazel eyes catch the light as she stares directly into the camera. “I never imagined I’d make it this far. Winning would mean everything.”
I linger without speaking, knowing it’s my turn to answer, but I’m absorbing fragments of her words. I catch the slight tremor in her voice, the unspoken mix of nerves and excitement.
The sight of her—vulnerable and open—hits like a punch to the chest, and my heart clenches on impact. I know the stakes feel different to each of us, but her sincerity cuts straight through the noise.
Hal’s exasperated sigh has my head snapping up.
“How does it feel to be in the final three?”
“Like the longest ten weeks of my life,” I say, forcing a smile that lands closer to a grimace.
“And what would winning mean to you?”
I pause, weighing the answer. My eyes rove over my competition, then roll back to the camera. “It would be incredible, but I’m not the only one here who deserves it.”
Hal claps once, nodding in approval, and returns to his mumbled conversation with the cameraman. When he realizes we’re still sitting here waiting for direction, he waves an apathetic hand in dismissal.
Taylor reaches for my hand, tucking her body in close to mine as we walk back toward the tent’s opening. Joe cuts across our path, pausing with his clipboard in hand. “Anyone planning to stay longer? Or are we calling it for today?”
“I’m ready to call it,” I mutter, stretching my shoulders.
“Yeah, I’m good to head back to the house, too.” Diane shrugs, nonchalant. “Whatever happens now, happens.”
I can’t match her ease, and judging by the way Taylor keeps shifting her weight back and forth, neither can she. I try to imagine letting the tension drain and just being good with whatever happens tomorrow, but I’m too keyed up.
I glance around one last time, at the near-complete decorations glinting in the early evening light.
Crew members move to test the lights along the bunting, the banquet tables now lined with white plates, sparkling glassware catching the last of the sun.
A flag flutters lazily against the backdrop of a clear sky, and the faint scent of barbecue smoke drifts from a prep station near the edge of the lawn.
Tomorrow, this lawn will be full of supportive faces as one of us wins the entire competition. Whoever it is will be standing in the center of it all with a gaudy platinum rolling pin raised overhead.
A deep breath fills my chest. The anticipation, the nervous excitement, the stakes—it all courses through me like electricity. And somehow, amid the tension, despite being forced to be here, I’m looking forward to completing the challenge. I’m about to pour everything I am into one cake.
Tomorrow, it all comes together.
Tomorrow, someone wins.