Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
PIZZA
If I had a dollar for every time someone called me the safe choice, I wouldn’t need to be here tonight pretending I still enjoyed being looked at like a guaranteed outcome.
The smile stays anyway, because it has to.
The Golden Plate Awards always run hot, but tonight feels excessive, like someone turned the entire room up just to see how much I would melt under pressure.
The spot lights above the carpet hum softly, casting that golden glow that photographers love and I have learned to tolerate.
It sinks into me slowly, working through my crust first, easing the firmness there until my edges begin to soften in that familiar, camera-friendly way.
My center follows soon after, warmth spreading deeper, heat pooling low and steady until I have to focus on holding myself together instead of reacting to it.
“Pizza, over here—give us that classic look,” someone calls, voice eager, expectant.
Of course they want classic.
They always want classic.
I shift into the angle they’re asking for, letting the light catch across me just right, letting the sheen of melted cheese stretch in a way that looks effortless even though I can feel every second of it happening.
The cameras respond immediately, flashes popping like a string of tiny explosions, each one capturing a version of me they already know they’re going to love.
That’s the thing about me.
No one is ever surprised.
“Still the gold standard,” a critic says into his mic, sounding almost relieved about it. “You just can’t go wrong with a plain cheese Pizza.”
I hear it. I always hear it.
You can’t go wrong.
The words settle somewhere in my center, heavy and familiar, mixing with the warmth already building there.
I keep my posture steady, my expression perfectly composed, even as the sensation spreads and deepens in a way that feels less like performance and more like something my body is choosing without asking me first.
Being the gold standard means being predictable.
Being predictable means being chosen without question.
And for some reason, standing here tonight, that doesn’t feel as flattering as it used to.
“Pizza, you’re the favorite again this year,” a reporter says as I move closer to the main press line. “Does it ever get old being the one everyone agrees on?”
There it is again.
Agrees. Like they have to settle on being basic so nobody gets offended.
I keep my voice smooth when I answer, letting it glide out as easily as everything else about me is expected to.
“It feels good to be trusted,” I say, because that’s the answer that fits, the one that keeps everything in place.
They nod like I’ve said something meaningful.
They always do. Always nodding yes, no matter what is being said, so they look attentive. Like they care, when I know in reality they don’t. They are just here for the scandals, for the fashion faux pas, for the hot button moment.
The air around me smells like champagne and caramelized sugar, with something sharper cutting through it that keeps catching at the back of my senses.
The warmth from the lamps presses down harder, and my center responds again, heat pooling deeper this time, spreading in a way that makes me shift slightly before I can stop myself.
It’s subtle enough that no one notices, but I feel it, that slow, undeniable reaction building inside me.
I glance toward the massive screen above the entrance, mostly to give myself something else to focus on besides the way my own body is responding under all this attention.
My name scrolls past in glowing letters, tied to predictions and praise that feel almost prewritten at this point.
Expected winner.
Timeless favorite.
Industry standard.
Then the screen flickers, and something else takes its place.
RUMOR: PINEAPPLE EXPECTED TO ATTEND
The energy shifts immediately.
It moves through the crowd like wildfire catching dry tinder, quick and reactive, drawing attention in a way I haven’t felt all night.
Conversations sharpen, voices rise just enough to carry, and people start looking toward the entrance with a kind of interest that has nothing to do with admiration.
Pineapple.
Even the idea of him lands differently.
There’s nothing safe about it.
Nothing predictable.
Nothing that lets people settle into easy agreement.
“He wouldn’t show up here,” someone says nearby, though they’re already watching for him.
“This is a classic event,” another voice adds, but the certainty isn’t there anymore. “There are standards.”
Standards.
I’ve built myself around them, layer by layer, moment by moment, until I became the thing everything else is measured against.
And still, my body reacts.
The warmth in my center deepens again, heat pooling in a way that has nothing to do with the lamps now. My edges soften just a fraction more, and I can feel the difference even if no one else can. It’s not controlled anymore. It’s not something I’m directing.
It’s something happening that I have no control over anymore. .
I straighten instinctively, pulling myself back into position, giving the cameras another angle, another flawless moment that fits exactly into what they expect from me.
And I deliver it.
Of course I do.
But the warmth doesn’t settle.
It lingers, low and steady, tied to something I don’t want to name. My body is reacting to the heat in more ways than I had ever expected.
I’m not thinking about winning. I’m thinking about what it might feel like to be chosen for something that isn’t safe.