Chapter 3
TRINITY
"Ladies, welcome to your first mixer with the bachelors!"
Jessica's voice booms through the ornate ballroom as twenty-three women in varying degrees of cocktail dress finery shuffle nervously around the edges.
I smooth down my simple black dress, the only remotely formal thing I packed, and try not to feel underdressed next to Scarlett's sequined number or Amber's plunging neckline situation.
At least I smell like cinnamon rolls instead of desperation.
The thought makes me snort, which earns me a sharp look from Madison, the Instagram influencer who's been practicing her candid laugh for the past hour.
"Remember, this is your chance to make first impressions with all five of our eligible bachelors," Jessica continues. "You'll have rotating fifteen-minute sessions, so make them count!"
Five bachelors. Right. Because apparently one orc wasn't enough of a spectacle for reality television.
They've assembled what looks like a supernatural dating service: Korgan the orc, a vampire named Sebastian who's already making half the women swoon with his accent, something called a "shifter" who keeps flexing like he's posing for romance novel covers, a demon whose charming smile doesn't quite hide the predatory gleam in his eyes, and a fae prince who looks like he stepped out of a fairy tale and knows it.
Welcome to the monster mash, I think, fighting back another inappropriate giggle.
"Trinity!" Maya would be cackling if she could see this. Twenty-three women competing for supernatural beings while cameras capture every mortifying second. It's like a fever dream spawned by too much late-night television and stress baking.
"Our first rotation begins now!"
The women scatter like startled birds, each gravitating toward their target of choice.
I hang back, watching the chaos unfold. Scarlett practically throws herself at the vampire, while Madison makes a beeline for the fae prince with her phone already out for selfies.
Three women surround the shifter, apparently fascinated by his ability to make his muscles ripple on command.
Which leaves me and four other women eyeing Korgan uncertainly.
He stands near the far window, somehow managing to look both imposing and uncomfortable in his perfectly tailored suit.
The other women seem torn between fascination and intimidation.
He's definitely the most physically impressive of the five bachelors, but also the most alien.
Different in ways that go beyond supernatural abilities into genuine cultural otherness.
Well, I didn't come here to play it safe.
I grab two champagne flutes from a passing waiter, liquid courage never hurt, and approach the orc bachelor who might be my ticket to saving the bakery.
"Hi." I offer him one of the glasses. "I'm Trinity."
Those heavy-lidded amber eyes focus on me with surprising intensity. "Korgan."
"Right. The name on all the promotional materials was a pretty big clue."
Jesus, Trinity. Lead with the sarcasm. That's definitely how you charm someone.
But instead of looking offended, his mouth quirks slightly. "You smell honest."
I blink. "I... what?"
"Your scent. Bread. Flour. Cinnamon." He says each word like he's cataloging ingredients. "Honest work. Good work."
Oh. He's talking about the baking I did earlier. Not exactly the smoothest compliment I've ever received, but there's something oddly sincere about his directness. Most guys would go with you smell nice or great perfume. Korgan notices that I smell like my actual job.
"Thanks?" I venture. "I mean, I did make cinnamon rolls earlier, so..."
"Yes. I watched you work."
Watched me work. There's something about the way he says it that makes my pulse skip. Not creepy-stalker watched, but observed-with-interest watched. Like my competence was worth paying attention to.
"Did you want to try one? I made extras, and honestly, catering food is usually terrible—"
"Your recipe is weak."
The words hit like a slap. I feel my face heat up, champagne flute tightening in my grip. "Excuse me?"
Korgan's heavy brows draw together, apparently confused by my reaction. "The structure lacks strength. Too much softness. Human baking prioritizes comfort over substance."
Oh, hell no. I've spent six years perfecting my cinnamon roll recipe. I've won state fair competitions with those rolls. Maya once said they were "better than sex," which admittedly wasn't saying much given her dating history, but still.
"Weak?" My voice rises enough that a few other conversations pause. "Those cinnamon rolls have a perfect laminated dough structure, balanced sweetness, and a texture that—"
"I did not mean to insult—"
"Well, you did. That recipe is a family secret passed down from my grandmother, and I've spent years refining the technique until—"
"Wait." Korgan holds up one massive hand, looking genuinely alarmed. "I spoke poorly. Your bread is... good bread. Strong flavors. Proper construction."
"Strong flavors? Proper construction? You're describing a building, not pastry!"
"In orc culture, we say food should have strength.
Foundation. Your rolls have both." He's clearly struggling with something, searching for words.
"I meant... your work has integrity. Honest taste.
Not artificial sweetness like..." He gestures vaguely at the elaborate catered spread. "Like theater food."
Oh.
I pause, champagne flute halfway to my lips. "You were... complimenting me?"
"Yes." Relief floods his expression. "Your baking has worth. Real worth."
It's possibly the most awkward compliment I've ever received, delivered with all the poetry of a construction manual. But there's something almost endearing about his genuine confusion at my reaction, the careful way he's trying to explain himself without making things worse.
"Right. Well." I take a sip of champagne, suddenly feeling ridiculous for snapping at him. "Thank you. I think."
"I am..." He searches for the word. "Apologetic? For speaking unclearly."
"You're apologetic," I correct automatically, then immediately regret it. "Sorry, I'm not trying to be a grammar teacher. It's just—"
"No. Correction is helpful. English idioms are..." Another pause. "Challenging."
The honesty in his admission catches me off guard. Here's this intimidating orc warrior admitting linguistic vulnerability like it's no big deal. Most guys would rather die than acknowledge they don't know something.
"Your English is actually really good," I say, meaning it. "Better than some native speakers I know."
"Years of diplomatic training." There's something almost rueful in his tone. "Though clearly insufficient for casual conversation."
Diplomatic training. Right. This isn't just some random orc who wandered onto a reality show. He's here for political reasons, cultural representation, image management. The weight of that responsibility must be enormous.
"Well, casual conversation is overrated anyway," I say, surprising myself with the admission. "Most people just talk to fill silence without actually saying anything meaningful."
Those amber eyes focus on me again with that same intense attention. "You prefer directness."
"I prefer honesty. Even when it's awkward."
"Most humans find orc directness uncomfortable."
"Most humans haven't spent six years running a small business where sugar-coating problems gets you bankrupt." I shrug. "Sometimes blunt is better than polite."
"Yes." The word comes out with surprising force. "Exactly yes."
We stand there for a moment, and I realize this is the first genuine conversation I've had since arriving at the set. Not performance, not strategy, just two people figuring out how to communicate across cultural differences.
Then Jessica's voice yells through the moment: "Ladies, time to rotate!"
Shit. Fifteen minutes gone already. I haven't done any of the flirting or charm offensive I'd planned. No witty banter, no strategic questions about his interests, no laying groundwork for future connections.
I've just talked. Like a normal person.
"Trinity." Korgan's voice stops me as I turn to leave. "Your cinnamon rolls. I would like to try them."
"Oh. Sure, I can—"
"Now?"
I glance around the ballroom, noting the cameras tracking every interaction, the producers hovering nearby, the other women shooting daggers at anyone who seems to be making a connection.
"They're in the kitchen," I say. "But we're supposed to stay here for the mixer..."
"Fuck the mixer."
The blunt pronouncement makes me laugh, a real laugh, not the practiced titter I'd been planning to deploy. "We can't just leave. Jessica will have a heart attack."
"Let her." He's already moving toward the exit, somehow making his massive frame glide through the crowd without bumping anyone. "Good food deserves proper attention. Not theater."
Good food deserves proper attention. It's possibly the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me, even though he probably doesn't mean it that way.
I follow him toward the kitchen area, ignoring Jessica's increasingly frantic gestures and the camera crew scrambling to keep up. Let the other women work the room with practiced charm. I've apparently found the one bachelor who values substance over performance.
The catering kitchen feels blissfully quiet after the ballroom chaos.
I retrieve the container of leftover cinnamon rolls from the industrial refrigerator, suddenly nervous about his reaction.
What if he really does think they're weak?
What if orc taste buds work differently and human sweetness tastes terrible to him?
What if this is the worst idea I've ever had and I'm about to humiliate myself on national television?
"Here." I set the container on the stainless steel counter, lifting the lid to reveal four remaining rolls. "Still warm, I think."