Chapter 7 Trinity #2
"You built a business from nothing. You learned skills that feed people, bring them joy. You risk public humiliation to save work you believe in." He whispers with conviction. "These accomplishments make you my equal in every way that matters."
The sincerity in his tone makes my heart race. This isn't the manufactured romance the show's trying to create. This feels real. Substantial. Terrifying.
"Why does it matter to you? My financial situation, I mean."
"Because seeing you attacked for circumstances beyond your control triggered protective instincts I had not anticipated."
"Protective instincts?"
"I find myself invested in your success. In your wellbeing. In your happiness." He pauses, choosing words carefully. "This investment extends beyond strategic alliance."
My breath catches. "What kind of investment?"
"The kind that makes me want to learn every technique you use to create perfect bread texture. The kind that makes me notice when you laugh at your own jokes. The kind that makes me consider what it would mean to have someone trust me with their dreams as well as their safety."
The kitchen feels smaller suddenly. More intimate.
"Korgan..."
"I realize this complicates the artificial timeline this show imposes. But I believe honesty serves us better than performance."
"So this is honesty?"
"Yes." He reaches across the counter, his fingers brushing mine. "This is me telling you that watching someone attack your character made me want to demonstrate exactly how an orc deals with threats to someone under his protection."
"And how does an orc deal with such threats?"
His smile carries dangerous promise. "Thoroughly. Creatively. Memorably."
I laugh despite myself, the first genuine laughter since the scandal broke. "Remind me never to get on your bad side."
"Impossible. You make cinnamon rolls. You are permanently on my good side."
The tea warms me from the inside, but it's Korgan's steady presence that makes the panic finally recede. For the first time in months, I feel like maybe everything might actually work out.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Always."
"When you defended me today... did you mean what you said about honor and battle-worth?"
"Every word."
"Even knowing that I might not be able to return whatever feelings you're developing?"
His expression doesn't change. "Even then. Your worth is not dependent on reciprocating my interest."
How is this man real?
"But I think..." I take a shaky breath. "I think I might be developing feelings too. Despite the circumstances. Despite the cameras. Despite everything."
"Despite or because of?"
"What do you mean?"
"Sometimes adversity reveals character more clearly than comfort does. Perhaps we are discovering each other precisely because of the circumstances, not despite them."
I study his face, noting the way his usual stoic mask has softened completely. The way his eyes track my every expression like he's memorizing them.
"Are you saying the show is working? That we're actually falling for each other?"
"I am saying," he replies carefully, "that what began as strategy has become something else entirely. Something worth protecting."
"Even if it's messy? Even if it's complicated?"
"Especially then."
I reach for his hand properly this time, intertwining our fingers and marveling at how perfectly they fit together despite the size difference.
"Okay," I whisper. "Let's see where this goes."
His smile transforms his entire face, revealing glimpses of the man behind the warrior's facade. "Battle-honor and cinnamon rolls?"
"Battle-honor and cinnamon rolls."
And for the first time since arriving on this show, I feel like I might actually have a chance at winning something more valuable than money.
The tea leaves us both restless, or maybe it's the conversation that has my nerves humming. When Korgan suggests a walk, I don't hesitate to follow him out of the kitchen and into the maze of darkened set pieces that transform the studio into a fantastical backdrop during filming hours.
Without the blazing lights and constant camera presence, the place feels different. More intimate. Like we're exploring some abandoned theme park together.
"This way." Korgan navigates between fake castle walls and artificial trees with surprising confidence. "I mapped the layout my first night here."
"Of course you did." I duck under a low-hanging prop branch. "Military training?"
"Common sense. Never enter unfamiliar territory without understanding the exits."
The practical nature of his thinking makes me smile. Everything with Korgan comes back to strategy, preparation, survival. Even romance apparently requires tactical planning.
We emerge into a small clearing surrounded by painted backdrops depicting some fantasy forest. Fairy lights strung between the fake trees cast everything in warm amber glow, probably left on from earlier filming.
It's accidentally romantic in a way that feels more genuine than any of the carefully orchestrated date locations production has designed.
"Better," Korgan says, settling onto a prop log that's probably made from reinforced foam. "No microphones."
I join him, our shoulders touching. "Are you sure? They might have hidden surveillance everywhere."
"Let them watch. After today, I doubt they will use footage that makes me appear thoughtful."
"Why not?"
"Thoughtful orcs do not generate the same ratings as savage ones."
The casual way he says it makes my chest tighten. "Is that what they want from you? Savage?"
"They want authenticity that confirms human expectations. Noble savage, dangerous but controllable, exotic but ultimately harmless." His voice has bitter amusement. "An orc who defends human women fits their narrative. An orc who thinks critically about human society does not."
"That's horrible."
"That's television."
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, listening to the distant hum of air conditioning and the occasional footstep from crew members working late shifts.
"Can I ask you something personal?" I venture.
"More personal than my feelings about your financial situation?"
"Different personal." I turn to face him more directly. "What's your home like? Before all this?"
His expression shifts, becoming more guarded. "Which home?"
"The one you miss."
"Ah." He's quiet for so long I wonder if he'll answer. "I miss the forge most. My clan's territory included an old mining settlement, abandoned by humans decades ago. We converted the metalworking facilities, improved them. I spent most of my youth there, learning to shape iron."
"You're a blacksmith?"
"Was. Before politics required different skills." He examines his hands in the fairy lights. "Good hands for metalwork. Patient. Precise."
I think about those same hands steadying me during challenges, the sensitive way he handles delicate objects. "Do you miss it?"
"Every day."
"Why did you leave?"
Another long pause. When he speaks,I feel the heaviness.
"I made choices that cost my clan political standing.
Lost territory disputes. Failed to secure trade agreements that would have strengthened our position.
" He looks directly at me. "I volunteered for this show because success here might restore some of that standing.
Prove that orcs can integrate successfully with human society. "
"No pressure."
"None at all," he agrees dryly.
"What kind of choices?"
"The kind that prioritize individual conscience over collective benefit."
His deflection tells me there's more to the story, but I don't push. We've both shared enough painful truths for one evening.
"What about you?" he asks. "What do you miss about home?"
Home. The word carries so much weight.
"Sunday mornings at the bakery. Before we open, when it's just me and the ovens and the smell of rising dough. No customers, no stress, just... creation."
"You work Sundays?"
"I work every day. Have to." I pull my knees up, wrapping my arms around them. "Small-town business means you're always on. People know where you live, when you're open, what your family situation is."
"That sounds intrusive."
"It is. But it's also support, in a weird way. When my mentor died, Eleanor, the woman who helped me to bake, the entire town showed up for her funeral with casseroles and offers to help with the bakery transition."
"This mentor was important to you."
"She saved my life." The words come out more intense than I intended. "I was eighteen, just graduated high school, completely lost. My parents wanted me to go to college, get a 'real' career, but I had no idea what I wanted to do."
"And then?"
"And then I smelled Eleanor's bread from three blocks away and followed my nose like some cartoon character. She was this tiny seventy-year-old woman with flour permanently embedded under her fingernails and the most incredible laugh."
Korgan shifts slightly, angling toward me. "She hired you?"
"She fed me first. This massive cinnamon roll, still warm, with coffee that could wake the dead. Then she handed me an apron and said, 'If you're going to hang around my kitchen, you might as well learn something useful.'"
"Practical woman."
"The most practical. She taught me everything—recipes, business management, how to read customers, how to handle suppliers who think they can shortchange the naive girl with the failing bakery."
"Failing?"
"Eleanor's health was declining when I started. Arthritis, vision problems, customers drifting away because consistency suffered. I thought I was just helping out, but really I was taking over gradually."
"She planned this."
"Oh, absolutely. Eleanor never did anything accidentally." I smile at the memory. "When she died, I learned she'd been restructuring her will for months, leaving me the bakery and all her equipment. Along with her debts."
"Ah."