Page 45 of Knot Your Sugar

Sunlight dances through the leaves, casting flickering patterns on the path as I follow the makeshift signs. My slightly lopsided (but hopefully still delicious) creation is nestled carefully in its carrier as I head down a winding path that cuts through a quiet stretch of woods at the edge of the festival grounds.

After a few minutes, the trees part, and I step into a secluded alcove bursting with late-summer blooms. A stone fountain murmurs softly nearby, and a wrought-iron table set for two waits beneath the dappled shade of cherry blossoms. Beyond it all, Lake Vienne glitters in the sunlight, serene and breathtaking.

And there, already seated, is my assigned judge. Dorian, of course.

Pink-shadowed light plays across his white dress shirt as he gazes out at the water, looking both unfairly handsome and thoughtful, like he’s contemplating the meaning of pastry and existence in the same breath.

"Elena," he says, his voice a smooth baritone that still manages to send a shiver down my spine despite my medication and my best efforts at nonchalance. He rises as I approach, every inch the polished CEO, yet there’s a warmth in his gray eyes that’s purely Dorian. "Please, join me."

I set my tartlet on the table, trying to ignore the way my heart does a little nervous flutter-kick. "It’s beautiful out here," I manage, my voice hopefully not betraying the internal monologue currently screaming,‘Don’t think about the woods!’

"I find it conducive to… thoughtful evaluation," he says, his lips curving into a small, enigmatic smile. He gestures for me to sit. "Your creation looks delightful. The aroma alone is quite something."

I offer him a small, hopeful smile. "Lavender-honey-berry tartlet, with foraged blackberries, wild strawberries, a hint of mint, and candied wild rose petals." I present it with as much professional composure as I can muster, trying to ignore the fact that the last time we were this close, we were… considerably less composed. And significantly less clothed.

He takes a bite, his eyes closing for a moment in concentration. Then another. The silence stretches, my palms are sweating.

"Technically, Elena," he says finally, setting down his fork, "this is exquisite. The crust is perfectly flaky, the lavender-honey infusion in the cream is subtle yet distinct, and the berries are a wonderful counterpoint. The candied rose petals are a lovely touch too." He pauses, his gaze meeting mine, direct and searching. "It's a beautiful, well-executed pastry."

"But?" I prompt, bracing myself. There’s always a ‘but’ with judges. Especially billionaire judges who’ve seen you at your most…uninhibited.

He leans back, swirling an imaginary glass of wine. "But," he repeats softly, "I can’t help but feel… you’re holding something back. Creatively. There’s a precision here, an adherence to technique, which is commendable. But where is the…fire? The unexpected? The element that makes it uniquely, unmistakably Elena?"

His words, gentle as they are, land like a perfectly aimed dart.

"It’s difficult," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper, "to be bold when you’re constantly worried about… judgment. About not meeting expectations." Especially when you’re an omega in a society that unofficially discourages you from pursuing a career, I might even add.

Dorian nods slowly, his expression thoughtful. "I understand that fear. When I first took over Beaumont Patisserie, the weight of my family’s legacy, the expectation to uphold generations of tradition… it was suffocating. I spent years trying to replicate my grandfather’s success, adhering to his methods." He looks out at the lake, a flicker of melancholy in his eyes. "And our profits stagnated. Our innovation flatlined. It wasn’t until I started… breaking the rules, infusing my own vision, my own, sometimes unconventional, ideas into the Beaumont brand that things truly began to change. ThatItruly began to find my own voice, not just as a custodian."

He turns back to me, his gaze intense. "Tradition is a wonderful foundation, Elena. But true artistry, true innovation, comes from daring to build something new upon it. Something that is yours, and yours alone."

Something about his words sticks. Creativity, experimenting, breaking free from the rigid confines of classic pastry. That's something I long for.

"I… I do have an idea," I confess, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "For the final competition. It’s… unconventional. It’s the kind of thing Pierre would probably get hysterical over." I hesitate. "It’s… a pie. But not just any pie. It’s more." I can’t bring myself to describe the specifics that have been brewing in the back of my mind. It feels too vulnerable to expose fully yet, even to Dorian’s understanding gaze.

But his eyes light up with a genuine, almost boyish enthusiasm. "That sounds incredible."

"It could be a complete disaster."

"Or it could be genius." He squeezes my hand gently. "The only real failure is not trying."

"Easy for you to say. You already have your empire."

"And you think I got it to where it is today by playing it safe?" He chuckles, but there's something vulnerable in his expression. "Every day I wake up wondering if this is the day everyone realizes I'm just winging it. That fear never goes away, Elena. You just learn to dance with it."

The admission surprises me. Dorian Beaumont, uncertain? Afraid?

"Why are you telling me this?" I ask softly.

"Because I recognize something in you." He steps closer and grabs my hands, his thumb tracing across my knuckles. "That spark. That desire to create something meaningful, not just profitable. Don't let society dim it."

The garden seems to fade around us, narrowing to just this moment. "The other judges might not see it that way."

"Then forget the other judges. Create for yourself. For the pure joy of it." His voice drops to something more intimate. "Make something completely, fearlessly yours."

"You make it sound simple," I whisper.

"Simple doesn't mean easy." He releases my hand, but the warmth lingers.

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