Page 67 of Knot Your Sugar

"You obviously know I’ve been watching your work throughout the festival, Elena," Dorian says after a while. He’s looking out over the water, his profile sharp and thoughtful against the hazy backdrop of the distant mountains. "As I’ve told you before, your technical skills are impeccable. That was never in question. And this morning, your tarte tatin confirmed what I already knew you had in you: your creativity." He gives a small shake of his head, almost despite himself. "The slight excess of sugar didn’t matter. What stood out was the vision behind it. The way you took something so rooted in tradition and gave it a fresh, modern twist…on the spot. That kind of instinct is rare. Exceedingly rare."

The unexpected praise warms me, despite the churning anxiety in my gut. "Thank you."

"Which brings me," he says, turning to face me fully now, his expression serious, "to my proposition." He pauses. "If you remember, I told you I was here for professional reasons the night we met. Beyond the honor of judging," he continues, "my goal was to identify promising new talent. Beaumont Patisserie is always seeking individuals who can help us continue to innovate and set the standard for excellence in the baking world."

He pauses, just long enough for the weight of it to settle. "I’d like to offer you a position within Beaumont Patisserie, Elena."

I blink, completely caught off guard. My mind, which had been bracing for a subtle, perhaps even more insidious, version of Cole’s earlier ‘omega intervention,’ struggles to switch gears. "A… position? What?"

"We're launching a new boutique patisserie concept in Chicago this fall," he explains, his eyes lighting up with a genuine, undeniable passion as he speaks. "Small, exclusive, a culinary laboratory of sorts, focused on creating unique, signature offerings that push traditional boundaries. Think…haute couture, but for pastry." He smiles, a quick, charming flash of teeth. "It’s precisely the kind of work at which you'd excel, Elena."

"I… I don't know what to say," I stammer, and it’s the honest truth. Of all the bombshells I’d anticipated today, a life-altering job offer fromtheDorian Beaumont definitely wasn't on the bingo card.

"You'd have significant creative control over your contributions, of course," he continues smoothly, as if he’s already mapped out how it's going to play out. "A highly competitive salary, naturally. Comprehensive benefits. A generous housing allowance to facilitate your relocation to Chicago." He pauses, his gaze sweeping over my stunned face. "It's an unparalleled opportunity, Elena, to showcase your unique talent on an international stage. To make a real name for yourself."

As he outlines more of the details (the state-of-the-art kitchen, the dedicated sourcing team for rare ingredients, the potential for international travel and collaboration with other Beaumont artisans) a cold, sinking feeling begins to replace the initial shock, growing steadily in the pit of my stomach. This isn't just a job offer. This isn't purely about my talent, my potential. This is… this is Dorian Beaumont, the powerful, influential alpha, gathering what he wants, what he’s decided now belongs to him.

"I see so much potential in you, Elena," he says, his voice warming, becoming more intimate. "The way your mind works, the way you approach flavor, your sheer, unadulterated passion… Working together, we could create something truly extraordinary."

Working together.The words hang in the air, shimmering with promise, laden with subtext. The subtext, at least to my suddenly hyper-aware, deeply suspicious omega-in-denial brain, is crystal clear:working under me. For me.An alpha,suspecting he’s found his omega, his scent match, already trying to arrange my life, wrapping the whole gilded proposition in undeniably tempting terms to make it irresistible.

Anger, cold and sharp, simmers beneath my skin. So, this is it. This is exactly what I’ve always feared. The subtle, insidious control. The velvet-gloved manipulation. He’s pretty damn sure I’m an omega, his omega, and he’s already trying to orchestrate my future, to keep me close.

But I want myownbakery. Myownrecipes. Myownname above the door, not be another brilliant but ultimately anonymous artisan contributing to the vast Beaumont empire. I don't want a gilded cage, no matter how enticing.

"Dorian, I… I’m incredibly flattered, really, but—" I begin, trying to formulate a professional refusal that won’t completely incinerate this unexpected, yet terrifying bridge.

"You don't need to give me an answer now, Elena," he interrupts smoothly. "Of course not. This is a significant decision. I wouldn't expect an immediate response." Another classic alpha trait: assuming he knows what’s best, effortlessly controlling the conversation to suit his agenda. The polite, almost imperceptible steamroll. "All I ask is that you think about it. Consider the possibilities. The offer will, of course, remain open after the competition concludes. Take your time."

I press my lips together, a fresh wave of annoyance surging through me at being so skillfully managed. "Okay," I say tightly, my gaze flicking toward the path back to the main festival grounds. "I’ll… I'll think about it."

"Elena." His voice, softer now, stops me as I begin to turn away. "There's… one more thing. If you have another moment."

I sigh, a small, involuntary sound of exasperation, and look back over my shoulder, trying to keep the rising tide of resentment from my expression. "Yes?"

"About what Cole discussed with you earlier…"

Irritation, hot and immediate, flares in my chest, sharp as a paper cut. "Yousaid," I practically hiss, "Dorian, that what you wanted to discuss hadnothingto do with that."

"I know," he says, and he at least has the decency to look abashed for a fraction of a second. "And it was. The job offer stands on its own merit, Elena, regardless of anything else. This is merely… an addendum. A separate, but equally important, consideration."

"I'm not interested in discussing it further," I state, my voice like ice. "I told Cole how I feel. I thought I made myself perfectly clear."

"Just hear me out, Elena. Please." He takes a tentative half-step closer, then seems to think better of it, stopping himself. Smart. "This isn't just about us, about what we think we might have discovered. It's aboutyourwellbeing,yourhealth and safety, especially now, during what is a crucial, high-stakes moment in your career."

I cross my arms and wait, my jaw tight.

"If what we suspect is true," he continues, his voice low, earnest, almost pleading, "if youareexperiencing a late omega presentation, then you could face certain… biological challenges… very likely during tomorrow's final. Challenges that might be significantly easier for you to navigate if you understood them better. If you were… prepared." He holds my gaze, his own earnest and unwavering. "All we're asking, Elena, allI'masking, is for a chance for us to talk it through. Together. Tonight. Just to make sure you have all the information, all the support you might need."

"So I can be ganged up on by three concerned, overbearing alphas who think they know what’s best for me?" The words are out before I can stop them.

His expression softens unexpectedly, a flicker of something that looks remarkably like genuine empathy. "So you can makeinformed decisions, Elena. About your own body. Your own health. Your own future. Nothing more. And certainly, nothing less." He pauses, then adds, "And, from a purely strategic standpoint, consider this: addressing it tonight, getting it out in the open, frees your mental space for the competition tomorrow. Allows you to focus completely on your craft. A win-win, wouldn't you agree?"

I hate that he’s right. I hate that I’m even considering it. But the thought of spending the entire night before the final obsessing over what they mightdowith their knowledge, over whether I'm going to spontaneously combust into a heat-fueled puddle of omega hormones in the middle of the final… it’s at least equally unbearable.

"Fine," I concede, the single word feeling like a monumental surrender. "Where and when?"

"The Harborview," he replies immediately, and the fact that they’ve already chosen a fancy venue only heightens my feeling of being controlled. "Eight o'clock. It will be… quiet. Discreet."

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