Page 78 of Knot Your Sugar

"Isn't that a good thing?" I ask, a defensive edge creeping into my voice.

"Independence is a wonderful thing, my love," she says softly. "But sometimes, I think you’ve confused independence with isolation. You’ve built your walls so high trying to protect yourself, that you’ve forgotten how to let anyone in. How to trust. How to… connect."

"Alphaswantto control, Mom," I argue, the old, familiar refrain rising to the surface. "They want to possess. It’s their nature."

"Is it, Elena? Or is that just the story you've been telling yourself for so long that you've started to believe it's the only truth?" She pauses, and I can hear her settling into her chair. "These men, these alphas... they were clumsy, maybe a little overbearing in their concern. Alphas can be like that sometimes,all good intentions and zero finesse." Her voice grows gentler. "But from what you've told me, sweetheart, it sounds like they genuinely care about you. Enough to be concerned for your safety, even if they expressed it like emotional bulldozers."

I hear her sigh softly through the phone. "The way you sounded when you called me the other day, it reminded me of myself when I first met your father. That mix of excitement and joy..." Her voice turns melancholic. "We both know how that story ended, and I'd die before I'd want you to repeat my mistakes. But Elena, I also don't want you to close yourself off to love because you're terrified of being hurt. These alphas you've described... they sound nothing like your father."

Her words, so simple, chip away at the icy wall of my certainty.

"You won't know what might be possible, Elena, unless you talk to them," she continues, her voice gentle but insistent. "Honestly. Openly. Without the fear, without the anger, without all those old stories getting in the way."

"And say what, Mom?" I ask, my voice laced with weary sarcasm. "Sorry I tried to gaslight you into thinking you were fetishizing me, when really, you were right—not that you needed further confirmation, since I jumped Dorian in the bushes."

She actually laughs at that, a warm sound that makes the tight knot of misery in my chest loosen just a fraction. "Maybe lead with something a little less… dramatic, honey," she suggests, a smile in her voice. "Honesty, real honesty, about what you’re feeling, what you’re afraid of… it’s usually a pretty good place to start."

I look down at my open suitcase, at the tangible evidence of my fear, my shame, my impulsive decision to run. "I don’t know, Mom," I whisper, the fight draining out of me, leaving behind a vast, echoing emptiness. "I’m not sure I can make it here anymore. Not after today. Who’s going to trust me now? Who’s going to hire a baker who literally imploded during thebiggest competition of her career?" My voice cracks. "And even if someone would, I can't keep lying to people about what I am. But I'm terrified to tell the truth."

"Sweetheart, people forgive mistakes when they understand they came from fear, not malice," she says gently, her voice like a warm blanket around my frayed nerves. "Be honest with them. Accept who you are, all of who you are. You're not just an omega, Elena. You're someone with incredible talent and a heart of gold. When people see the real you, that's what they'll remember."

We talk until the knot in my chest slowly unravels, her steady voice gradually quieting the panicked voices in my head. And by the time we finally hang up, I’m no longer so sure about my desperate escape plan.

Chapter forty

James

I stand behind a red curtain on the same stage we greeted the judges on day 1. Around me, backstage, voices whisper nervously, and sugar perfumes the air in every conceivable form.

Normally, this is where I thrive: the adrenaline, the pressure, the hush before the spotlight finds me. I live for this.

But today, it’s different. Today, the usual anticipation is overshadowed by the turmoil consuming my thoughts. Elena. Disqualified.

The news ripped through the competition area like a shockwave an hour ago. I can feel people watching me with pity, probably thinking I'm some pathetic alpha cuck. Not that their opinions matter, the anger and guilt consuming me for failing to prevent this disaster are far more overwhelming.

We tried to warn her dammit, but she wouldn't listen. She didn't believe us. And now this. It's so damn unfair. How was she supposed to control what must have been a heat spike when she'd never experienced one before? No medication. No support system. She just got thrown into this completely unprepared.

We failed her. I failed her.

"James Reynolds!" a voice calls from the stage, jerking me from my guilt-ridden reverie.

Right. Showtime.

I take a steadying breath and force myself to channel this raw emotion into something that might actually make a difference. Time to summon my signature charming-rogue smile, the one that usually works wonders on judges and spectators.

With theatrical flourish I don't entirely feel, I wheel out not one, buttwogleaming stainless-steel carts draped with pristine white linen, their contents tantalizingly hidden. The crowd gasps in amazement while I catch a flicker of surprise on the judges' faces: Chen, Parker, and... is that Pierre Dubois? Elena's grumpy mentor has apparently replaced Dorian, his face a mask of stoic French disapproval.

Interesting. That's an unexpected development.

"Welcome, judges," I begin, my voice smooth and confident, betraying none of the internal turmoil. "For my final presentation, I've decided to offer you not one, but two distinct yet thematically linked culinary experiences."

I pause for dramatic effect, letting the anticipation build. Then, with a flourish, I whip the cloth off the first cart, revealing my first creation.

It's a symphony of textures and temperatures: crisp, paper-thin apple crisps dusted with cinnamon-vanilla sugar; a velvety Calvados-infused apple mousse set in delicate spun-sugar nests; warm, buttery cubes of sautéed honeycrisp apples; a quenelle oftart green apple sorbet; and a drizzle of glistening, slow-cooked cider caramel.

"My Golden Apple Fantasia," I announce with a grand gesture, "is an exploration of the apple in its myriad forms. We have the crunch of the baked, the silk of the mousse, the warmth of the sautéed, the chill of the sorbet. Each element is prepared using a distinct technique, designed to highlight a different facet of this humble yet endlessly versatile, fruit."

I walk them through the intricate techniques involved, the precise temperature control required for the perfect apple crisp, the delicate balance of aeration in the mousse, the exact moment the caramel reaches that ideal deep amber hue. They listen intently, expressions carefully neutral, though I catch a flicker of impressed surprise in Chen’s eyes. I can almost hear the crowd's stomachs echoing in response to each explanation.

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