Page 81 of Knot Your Sugar

"Rules were definitely not designed for a situation like this," I reply, allowing myself a small, charming smile. "But the fact remains, Elena Avery was disqualified for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with her extraordinary baking talent. Her creation, this tart right here," I gesture again to Elena’s masterpiece, its delicate beauty a stark contrast to the uproar I’ve just caused, "is, by your own admission, 'the single best thing presented in this entire competition'. It deserves to be judged on its merit.Shedeserves to be judged on her merit."

Parker stands, indignation radiating from him like heat from an overworked oven. "This is outrageous! You've manipulated the entire competition!"

"No," a familiar voice calls from the crowd. "He's demonstrated integrity. Shocking, I know."

All heads swivel as a new voice, calm and authoritative cuts through the tension. Dorian Beaumont. He strides onto the stage from the wings, immaculate as always, his presence radiating an aura of quiet power that instantly commands thearea. What in the fresh hell ishedoing here? I thought he’d recused himself, vanished into his billionaire Batcave.

"Mr. Beaumont," Chen says, surprise evident in her voice. "We weren’t expecting you."

"My apologies for the intrusion," Dorian says smoothly, his silver-gray eyes sweeping across the judges, then lingering for a moment on me, a flicker of respect in their depths. "But I felt compelled to… offer a point of clarification. A perspective, if you will." He gently takes the microphone from my hand, then turns to face the audience, his voice resonating with aristocratic confidence. "I have had the distinct pleasure of tasting Miss Avery’s work on multiple occasions throughout this festival. Her talent, her innovation, her dedication to her craft, are, quite frankly, exceptional."

He pauses, then turns back to the judges, his expression serious. "Her disqualification, as Mr. Reynolds so eloquently pointed out, was due to circumstances entirely unrelated to her baking abilities. To deny her the consideration she so clearly deserves, simply on a technicality… that, to me, seems not only unjust, but also a disservice to the very spirit of this competition, which is, after all, about celebrating culinary excellence." He then looks pointedly at the pie. "And it is worth noting that this particular creation achieved its acclaimwithoutmy potentially biased input, as I was not part of this final judging panel."

Pierre Dubois, who has remained silent and stony-faced throughout this entire drama, finally speaks, his voice a low, rumbling growl. "I had no idea Elena was the maker of this tart," he admits. "I expected her to create my Lakeview Apple Pie with her own twist, but this..." He pauses, studying the creation with what looks like paternal pride. "The tart is exceptional. The work of a true artist. It deserves to be judged as such."

My heart gives a small, grateful leap. Pierre, who Elena kept referring to as the curmudgeonly traditionalist, is defending her innovation. Wonders, it seems, will never cease.

I step forward again, taking the microphone, my earlier bravado replaced by a sincerity, a passion, I didn’t know I possessed. "Baking," I say, my voice surprisingly emotional, "at its best, is an act of generosity. It’s about sharing something beautiful, something delicious, something made with care and with heart, with others. Elena Avery embodies that spirit. She is, without a doubt, one of the most talented, passionate, and inspiring bakers I have ever had the privilege of competing alongside. And that," I look at the judges, my voice ringing with conviction, "is why I must respectfully decline the championship title."

A stunned silence, then the spectators erupt. Cheers, applause, gasps of disbelief. The crowd is on its feet, a joyful wave of support washing over the stage. And then, a chant begins, soft at first, then growing louder, more insistent: "E-le-na! E-le-na! E-le-na!"

The judges, looking more than a little flustered, exchange panicked glances then huddle together, conferring in urgent whispers backstage as the public pressure mounts.

Dorian moves to stand beside me, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. "That was… remarkably noble, James," he says, his voice low. "And remarkably reckless. I confess, I am… impressed."

"Someone had to do the right thing," I say, shrugging, though my heart is still pounding a frantic rhythm. "Besides," I add, a grin breaking through, "my father always said a Reynolds man knows how to make an exit. Though I’m not entirely sure this is what he had in mind."

Dorian actually chuckles at that, a warm, genuine sound. "Maybe not. But in this instance, I suspect he might approve."

After what feels like forever, but is probably only a few long minutes, the judges return to the stage, their expressions resolved. Chen steps up to the microphone, a hush falling over the expectant crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she begins, her voice regaining its usual professional poise, "after careful consideration of the… unique circumstances presented to us today, and in light of Mr. Reynolds's extraordinary gesture and the undeniable merit of the pastry in question…" She pauses, taking a deep breath. "The judges have unanimously decided to reverse Miss Elena Avery’s earlier disqualification."

The roar from the crowd is deafening. I feel a grin, wide and slightly goofy, spread across my own face. We did it. Elena did it.

"Which means," Chen continues, once the applause has died down to a dull roar, "based on the exceptional quality of her mixed fruit tart, we are delighted to award first place in the Lakeview Baking Festival Grand Final to Miss Elena Avery!"

More cheers, more applause, more ecstatic chaos. I catch Dorian’s eye, and he gives me a small, almost imperceptible nod of shared triumph.

"Additionally," Chen holds up a hand, quieting the crowd once more, "we also wish to recognize Mr. James Reynolds for his extraordinary sportsmanship, his integrity, and his unwavering commitment to fairness. Therefore, we are creating a special award for Ethical Excellence, which we are proud to present to Mr. James Reynolds."

More applause, and I duck my head, feeling a warmth spread through my chest that has nothing to do with stage lights or adrenaline. It’s nice. To be recognized not just for talent, but for… well, for trying to be a decent human being. A novel experience, that.

"The only remaining question," Chen concludes, her smile warm and genuine as she looks out over the still-cheering crowd,"is… whereisMiss Avery? Does anyone know where Elena is, so she can come and claim her championship?"

Chapter forty-three

Elena

"Where is Elena Avery?"

My heart launches into a panicked drum solo against my ribs. I’m rooted to the spot at the edge of the crowd, my trusty purse still clutched in my hand. My suitcase? Oh, that’s probably enjoying an impromptu vacation by the festival entrance after I ditched it in my mad dash here. People are starting to look around, a confused murmur rippling through them.

Me, I’m still trying to wrap my head around what just happened. One minute I was at the bus station, the next, I was racing back here, only to catch the tail end of a mic squealing with feedback… and then James’s voice. Did he really just give up his championship, for me? Did the judges actually reverse my disqualification? And Dorian— did he just stand up for me too?

"Elena Avery," Chen repeats, her voice cutting clean through the noise in my head.

Right. Okay, Elena. Deep breath. In. Out. Try not to trip over your own feet. It's now or never.

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