Battle Royal

by Lucy Parker

  Two major errors—and this time, neither of them could be blamed on Libby. The producers had set a ridiculously difficult time frame for the final round. If Libby had intended more mischief, she’d been far too busy at her own station to carry it out.

  All three contestants had crumbled in their own ways under the intense pressure.

  Sweating and racing against the clock, Libby had let the sweetness-and-light act slip several times. She’d snapped at crew members and dissolved into tears over a broken bottle of milk.

  Unfortunately, unlike the other two, she hadn’t let it affect her work—and when tested under fire, she managed to produce the best bake of the entire series.

  She’d gone the classic route—four tiers, white icing, fondant flowers, sugar lace—which was risky. If a contestant chose to play it safe with the design and forfeit the ingenuity points, the stronger-weighted execution had to be flawless.

  Visually, at least, this was.

  It was also, he suspected, aimed at appealing directly to his own tastes.

  He had absolutely zero respect or liking for Libby Hannigan, and if he weren’t fully focused on the frozen misery of the woman at his side, he’d be extremely irritated that she’d succeeded in her ploy.

  As Adam watched another piece of his cake break off and splatter to the countertop while he uttered a mild “Oh dear!” of consternation, Dominic couldn’t keep his eyes from jerking back toward Sylvie.

  She was staring fixedly at the unfolding action, but beneath the professional gloss of makeup, her face was set in harsh lines of tension. Her hands were continually curling into and out of fists at her sides.

  He touched her restless fingers—and she jerked away from him. Her hand pulled away, lightning fast, and lifted to clutch at the fabric of her shirt, over her heart.

  Obviously, even if a person had unexpectedly toppled headfirst and deeply in love, they weren’t going to be superglued to their partner. He designed cakes for besotted lovers on a regular basis, and they rarely sat through the meetings entwined like octopi. He was currently the happiest he’d ever been because of Sylvie, and he got a ridiculous amount of pleasure from even her most casual touches. But he still needed space, and so did she. Earlier in the week, she’d been tired, getting over the food poisoning, and when he’d reached for her on the couch, she’d mustered the energy to open one eye and nudge his hand away with her foot. He’d left her alone. End of story.

  Although admittedly slightly galling when she’d subsequently smooched the cat.

  This was different. The violent swiftness of that withdrawal twanged straight at the chord of his worst memories, the deep-buried hurt he’d always despised himself for retaining.

  Reflexively, he took a step back.

  The remaining color leached from Sylvie’s cheeks. Her eyes were shadowed and deeply unhappy; briefly, she squeezed them shut as she released a shaky breath.

  He could see the apology in their darkened depths when she looked at him again. She reached out and touched his arm, stroking the pad of her thumb over his wrist.

  It was a featherlight touch, heedless of any watching eyes and cameras. Intimate.

  And trepidation had a sudden creeping, cold grip on his gut.

  Things continued to spiral downward during the final judging. Libby embedded one last tiny crystal on the top tier of her cake and set down her tweezers, while Adam and Emma stumbled over the finishing line in a Monty Python–level comedy of errors. If the production team managed to edit this footage to create any sense of uncertainty about the outcome, they ought to be in line for a BAFTA.

  The series villain was going home with the prize money.

  It was a teeth-gritting ending to a tumultuous series, and the most flagrant rewarding of self-serving behavior since the appointment of their current prime minister. But every episode was theoretically a blank slate, and they could only judge what was put on the table today. Libby’s cake was infinitely superior to the others.

  A shrewd-eyed Aadhya had Sylvie hold up her baton second, after Mariana had unenthusiastically cast her vote in Libby’s direction, extracting any tiny thread of drama that they could.

  Sylvie was a fundamentally good person with strong sense of ethics, who looked at the world and genuinely saw magic. She’d suffered deep losses in her life, but she still believed in happy endings. He didn’t want Libby to win, either, but it would be even more intolerable to Sylvie that someone could cheat and still prevail.

  However, Libby had prevailed today. The judging playbook was clear. So Dominic was genuinely surprised—and concerned—when Sylvie lifted her chin and voted for Emma.

  Dominic was left to break the tie and award the title to Libby, who fucking winked at him as if there had never been the slightest doubt from day one.

  If Adam hadn’t tripped over his own bootlaces and knocked Libby headfirst into the sink, the entire experience would have been irredeemable.

  They left the set in an atmosphere both tense and anticlimactic.

  As Zack handed Dominic a wipe to remove the light coating of powder on his forehead and nose, the makeup artist grimaced. “Another series when the biggest bitch on set takes home the prize. Even more unsatisfactory than the second season, when that pompous prick of a banker won.” He reached out and flicked an eyelash from Dominic’s cheek. “Fortunately, he was swallowed by a hippo at the safari park in Derbyshire last year. The universe always rights a wrong.”

  Dominic’s eyes were on Sylvie, who was listening silently to Mariana’s chatter, her body tauter than a quivering wire. At that casual revelation, however, he lowered the wipe. “He was swallowed by a hippo?”

  “I mean, he didn’t die,” Zack said carelessly. “He only went in from the waist up, and it spat him out again. Probably tasted rotten. I saw him on the news covered in tusk punctures. I expect it’s too much to hope that Libby wanders into a wildlife pen, but at least she’s unlikely to score the big endorsement deals. I’ve been keeping an eye on social media since the show started streaming, and she’s not popular with viewers. Everyone loves Emma and Adam. The shipping game is strong. Shame that didn’t work out.”

  Sylvie had broken away from Mariana and was coming toward them, not quite meeting Dominic’s gaze. She arrived in time to hear the conclusion of Zack’s gossip.

  “Did you notice them avoiding each other today? They hooked up the other night. And according to Suzie in catering—worst sex ever. Mutual agreement that the only pleasurable part was the postcoital shower. Apparently, the contestants’ hotel has massage jets. Their scalps got a pounding. The mattress did not.” He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “They were so cute together, too. Sometimes you don’t know the chemistry’s a fizz until you put it to the test.”

  Sylvie had been cheerfully invested in that budding love story for weeks. She frequently texted Pet with updates. And after all the hope and speculation and tongue-in-cheek bets with his sister, she heard out the demise of the great Operation Cake romance with not even a flicker of reaction.

  She was completely silent as they walked down to their dressing rooms. By the time they reached the locked doors, he was so bloody worried about her that he resorted to the meaningless small talk that usually tested his patience.

  “Not an ideal outcome for the series,” he said, pulling out his key. “Every superhero narrative would lead you to believe that fortune eventually turns its back on evil. A theory supported by the time Humphrey climbed the curtain rail and it collapsed before he could execute a carefully planned decapitation. However, apparently there’s an outside chance she’ll be inhaled by a large semiaquatic mammal, so there’s still hope.”

  Sylvie’s head was down as she unlocked her own door. “I can’t believe you voted for her.” Her voice was low. “She didn’t deserve to win.”

  He leaned his shoulder against his door and studied her profile. He said nothing for a moment. “Morally, no. She deserved to be catapulted headfirst into a sink full of red food coloring,
and I’m not sure that was an entirely accidental stumble from our mild-mannered professor. She’s an insincere opportunist and probably a cheat, but there was never solid proof, and we had to judge what was on the table today. Her work was far and away the best. You know that. Did Aadhya tell you to vote for Emma?”

  There wasn’t a trace of judgment in his tone, but Sylvie’s jaw tightened. She was worrying at the doorknob with her thumb. “No. Her wishing well was an ingenious idea. Right up my street. Just like Libby’s design was tailor-made to appeal to you. And you danced to her tune just as she intended.”

  That last accusation twisted in midair even as the words left her mouth, starting off knife-sharp and layered with acres of something that had nothing to do with Libby and Emma and this never-ending headache of a show. Ending in a hitch of breath.

  Everything about this was so unlike her. He was completely bewildered, and when he was unsure of himself, sparks of temper tended to stir. He had to bite back a taut response, but that defensive reflex vanished when her hands came up to cover her face.

  “Oh God.” She was trembling now. “I’m sorry.”

  He couldn’t take it anymore. Opening her door, he nudged them both inside, closed it behind them.

  With his hands over hers, cupping her face, he pressed his lips to her forehead. They stood there like that, completely still, until those gut-wrenching catches in her breathing stopped.

  “For the record,” he said then, with a lightness he didn’t remotely feel, “I don’t dance to anyone’s tune. I can do a lot of things with my hands. I make no similar claim about my feet.”

  Sylvie’s hands slipped down to his waist. Under any other circumstances, she’d have jumped to the obvious double entendre, but any teasing in her eyes was merely a sad flicker.

  “Sylvie.” Yesterday, she’d clutched his face on a busy street, in front of God knew how many watching eyes, and kissed him as if he were the only person on the planet. And today she’d walked in here as if she’d disappeared into a world of her own, and wherever she was right now, it was dark and lonely. Something in her eyes was deeply, bitterly alone, and a fist closed around his heart in a tight grip. “Sweetheart, what’s happened?”

  The first time he’d ever used that endearment in his life, but he barely noticed. Her fingers tightened, her eyes darkening with tumultuous emotion.

  “I . . .” Her face crumpled again, and he stroked his hands down her shoulders, back up to her cheeks.

  He’d been told repeatedly throughout his life that he was a difficult person to read, that he was unapproachable, intimidating, closed off. He could see why his reserve sometimes frustrated the people who cared about him—because the woman he fucking adored was drowning right in front of him, and even as she stood in his arms, she was pulling away.

  “I can’t—” Sylvie’s voice cracked. She was starting to shake again, and he made a rough sound in his throat. “I don’t—”

  Very slowly, she put her palms against his chest and turned her head to touch her cheek to his heart. It was a butterfly-soft movement; he could barely feel her weight against him.

  Foreboding was a cold trickle through his veins. His heartbeat was a fast, painful thud.

  When he lifted his hand to stroke her hair, he realized his own fingers weren’t entirely steady.

  Sylvie’s hand closed into a fist in his shirt, then, holding the fabric so tightly that her knuckles blanched.

  Somebody knocked on the door and it opened before either of them could react. Mariana stuck her head in, biting her lip. “Sorry to interrupt,” she murmured, her eyes softening on Sylvie’s averted face. “I did try next door first.”

  She’d also noticed Sylvie’s preoccupation during the shoot. She was far more accomplished at offering comfort than he was, but Sylvie had withdrawn from all friendly overtures.

  Mariana held up his phone. “You left this in the greenroom and it’s been going off repeatedly. I wasn’t intentionally nosy for once, but you’ve got a cluster of messages on the screen about an urgent situation at the bakery.”

  Without letting go of Sylvie, he reached out a hand and Mariana gave him the phone. “Thank you,” he said, and she nodded.

  With another glance at Sylvie and a brief pat on her back, she left them. Dominic grimaced. Five messages from Liam; the team was fulfilling a major order today and the primary oven had broken down. It had happened once before, an annoying quirk in the wiring that he’d managed to repair last time.

  Sylvie reached up and tipped the screen to see, then pushed away from him. Reflexively, he reached for her again, and she shook her head. Strands of brown, lavender, and pink hair had come loose from her plait. She shoved them behind her ear. Her body was still racked with quiet shivering.

  “Your staff need you,” she said in a low voice.

  “You need me.” The response emerged strongly, from the very heart of him. Her eyes jumped back to his. There was a sudden hard knot in his throat. “And I need you.”

  Her lips parted. Drawing in another long, quivering breath, she reached up and touched her palm to his cheek, gently cradling his face. She ran her thumb along his bottom lip, tugging it slightly before her hand fell away.

  “How can I feel this much so fast?” she whispered. “I can’t even remember looking at you and not feeling like this. And when I try to imagine my life without you now—”

  Her hands fisted again.

  That almost anguished whisper had hit him directly in the gut. And the heart.

  It had also ended on a fairly alarming note.

  “Sylvie—”

  “You have to go,” she said, backing away. Looking around with something suddenly close to panic, she grabbed her bag and coat.

  He caught her hand, and she turned and looked at him.

  He recognized what was in her eyes, then, and his grip tightened.

  “Please.” Sylvie looked down at his fingers and brought his hand to her mouth. As she had once before, she kissed his thumb, and his jaw flexed. “I just—I need to think.”

  He let her go. A year ago, while drinking at a bar with Liam after his sous-chef’s latest breakup, he’d drunkenly referred to Sylvie as a fairy, to his friend’s endless delight and recurrent teasing. She slipped lightly away now, in that moment somehow as ephemeral as the magical lore she loved.

  With her hazel eyes deep and dark with fear.

  Sugar Fair

  Where the Dark Forest welcomes all those in need.

  Most likely, you already know, deep down, what you want. What you need. And what’s right.

  Beneath these branches, may it always become clear in the dark of night.

  And may Jay retire his poetry pen as soon as possible.

  Sylvie had once looked at Dominic and seen a man without feeling. Cold, hard, impenetrable.

  That felt like a different life. When she looked at him now—when she woke in the night and lay next to the warmth of his skin, tracing the lines of his face and body with eyes and lips and fingertips—she felt so much that it overwhelmed her.

  It terrified her.

  The moment the door had closed behind Jay yesterday . . . She’d forgotten how it really felt when the ground suddenly dropped out beneath her and she was left reeling in the cold and dark, alone.

  How badly it hurt sometimes to love so fiercely—and to have it torn away.

  And she’d walked into the studio this morning and seen Dominic. Dominic, who was rapidly becoming the center point of her life. Dominic, whom she was giving—unexpectedly, without plan or any prescience at all—the power to rip the remains of her heart to shreds.

  She’d been scared to her bones, in that moment, how much he could hurt her as well.

  Instead, she’d hurt him.

  Notting Hill was busy and congested as usual, and the studio car had dropped her a block from the bakery. She’d walked blindly up the street toward Sugar Fair, and now just stood outside.

  Her haven, her safe place, today seemed wo
efully inadequate; she wanted strong arms and that deep, cynical voice saying things that filled her heart and made her cry. The arms she’d pushed away. The voice that had cracked, because she’d made him afraid, too.

  Her eyes stung.

  Before she went inside, she braced herself and checked her phone. No new messages. She hadn’t really expected Jay to return her texts, but the blank screen was another cold ache. Everything between them, years of friendship and loyalty and love, altered completely—irrevocably?—in a matter of seconds.

  So fucking quickly, life could take away everything that mattered.

  He was meant to be working on-site today while she was at the final. Whether he had done so remained to be seen.

  She pushed open the door, letting the warmth and sugary scents wash over her. Mabel was at her table, shaping a series of little candy people. She had full autonomy to go wherever her creative mind took her with the sugar craft and had randomly embarked on a Shakespeare kick. So far, she’d made the complete casts of Othello and Hamlet. Sylvie could see a small cauldron with two witches crouched beside it and a third taking shape in Mabel’s fingers. She was working her way through the tragedies.

  Which immediately sent Sylvie’s mind shooting straight back to Adam’s poor, sad Juliet and Iseult fiasco—and her own behavior in voting for Emma. Whose cake had been ingenious. Had been right up her street. And had been nowhere near the caliber of Libby’s.

  She had never let her personal feelings affect her professional behavior before. Dominic was right. She believed to her core that Libby was a cheat, and although she wasn’t quite nasty enough to hope the young woman was chomped by a hippopotamus, fingers crossed for a quick backhand from a baboon.

  But she’d undermined her own ethics today in voting as she had.

  She’d undermined a lot of things today that she held incredibly dear.

  Mabel had looked up without interest, but for once had not immediately returned her attention to her work. She was staring steadily at Sylvie as her busy fingers continued pulling and shaping, drawing out a hooked nose, a clawed hand.