Lila
The trial room smelled like butter and cinnamon—warm, rich, deceptively comforting.
Long tables stretched across the marble floor, already dusted with flour. Each station bore a small placard with a candidate’s name and a challenge directive: Create a dessert that reflects your roots.
I stared at the words for a moment longer than I should’ve. Not because I didn’t know what to make—but because I did.
My hands moved on instinct. Cardamom. Cinnamon. Brown sugar. I rolled the dough gently between my palms, remembering late nights in the kitchen with my mother, laughing as we tried to make do with ingredients we couldn’t afford.
It was a similar pastry to the one I’d baked for Damon. The one I’d left with a note I never signed.
It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t dressed in sugared viol
