A/N: Here is the final chapter! It's very long, so. I hope you have a little time to read it! ;-;

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"A word before we disperse into our little groups of taste-testing with the guests," said Mr. Huang, clearing his throat before scanning the room with a smile. "I believe we can all agree on one thing. That this year's—that this three-day's worth of innovation and creativity has far paid off and exceeded our expectations of selected participants. All of you thirteen pastry chefs have outdone yourselves and that is something to be celebrated."

The organizers had returned to the raised platform after tasting their last pastry down the table and once again giving nothing but generous praise. This, assumed, was to be the event's closing speech.

"We're not done with this fulfilling event," Mr. Huang went right to subverting my expectations, declaring otherwise. "In memory of your progress and for actively participating in the rising development of fusion baking, we are extending an invitation to the Baker's Times' anniversary gala dinner to... all of you."

This was followed by a series of gasps and excited chatter spreading throughout the studio hall, stirring a fervent buzz from baker to baker. I'd peered up at my husband with what I supposed was the strangest smile I could manage—a wobbly wave in the form of lips trying to contain the excitement welling up within.

"Gala dinner! Food!" I whispered, nudging him in the side. He rolled his eyes, reaching down to pinch my nose. Sneeze.

"I can tell you're all very excited, but," Mr. Huang went on, clearing his throat, "the dinner is scheduled to be held tonight. Right here in the ballroom of this hotel—on floor fifty-six." Heads turned.

"I-isn't that the highest floor here?" I continued to tug at the sleeve of my husband's shirt. "Isn't this exciting? Though I have absolutely nothing to wear."

"Re-wear your clothes from yesterday or something. I can't have you wearing nothing when other people are around," said Xander with a shrug, earning several pokes to his abs.

Details of the gala dinner followed Mr. Huang's announcement, dished out by Chef Randy in a chirpy manner. Fortunately, guests, too, were welcome to join their respective profiles with a maximum of two from each patisserie. The limit was due to the presence of other renowned guests from the industry or general field of knowledge. Apparently, lead writers and critics from the Times were invited for added exposure of our bakeries and patisseries, leading me to think, for a moment, that I'd see Mr. Dempsey again after yesterday's illegal pudding transaction.

"They fired him, remember?" Xander was quick to add, dousing my candle in cold water. "Bunch of idiots."

"Maybe they were like: oh no! What a terrible mistake we've made! And hired him back immediately after," I offered, having my suspicions since I had, indeed, seen Mr. Dempsey on the phone with Mr. Yamazaki. "You never know. Most people don't see the importance of what they have until it's gone."

My husband proceeded to wrap me in his arms and did not let go until an hour later, when Giselle complained about exclusivity and wanted in on the hugs.

*

It would seem almost expected and reasonable that we end up seated with the pastry chefs of patisseries 'A' to 'C' in a table, meaning that Miss Rachel and pebble me (who weren't exactly the best of friends, if you haven't noticed ;-;) were in close proximity to one another. Hence, I was miles relieved to see that Miss Cuppie, the owner of 'Cuppie's Cupcakes', had been assigned to the same table as us two. Though, had it not been for Xander and Giselle's constant staring at the lady in pink seated directly across, I would have probably had an easier time.

"S-stop staring at her!" I panicked under my breath, poking the siblings on my right and left respectively. The three of us were dressed rather plainly next to everyone else at the table, who looked as though they had come prepared for such a grand event. "You're making everyone uncomfortable."

"Angel, have you seen anyone in this world—anyone—wear the colour of sex shop interiors on their dress?" Xander whispered in return, turning to me with lips that restrained bursts of laughter.

His sister was no different. "You can't mix neon colours from non-neon paint. Fluorescent colours can't be mixed from primary colours. Stupid bright colours can't come from the original colour wheel. They are anomalies."

Giselle had said this rather loudly, and not exactly to myself, but the person next to her—Cuppie's assistant—who appeared as though he was trying to get a sense of what Xander's sister was going on about. At this, I quickly swapped seats, placing her between Xander and myself before more forms of insult spewed out of her mouth with no such filter. In some ways, both siblings were very similar.

"W-well, it is kind of bright," I had admitted quietly, whispering with a lowered head. "But maybe that's what Miss Rachel likes! Don't judge others."

And as though the gods of rolling pins had heard my call, food was served the moment my sentence was completed, distracting rumbling tummies (Xander's and Giselle's) and calming down the storm that had been brewing in the distance. The appetiser was something tiny on a plate which was in my tummy by the time I noticed after a couple of nibbles. Though I'd expected my husband to be quietly grumbling about the portion size, I turned to see a strangely neutral expression on his face.

"I used to attend dinners like these. Almost every day. Very boring," he reassured, laughing a little. "Wait till they start emceeing and introducing famous people. Gets worse."

He wasn't wrong. As soon as we'd entered the entrée phase and were close to finishing it, a man appeared on the ballroom's stage—a makeshift platform raised several inches above the ground—and greeted the room before launching into a memorized thank-you speech to the event sponsors, company shareholders, and VIP guests for turning up.

Meanwhile, I was waiting to hear Mr. Dempsey's name, who I was hoping they'd invite as a special guest despite, well, despite the fact that he was no longer part of the company. After all, he did contribute much during his years as a critic and writer for the Times.

"And to the Stilton Corporation, who has been expanding our horizons and leading us with the right decisions for the past year seen tremendous growth in numbers and charts alike, we'd like to..."

I'd caught a noticeable pause in Xander's breathing. So familiar he was to me that a subtle change appeared at once, obvious to the eye. Though it hadn't necessarily struck me as an omen, I reached over, across Giselle's back, and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Are you... is there anything...?"

My husband lowered his head, in the middle of a thought. "It's nothing much. Let's finish up quickly and get back to our room?"

I nodded, noting that they were just about to serve the mains when the man on stage wrapped up his thank-you speech and someone else took his place. Chef Randy.

"Good evening everyone. I hope you're enjoying the food so far—there's more to come, including desserts made by Monsieur Moreau, the man himself," she began lightly. "Now as you all know, we are gathered here today to celebrate the Times' 30th anniversary, yes? But perhaps you may have noticed a couple of familiar or unfamiliar faces seated in tables amongst you and these are our nominees for this year's... Baker of the Year prize."

At once, the room fell oddly silent despite the initial buzz of chatter and activity, the general festive mood often present at anniversary dinner. I exchanged a look with my husband, unsure what this all would mean since they had, for the past couple of days, been trying to keep the topic out of the spotlight.

"In a minute's time, we will be announcing the prize awardee. Unfortunately, our primary event organizer, Mr. Yamazaki, is feeling slightly... under the weather tonight. In his place, I will be the acting presenter of the prize."

A single glance around the table confirmed my suspicions that were finally beginning to sink into my head. Their eyes, affixed on Chef Randy and lit by the light of the chandeliers above, held the resolve of people who'd gathered for the win. Miss Rachel fixed a stray curl of her hair; Mr. Andy straightened his tie; Cuppie wiped her mouth with a napkin; everyone had been gunning for the prize and judging from how prepared they had been, coming dressed and all for the dinner—gunning from the start of it all.

Shin was right. And it was exactly as Mr. Dempsey had said: everyone was complicit.

"And the Baker of the Year is..."

From where I was seated, pairs of eyes egged the words out of Chef Randy, waiting for a name with bated breath. The moment seemed almost mesmerizing; for one to have the attention of everyone else in the room and hold their breaths for a second too long.

"Miss Rachel Highland, owner of ARCD."

"Congratulations," Chef Randy went on with a smile, turning to Miss Rachel at my table. "Please, come up to the stage."

At once, her name was received by what seemed like never-ending applause and the dimming of lights to cast a single spotlight on our table, following her as she stood and walked gracefully towards the stage. It was a moment that seemed almost dream-like; to have the approval and acknowledgment of the room and not just about anything but of that which one loved to do and by the very field itself.

Tables of sponsors and shareholders stood as she passed, reaching out to shake her hand and congratulate Miss Rachel while cameramen stood before the stage, snapping away.

"Congrats on your title!" "Congratulations, Miss Highland." "Miss Highland, look this way please." "Miss Highland—"

It was odd. I couldn't seem to bring myself to look anywhere but her. My gaze remained fixed on her face, taking in the smile and the lights and the way she seemed so calm and in control as she walked up to Chef Randy and received a beautiful glass plaque in the shape of a three-tier cake and started on a speech I could not hear.

The last thing I seemed to want to do was return the gaze that I could see my husband fixing on me from the corner of my eye; or respond to the squeeze of my hand from Giselle beside me; even acknowledge the odd sinking in my chest. Doing any of those, I was sure would lead to the very same outcome.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

[Rachel]

I hadn't expected their writers and photographers to jump on board the moment I stepped off the stage and launch into a standing interview about my current sentiments and advice for aspiring bakers. Had I known this would happen and that an article about myself was due the next day, I would have had come prepared. Yet, despite the kind intentions of other pastry chefs and shareholders coming forth to congratulate me on my win, they did not seem to let up.

"Which do you think was your winning creation? Would that be the Coconut, Damask rose shortcake you made earlier today, or a culmination of all your originals to date?"

"Well," I had thought of cutting them off at the fifth question but decided on this being the last. "I suppose following what Chef Randy said earlier on stage, it really was all about being determined. Following my heart and the words of God has made me stronger and certain about myself and my skills in baking. Hence I don't think I had any winning creation in particular, but at least a spirit that embodies what a true baker should be. Never faltering in the face of adversities and not straying from the path that we have all been planned and decided to walk by Him."

Mid-sentence, I'd felt the constant vibration of my phone in my purse and had stolen a glance at the caller ID before taking it out. "Thank you for your amazing questions. They were all very well thought out. Excuse me while I take this..." Thank goodness. What perfect timing Trudy seemed to have all the time.

"Good evening, this is Rachel speaking."

"I hope I wasn't the first to congratulate you," she laughed on the other side, seeming to be in the best mood since quite a while. "You seem busy already either way. Ready to conquer the rest of everything?"

"Well you definitely aren't, Trudy," I sighed, heading out to a balcony of the ballroom and closing the doors behind. "I've been ambushed by who-knows-how-many writers and photographers by now. And... about the plan..."

"So excited already? Haha I mean, I wouldn't say I'm surprised since you've always kept your side of the agreement. I'll transfer you the funds to get your expansion going. The hair dresser beside your bakery's never been doing well anyway. They might deal for less than a hundred thousand—"

"Um, well, Trudy. About the expansion..."

"—automated ordering and collection system to speed up the process. That's all you need to beat your competition across the street since you've already got your name on that title and sales are just going to—sorry, what was that?"

I paused, unable to repeat myself for some reason. "Nothing. Perhaps I'm feeling rather overwhelmed. The... attention and such. Randy was generous with her compliments during the prize presentation—was it you who got Yamazaki out of the picture? And I'm guessing Randy was the one who swapped the file from before?"

"Oh. That," she seemed to say dismissively. "Yamazaki, yeah. But Randy had nothing to do with it. She's probably saying everything because she means it but she might be influenced by the one who did the swapping. Actually, come to think of it... she did say something about Randy. Anyway, she's brought a guest to the anniversary dinner. I can't say he's exactly invited but he's the representative of one of our partner companies, so I'm sure they can't say no."

I nodded as she went on, massaging my temples to relieve the headache I was starting to feel. "Okay, okay. Just... not too much, alright? That's enough for today, yes?"

"After we get the expansion started, then yes. Unless you've... changed your mind?" Her tone had taken a sudden turn for the worse, as though one who'd expected to see the nice little house of seven dwarfs upon parting the bushes had instead chanced upon the haunted woods.

It would be wrong of me to break the promise we'd made or go back on the words I'd said months ago but more than anything else, I did not wish to anger or provoke Trudy having seen the end of the whip she'd brandished against those who did.

"Not at all, no. Of course I haven't, dear—just tired, really... I was up all night improvising on a new recipe for today and I haven't gotten the time to catch my breath, you see. I was hoping to rest for the night," was all I could come up with, praying that it was enough to calm her nerves. "I'll be returning home tomorrow afternoon. Perhaps I'll see you in the morning before I do."

Fortunately, she didn't seem to pry. Trudy accepted my proposal after a pause, stating that she, too, hadn't had a good rest in a long while. "Maybe after tonight, I can."

*

I had managed to slip past the writers and photographers waiting for me around the corner by taking the fire exit, leaving Jennifer to answer basic questions about the bakery and refer the rest to further arrangements or strictly by mail. Though it had been a much longer trip compared to the exit from the ballroom, but it had given me the time to think in peace and empty my cup that was beginning to overflow.

Making a trip down to the ground floor, I informed the hotel staff at the reception counter about the routing of all room calls to the company phone—just in case anyone happened to know the number of my hotel room—and that I didn't require room service for the night. It was all going very smoothly, arrangements in place for a good night's prayer and rest when the primary agent of my worries came forth in an instant.

I had stepped into the elevator and pushed the button for my floor, waiting for the doors to slide close as I leaned into the far corner when Chip Honeycutt, eyes red and wet, appeared at the doorway, entering the lift supposedly without noticing I was in it.

He was alone.

Urgently, as though startled that he had been caught crying by himself, he wiped his eyes and cheeks with the back of his sleeve, forcing an unconvincing smile before greeting me with a wave. "Miss Rachel. Good evening, um," he was sniffing and seemed to have a very runny nose from the tears he'd shed. "Oh! I'm so sorry. I haven't congratulated you on your win just yet. Um, congratulations! I was really impressed by your rose coconut shortcake. I-it really blew me away you know. Hehe."

I stared at him, he who refused to meet my gaze. Sighing, I fished out a packet of tissue from the pocket of my skirt and held it out to him. "Blow your nose. It's unhygienic to use your sleeve."

"O-oh! Sorry. Thank you. That's very nice of you," he almost jumped at the gesture, reaching out with tentative fingers to pick out a sheet and blow his nose, shockingly loud while the elevator began to ascend.

What followed was the torture of awkward silence, the pain of listening to his sniffs and snuffles, knowing that he'd probably been in tears due to the unconscious disappointment of not having won the prize. It was a sight I'd seen many a time.

Unable to continue, I broke the silence with a neutral question. "Where's Xander?"

"Oh, um." Honeycutt looked taken aback by it, pausing for a moment before answering. "I just sent him off at the lobby. He's getting something for his sister at the convenience store and he didn't want me to go alone, so. A-and Giselle's waiting in the room too so I'm going up because I can't leave her alone. If that's what you wanted to know. Is it?"

I couldn't fathom a way to answer that so I merely proceeded to nod. Stiffly.

It was only after a second or two of more silence—having ascended three floors up, I assumed it was more—that I managed to force out the question I'd been dying to ask since a couple of hours ago. One that I'd never intended to have answered for it would seem like I was going against the plans that He'd had in mind for me. Seemed almost like I was... breaking the rules.

"Why did you help me? Back then," I said outright. "With the coconut milk."

He met my gaze with the strangest eyes; filled to the brim with what seemed like more tears and redness but above all fragility, an odd resolve found deep in the shade of blue that reminded me of the sky.

"W-well, I... I always try my best to help others as long as it's within my—oh. I mean," Honeycutt cleared his throat all of a sudden and straightened his back, averting his gaze. "I-I wasn't helping you at all, Miss Rachel. I think you're mistaken. All I wanted was to do was go head to head with you fair and square. And you won," he smiled. "So... um... you deserved the title. You really did."

I found myself not quite understanding a word he said; as though winning the title and everything else hadn't even appeared to me as something to laugh or cry about—it had simply been a part of my life that had already been written and I was simply there to experience it as a means to an end that I did not know. Did I deserve the title? There was no way I could answer that because there was no way of me knowing. Yet, there was one thing I was certain of and that was the fact that Chip Honeycutt had never, in his whole entire life, had a match against me that was fair. He had, after all, gone against Him; but would that not in every sense mean that God was just and fair?

"You... don't seem to know how cruel the world can be without His protection," I said to him, somehow pitying his state of helpless struggle. He smiled at that. "Don't you ever wonder why the world seems to be against you all the time?"

Honeycutt seemed to pause and laugh, as though he knew something I didn't—or that outside of the box we were in, there lived another world looking inside that somehow knew more than we did. But that was God, no? The all-seeing authority?

"Bad things happen to you," I went on strangely, feeling the need to say the words I've kept in for some time till now. "And I don't even have to lift a finger for it to happen." I was on the roll. It felt like a confession of my sins, like how it was when I spoke to Him in church on rainy days. "As though He is purposefully throwing stones your way and... and here you are. Still the same."

Chip Honeycutt's gaze was still and his lips, slightly agape. He appeared stunned by my words for a good couple of floors. Two to three. About twenty more.

"I don't think God would throw stones," was what he managed first. "H-he must be a nice man. I don't think stones are very nice. Also! Um, I can't really say that I'm the very same person as I was," he laughed in a sheepish manner, peering up at me with what I just noticed were ridiculously long lashes.

"All I know is that no matter how much I am hurting, it is not an excuse for me to hurt someone else," Chip held a hand to his chest, as though inside, something was severely wounded. "Maybe that's what makes it look like I don't ever change."

I stared blankly at the person before me, completely unknown and foreign in terms of perspective. It seemed as though we were people from two different worlds, meeting for the first time. The whir of the elevator fan filled our momentary silence until I was ready with a response.

"I used to think God was just and fair," ten floors. "Until I met you."

"Maybe he is!" Chip turned to defend at once, then as though thinking his tone too aggressive, shook his head and corrected himself. "W-what I meant was that, um... maybe he's just trying to make me strong, you know?" Why is he defending against my doubt towards God whom he does not even believe in? "But good things do happen to me too, Miss Rachel. And... maybe it's precisely because I've endured all that pain. Yet, the reason you don't seem to see it might be... might be because my reward doesn't come in quantity, but... well, quality."

What was this person trying to do, coming up with ridiculous excuses and reasons and possible explanations just so that I would, like every other instance, come up with in order to justify my belief in what He had planned? This concludes it: I could not fathom what was going on in Chip Honeycutt's strange mind or his inhuman heart.

The mere fact that I had been allowing such things to happen to him now seemed to myself—absurd. Though I hadn't had to lift a finger, I hadn't realized that just by feeling relieved or grateful that I didn't have to had, already, been terrifying as a human being. Was wishing for or bringing harm upon such a person really the path He wished for me to walk?

All of a sudden, I felt the immense need for Chip Honeycutt to go to believe in God so that he, too, would end up in a place he deserved. What a pity and a waste it would be for such a good person to be sent to hell... he must be converted. Perhaps I could invite him to—

The elevator slowed to a stop before I could voice my thoughts and the doors slid open. Chip's floor was first.

"I wish we could've had more time together, Miss Rachel," he laughed quietly, using the sheet of tissue I'd given him to wipe the last of his tears. "Giselle's waiting for me, so. B-but I'm hoping we get another chance." Again, he waved cheerily as the doors slid shut after moments of me not doing anything.

Just standing in the middle of the lift and watching as he rushed off to his sister-in-law. Still waving.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

[Chip]

If it was anyone who could pick my spirits up after the strange disappointment I wasn't sure I was entitled to feeling, it was Giselle. Not my husband—but his little sister with paper and pen, doodling tiny animated versions of her brother.

"This is what he looks like when he's baking," she declared and worked within seconds to produce an accurate representation of Xander with scrunched up eyes and blood dribbling down the side of his mouth in the most comic manner. They looked similar to caricatures, big-headed and all but with cuter features that reminded me of Japanese animation styles. "And this is what he looks like when he's hungry."

All of a sudden, my husband had sported a pair of wolfish ears above his head and even a fluffy tail; the sharpest canines apparent at the corner of his lips. "I know what you mean. That's how he looks every time I have my pudding after dinner. Like he wants to steal it from me, you know?"

"But is he really looking at the pudding?" Giselle cut in with a wag of her pen before my eyes. "That is the... the question. Yeah." She paused for a moment before starting on her third Xander-smallie, which were starting to feel like a collection I'd definitely pay for.

Just then, I thought I'd make a request since we were at it and it was almost time for my husband to come back soon. He'd surely make a fuss about missing out on the action, perhaps even calling it unfair that Giselle wasn't drawing any cute figures of me. Hehe.

"Do you think you can draw Xandie with... um... an expression I've never seen?" I asked, picking up a complimentary hotel pen and doodling hearts on the edge of the paper. "Something that made you go 'wow! I didn't know Xan could look like that!' Kind of thing. Hehe."

Giselle had been rounding up her third doodle—supposedly of a nose-bleeding Xander with heart-shaped eyes popping out of his sockets—when she paused, then continued to doodle as though she hadn't heard my request. Not wanting to interrupt her thoughts or shift her point of concentration, I had intended to leave it hanging and text Xander to ask where he was instead when Giselle sat up on the bed and mushed her face into the covers.

"Mfmfm fmmmfm."

"G-Giselle? What's wrong? Is Xan taking too long? Should I ask him to hurry?" I placed a hand on her back and another on her shoulder, wondering if she wasn't feeling up to anything at all without dessert. After all, the painkillers she was on didn't exactly leave the best aftertaste. "Or does your eye hurt or something?"

She shook her head, still buried in the covers before raising it halfway, then lowering it again. "I didn't know he could look like that? What does that mean..."

"Um, you don't have to insist on it if you don't want to. I... don't really know what I meant either," I laughed sheepishly in the end, dismissing my previous thought.

"I don't know," Giselle stared at the hearts I'd drawn on the edge of the paper. "But I remember this sound he used to make last time."

"Last time?"

"When we just came back and you were... away," she described, referring to the period of time in which she and her brother had decided to move out of the city and back into our town. "When his phone has a sound and it's short so it's not a call. Sometimes, he makes a sound... when he does, I know it's you."

My chest tightened at her words and I felt the urge to egg her on the story, curious about the side of my husband I had not seen from the time we were apart. "And... and what does that sound like?"

She rolled over on the bed, closing her eyes. "It's not something I can draw or say out like saying 'hello.' It sounds like snowflakes when they fall."

It was a strange way of describing a sound that was, for all intents and purposes, silent, but having known the way of the Giselle, I was used to her trail of thought and the profound ways she tended to think in. I laughed, poking her cheek once.

"That is a very nice sound."

Just then, the beep of a key card on the digital lock of the door sounded from the entrance way and in stepped my husband with pudding, making the both of us sit right up on the bed in anticipation. "Yay!" "Pudding!"

"I'm back," Xander rolled his eyes, tossing the loot onto our bed and leaving Giselle and I to sort it amongst ourselves but not before coming up behind me with a cuddle. "Hey. You feeling okay?"

I turned around, reaching up to poke the tip of his nose. "Well, thanks to your sister, I am. But to you too, for the pudding. I met Miss Rachel on the way up, and we had a very nice talk... don't worry," I said after seeing his eyes freeze over and darken. "I'm really feeling much better now. You should have seen the look on her face—I don't think she's had to face a crying a person in the lift before. Hehe."

My husband did not look very approving of my encounter with Miss Rachel but did not say much to express this, merely pushing my head into his chest and after a couple of nuzzles and snuggles, let go.

As he did, however, the doorbell rang and the three of us exchanged looks. It was already close to ten in the evening.

"It might be Shin," I was the first to say, slipping into my bathroom slippers and making my way down the hallway. "I didn't see him at dinner and maybe he's here to talk."

Though it had been a reasonable guess, brother and sister didn't seem to buy it. As I gave my clothes a quick fix, Xander followed close behind, waiting for me to open the door. And when I did, I had to pause and remember to breathe.

Standing before our doorstep was Cuppie; and beside her, a familiar face but aged.

*

I'd always known Xander and his father shared the very same dark, grey eyes that weighed heavier than any thundercloud in the sky; those huge and monstrous things that tended to cast their shadow far and wide. Up close however, they seemed worlds apart.

"Hello!" Cuppie piped and my attention turned towards her, tearing itself from Mr. Jaxon's eyes. Nothing seemed to add up. "I thought you'd like to meet someone."

"Angel," there was a hand on my shoulder, squeezing it tight. "Close the door."

Stunned, my gaze alternated between Xander and his father, then, to the smiling lady. "Wh... what—"

"Close the door." My husband's hand was over mine on the handle of the door and pulling it shut when another gripped the edge of the wood and forced it open. Mr. Jaxon had the strangest look in his eyes and a slight upturn of his lips, as though already, he'd known that we were fighting a lost battle.

"Get lost," Xander pried his father's hands out of the way, keeping his other hand on the handle of the door on mine. I could feel how shaken he was by Mr. Jaxon's sudden appearance. There was a slight tremble in his fingers; of rage or fear—I did not know.

"I don't think that's how a son should greet his father," said the man with a laugh, "also, I'm an invited guest of this young lady's. I'm sure it wouldn't look good on either of you if anyone sees a nominee of the prize act so... brashly."

Invited? I turned to the person I once thought was the humblest pea I'd ever met and in her eyes, saw a chill I'd never before seen. "I-is that true?"

"What do you want," Xander cut in before Cuppie could begin, gaze baring through his father's and nearly, if not as unwilling to back down as the other had it not been for the element of surprise that had caught him off guard. "If it's the 'money you invested in me', I already said I'd pay you back. Get the fuck out of my—"

It was then that I noticed Giselle standing in the doorway behind Xander and myself, staring at the familiar face between our backs with her eyes wide and a hand on the doorframe, as though afraid that she would fall.

"Giselle," I went up to her, blocking her view. "I thought you were having pudding in your room. Xandie and I... w-we... we just have a. A small guest. A visitor. Why'd you come out?"

She stared, hard and blank into a spot on my shirt as though burning a hole into it would solve all the things running through her system. On fire.

"I heard voices," she whispered. "Bad voices."

"Okay," I nodded, pulling her into my arms to calm her down whilst the conversation at the door went on, quieter now. Like silence before the storm. I caught words in the air, wisps of 'wasting your time', 'stupid things' and 'businessman' and raising a son—words that did not, for the love of everything, go well together. "Okay, bad voices, huh. Don't worry. They'll all be gone soon. Do you want to stay here? Or do you want to go back inside?"

I watched the light in her eyes flicker. "It's up to you, Giselle. There's no right answer, okay? Don't worry."

"I don't recall ever being raised," said Xander, dangerously soft but within my range, a low, defensive flame in his throat. "If you came to provoke us with lies, then you're not going to get anywhere. Leave."

Xander's sister was pushing against my chest, telling me to let go of her. I did, and she stayed very still, as though observing whatever that was in the doorway and registering her father's face. The face of a stranger.

"He looks like Xandie," she breathed, whispering to no one in particular. "Xandie looks like him."

There was an immensely bitter taste in my mouth before I noticed the blurring of my vision and a strange, uncomfortably familiar feeling of struggle inside my chest. I found myself wishing she hadn't seen his face.

"Y-yes... yes he does, but—"

"That's the bad voice."

Her words, however short and soft and small, were enough to light the flame of a candle inside and I felt at once, a mysterious urge to cross every boundary and every line drawn by no one other than myself.

"I honestly thought you'd come running back," I could hear his father say as I turned. "I let you play for long enough. Tried to teach you a lesson but that stupid, stubborn mind of yours had to go and get itself fucked by another... useless man."

"Useless man," I placed a hand on my husband's arm and put myself between him and his father. "That... that would be me, then. I think this is the first time we've ever officially met, Mr. Jaxon." With great effort, I held out a hand. It trembled—as though the strongest wind was making its way down. "Nice to meet you, sir. I'm Chip Honeycutt. Xander's husband."

The third party laughed, raising a hand to cover her mouth. For a moment there, she really did look the part; or at least the colour of her heart she had said it was.

I could see my husband's expression from the corner of my eye and it was distraught written all over his face. A tired, exhausted gaze that was now wide and stunned into silence.

"Chip. Honeycutt." Mr. Jaxon took a single glance at my hand and left it alone. "Nice. Very nice. You're the one who kept him here all this time, embarrassing me in front of my shareholders and the company's partners."

"Yes. Yes I am," I managed, breathing deep. Trying my best not to show how much I was shaking inside. "I... would be the one. How nice of you to, well... give me the—the credit. I deserve. I hoped the embarrassment was a lesson learnt. For you."

Mr. Jaxon's eyes narrowed upon my words, as though surprised that he'd met some unexpected resistance along the way. It had been brief; a moment later, he was relaxing and laughing, shrugging once before hiding his hands in his pockets.

"It's a pity he chose you over everything else I could provide," Xander's father shook his head, painfully slow and inside, I withered. "So many better fish out there than one that... bakes."

"Shut the fu—" I held onto my husband's arm, afraid that he'd start something physical and as I did, heard another voice down the hallway of the floor, where the lift lobby was.

The click of heels and she came into view, a box in her arms and a narrowed gaze.

"You... said something about baking?" Miss Rachel Highland had rested her eyes on Xander's father, an odd fire in her eyes that had never been lit before me. "I could hear it from down the hallway."

Mr. Jaxon had glanced at his companion, who'd supposedly invited him to the dinner as a guest and brought him to see Xander, as though silently asking who this new person was when I took this as a cue to send her away from the commotion. Else she'd involve herself and things would, most definitely, take a turn for the worse.

"Miss Rachel? But, but didn't you go up to your room? It's... it's nothing, we—"

She scoffed, turning to look at me. "I came to discuss terms and conditions, Chip Honeycutt. And offer you a portion of the cake I made earlier on," Miss Rachel tapped the box in her arms. "I was hoping we could talk but it seems, um. Difficult at the moment. And this might be...?"

My husband was nearing his limits, had he not already been. I knew him well enough to know that he was never a fan of having outsiders probe into his family issues but for Miss Rachel to turn up (plus, he never liked her either) at such a bad timing was... was basically not the best way to end a day.

"It's none of your business," he warned, a sign for her to back off but it was precisely this that made her eyes go wide and round. Blinking twice as though she'd noticed or realized something she shouldn't have. Or found the missing pieces of a puzzle she had been trying to solve.

Furthered by a stolen glance at Cuppie, Rachel muttered something under her breath and Giselle, perhaps troubled by the prolonged hearing of a voice she both feared and despised, closed her eyes and began to hum a note so high, it sounded like she was screaming inside.

At once, Xander had left the doorway and was by her side, doing what he did for her when they had been alone for the years we were apart—pulling her into a hug that was almost like a squeeze. As though doing so could transfer all the pain from her to him.

Their father snorted, took one look at his children and shook his head. "Told you they didn't have to suffer if they'd come with me."

"I... I think you've said enough," was all I managed to force out, unable to stop my lower lip from trembling any longer and the rest of my vision going very, very blur. "Please, please leave. I... I don't know what you were trying to achieve, in the first place. O-or if every misfortune we'd been experiencing had something to do with you, but you know what? Even if you did, I'm willing to put all of that behind if you'd just leave... now."

"Didn't you hear him?" Miss Rachel was staring at Cuppie, stepping in front of her and between myself and Mr. Jaxon. "He wants you to leave and I don't appreciate you wasting my time."

The other pastry chef seemed unfazed, scoffing. "And I don't listen to winners who didn't really win. Don't try to play the good samaritan, Rachel."

"Oh?" I saw her roll her eyes; the exact expression I'd been on the receiving end of many a time. "And this is being said by... someone who wasn't even considered for the prize?"

Cuppie went quiet at once, turning to Xander's father for back-up but the man had pulled out his phone, sighing as he scrolled through his contacts for a number.

"I'm calling my men."

Immediately, I was up in panic. "W-what? What does that mean? You can't do that. Please don't—what exactly will that do?"

"Well, if you're calling your men, then I'm calling hotel security," Rachel snorted, pulling out her phone as well and doing the exact same thing Mr. Jaxon appeared to be doing. This made him pause. "I don't appreciate you wasting my time. God has plans and tonight was supposed to be a night of peace for me so if you ruin any of that, you have to go."

I was trying to keep an eye on Giselle and Xander inside the room, tucked away behind a blind spot round the corner and out of hearing range, whilst doing my best to understand and dissolve the crowd of three blocking the hallway before our hotel room.

"You little fucker," Xander's father laughed. "Who are you?"

"Rachel Highland, Baker of the Year," she said simply, still tapping something on the screen of her phone before raising it to her ear. "And soon-to-be internationally-renowned pastry chef, as long as I follow my given path. Hello, yes this is Rachel Highland from room 435 and unfortunately there's been a man and a woman causing quite the—"

Mr. Jaxon had apparently never met someone his match. He stood in the middle of the corridor, staring at the lady on the phone before looking down at his and muttering something along the lines of 'doesn't know who she's dealing with.'

But he seemed to rethink his decision, right then. Once Rachel raised a brow midsentence, still busy with the call, he snorted and shook his head, starting slowly towards the lift lobby and leaving his companion behind. Cuppie herself appeared rather taken aback by the man's sudden act. Confused.

"... in about three. Thank you. Yes, I understand. Please do. I like to have everything according to plan, as you know it." The winner of the prize ended the call with a tap and glanced over her shoulder, confirming the duo's absence before turning back to me. I stared in return, completely speechless. "Why does everything involving you come with additional work, Honeycutt? Thank the Lord for blessing me with patience and virtue... I'd have given up on dealing with you had it not been for all that."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

While Xander and Giselle talked things through in the room adjacent to ours (where Giselle slept), I'd quietly invited Rachel inside and sat her down on the couch, placing a mug of instant milk tea on the coffee table in front of her before taking a seat. Then, after stealing two glances at her, cleared my throat and thanked her for her help earlier on.

"If you have anyone to thank, that would be God. He sends Himself in the form of us to help one another and that is why there is never a need to thank anyone but him. Besides, they were a waste of time and I hadn't expected her to pull a trick so low," she dismissed my words with a wave, raising the mug to her lips. I blinked, trying my best to digest everything in a matter of seconds.

"Her?"

"Trudy," Rachel finished with a sigh, averting her gaze before looking back at me. "She's my best friend. I'd made a promise with her about the prize. I told her that I'd help her with anything if—I mean, when—I was awarded with the title. I believe she was the one who'd instigated the entire thing with... well, the people who were outside."

I could not believe what I was hearing. The coincidence of it all and the fact that this whole time, the root of the problem had never been addressed; everything started falling into place.

"She's not the kind of person you want to make promises with," Xander's voice sounded from the doorway of the adjacent room, turning our attention towards him. He joined the table, pulling up the vanity's chair to sit on my side and drill holes into Rachel with his stare. "What are you doing here?"

She appeared to register the fact that my husband was talking to her only moments after a drawn-out silence, filled by the whir of the microwave in which I'd popped a couple of leftover hot cross buns from this afternoon in. Slices of her rose coconut shortcake sat in the middle of the coffee table, courtesy of the box she had brought along.

"Well, I wanted to share with you about the Kingdom of God, or, perhaps better known by you as the Kingdom of Heaven, where the throne of God—"

"That would be unnecessary," my husband cut in with a stiff and unnatural laugh. "Is that all you wanted to say?"

"Xan," I poked his abs in warning, lowering my voice. "She helped us with your father. The least we can do is listen."

Xander returned my gaze with the most incredulous expression on his face, as though I'd revealed to him my secret identity: an evil strawberry in disguise. "Yeah, sure, but not when it's about heaven—"

"Just listen to her!" I prodded more buttons on his tummy to achieve maximum efficiency, before finally getting him to roll his eyes and transform into a tame wolf for several minutes. "Please continue, Miss Rachel."

"Of course. And, would you stop adding 'Miss' before my name? It's weird," said Rachel aside. "Where was I... yes. Heaven. 'There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.' That would be Revelation 21:4. 'But the cowardly, the unbelieving, the vile, the murderers, the sexually immoral, those who practice magic arts, the idolaters and all liars—they will be consigned to the fiery lake of burning sulfur.' Revelation 21:8."

Naturally, I was in a daze. I couldn't understand the numbers she was reciting and what 'revelation' meant, exactly, or the reason why she was telling Xander and I so much information from—ohhh... she must be quoting the bible. My husband had a blank look on his face that spelt out his lack of care or concern for what Rachel was saying. I nudged him in the side and he seemed to crack a smile, as though finding this whole thing quite absurd.

"So as you can see, or hear, specifically, the unbelieving—which is what you represent, in your case since you're neither a murderer nor a coward—cannot pass the gates of Heaven and I have been thinking, you might think is weird but I assure you, occurs to the best of us, that I should not want someone like you who, um... very much belong in the good place, to end up somewhere else.

"Hence I am extending an invitation to my church's morning mass this Sunday. To you," she produced a card and slid it across the coffee table, a confident smile on her lips. "This is the address. Should you wish to bring along anyone else, you are welcome to."

I'd accepted the card, trying so hard to keep the weirdest laugh from escaping my lips before turning to my husband. The moment I did, I lost it completely. Apparently, he too, could not understand what was going on and the juxtaposition between Rachel's seemingly generous and well-intentioned invitation on her part and, well, the very basis of our sexual orientation a-and and basically everything from our marriage to our lack of concern for religion seemed almost too hilarious.

Breathing hard from keeping in bursts of laughter and trying my best to maintain the straightest face I could manage, I thanked Rachel. Xander on the other hand, could not resist temptation.

"What the fuck is going on," he laughed, taking the card from my hand and flipping it over. "So, uh, correct me if I'm wrong, but you want Chip to attend church and pray and believe in Jesus Christ and all that because you don't want him to go to hell?"

"Xan!" I could not believe my ears. "That's not being very respectful."

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry," he snorted, probably already expecting a warning from me. "But did I get that right though? I did, didn't I?"

Rachel cleared her throat and reluctantly explained that Xander was, in fact, not entirely wrong apart from begrudgingly repeating his 'attend church and pray and all that' in quotation marks and correcting his diction on that part. "And... yes, that was all I had to say. You would make a very good Christian, Chip Honeycutt. Attending church could change your life."

I was in the middle of a slice of rose coconut shortcake, perhaps the winning creation of the Baker of the Year's and no doubt, a very good one. Just by tasting the subtle hint of Damask rose in the sponge and the most balanced ratio of coconut in the cream, I was aware that Rachel had grown tremendously as a patisserie in just the past few days. There was no denying that she had the skills to be the pastry chef she wanted to be. Or in her case, the pastry chef that she was destined to be.

There was no stopping the laugh I felt from a place deep inside. The microwave dinged and its whirring came to a stop at the timeliest second, popping open its door automatically as I stood and went over to collect the buns. The sound seemed to have drawn the attention of the room and beyond, inviting Giselle out of her room with a bang of the door and eyes that were enough to tell how long she had been waiting for this moment.

I picked up a hot cross bun from the plate of four. It was warm like a gentle hush on a cold winter night. This, I held out to my new friend. Attending church could change your life, huh. It was hard not to smile.

"I'm sure it can, Rachel! In fact, I think it will." Behind, I could see Giselle reaching to steal one from the plate. "But sometimes, all it takes to change a life—"

I placed it in the heart of her hand.

"Is the crossing of paths."