Abby
The buzzer goes off, and the contestants place down their dishes, stepping back from their stations. The room is alive with murmurs, excitement from the crowd as their eyes scan the three dishes on the stage. The judges step down from their booth, their gazes inscrutable.
My hands tremble, still hovering over the tiramisu’s uneven surface— it’s a mocking reminder of the chaos just moments before, but I could fix it, at least a little. Maybe no one would even notice.
My dish is not even close to perfect, far from the image I had in my head, and every fiber of my being screams to adjust the messy dusting of pistachios just a little bit, just so I can make it look a tiny bit more presentable.
But before my fingers can act, I catch Logan’s cold glare, halting me, his dis
