Page 78 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits
With her beside me, flame in our hearts, we step forward into the next act.
CHAPTER 19
RUBY
The explosion of light and applause feels surreal—more than any grand finale I could’ve baked for Holonet. After the chaos, what I expected was fallout: fear, backlash, maybe even disqualification. Instead, fan mail pours in referencing me as “The Muffin Queen” and him as the “War God.” A viral holo is trending acrossTrident Space: “The Muffin Queen and Her War God,” complete with dramatic slo-mo of my espresso-powered sugar bombs and Rekkgar’s bone-breaking heroics. I’m laughing so hard I cry, the absurdity and relief tangling in my chest.
Back in Earth Bites, I haven’t slept—not really. Orders flood in from clients I never even knew existed: exotic aliens craving human pastry nostalgia, traders from Gethiri, diplomats from Ceres Station. My little niche shop in Novaria has become a destination. People line up in the pink-tinted dawn just to taste my chocolate ganache croissants or caramel swirl tarts. It’s... overwhelming. Deliciously overwhelming.
But the flashbulbs, the applause—it all fades as soon as I step into our suite and close the door behind me. The lights dim low. I collapse onto the bed, breath heavy, eyes bright with joy and exhaustion. Rekkgar lies beside me, his arm draped possessivelyover my hip. I feel his steady heartbeat beneath my palm, firm and unwavering.
I curl against him, still trembling—not with fear, but with the sheer weight of who I’ve become. A baker. A competitor. A hero.Myself. He strokes my hair, voice low and warm. “You did more than win. You changed the game.”
I smile weakly, tears pricking again. “We did,” I whisper. “Together.”
The finals had been postponedafter Aelphus’s takeover. Whispers suggested they might never finish. But the board reinstated them—at our insistence, even ours. It wasn’t about spectacle anymore. It was about closure. About claiming the title because it was truly ours to take.
I wavered: eyes bright with ambition, heart heavy with stake. Rekkgar sensed it. One morning in the prep dome, he slipped beside me and whispered, “Not because they expect it—but because it’s yours to claim.”
His words, like warm caramel, melted something tight inside me. I took a steadying breath, straightened my apron, and nodded. We were in this together.
Planningthe final dessert felt like writing a living memoir. I tucked flashes of memory into each layer, and Rekkgar stood by piecing the presentation frame as lapidary—precise, delicate. We chose a broken sugar sculpture—crystalline shards forming a lotus bloom that appears shattered but is artfully reassembled. Beneath each shard, layered mousse:
A velvety peach mousse with Kiphian sea spice: our first course fusion.
A deep caramel mousse with espresso undertones: Earth roots and our morning conversations.
A charcoal-black sesame mousse streaked with crimson berry: the fight, the rescue, the intensity of survival.
A light cloud-whipped vanilla-rose mousse: the calm after, tenderness, our bond.
Rokkgar placedthe final sugar petal atop the structure. My fingers trembled—gulps of memory, victory, terror, love—all quivering under my skin. I looked at him; he gave a subtle nod: time.
On stage, the spotlight lasered by, cameras flying everywhere like metal insects. My pulse is drum-strong, but when I see Rekkgar in the wings, eyes bright, jaw firm, I breathe and step forward. The auditorium hushes as I assemble the sculpture. Sugar shards glint; mousse piped with steady ardor. Each movement is choreographed ritual. I taste as I go: echoes of salt, caramel, earth, blossom. It’s perfect and personal.
At the judging table, their expressions morph faster than light: surprise, tears, awe. A famed Vortaxian judge wipes her eyes, voice cracking: “This—this is not just dessert. It’s your story.”
The audience applauds, standing. I watch them shift in seats, lean forward. Their applause is thunder—no instruments needed.
Then it’s over. The host approaches with the final envelope. He builds suspense. Then opens it.
“First place,” he announces, voice reverberating, “Ruby Adams.”
