But no—the crowd is already applauding, and Wren is standing there, wide-eyed, one hand pressed to her apron. Her lips part, and then she laughs, startled and bright, as if she doesn’t quite believe it herself.
My chest squeezes. She deserves first. She deserves every ribbon this town has to offer.
But when she bows her head slightly to accept her certificate and the ribbon pinned against her apron, there’s pride written all over her face. Pride, and something more profound.
This is for her grandmother—I know it without her needing to say it.
I clap until my palms sting. Beau whistles, Levi grins so wide it nearly splits his face, and Norah practically jumps up and down in her seat, shrieking her friend’s name.
When Wren glances into the crowd, her eyes sweep across us. She finds Levi first, then Beau, then me. Her gaze lingers a beat longer on me, like she knows I’m holding something tight inside my chest.
I give her the slightest nod. She beams.
“Congratulations to our second-place winner!” Riley finishes, and Wren steps back, breathless, her ribbon clutched in her hand.
We meet her at the booth, where Norah has been selling flowers as if her life depended on it. Wren practically tumbles into Norah’s arms, laughing and shaking her head.
“I can’t believe it,” she says, voice high with excitement. “Second place. I thought I’d burn the crust or drop the whole thing.”
“You killed it,” Beau says, hugging her from behind, lifting her slightly off the ground. “I told you, sweetheart. You were born for this.”
Levi presses a kiss to her cheek. “You’re a damn rockstar.”
I don’t touch her yet. I just watch. Watch the way her happiness spills out in waves, touching everyone around her.
Norah squeezes her friend’s hand. “You’re going to sell out today. I can feel it.”
And she’s right.
The line starts forming almost immediately. Locals and tourists alike are drawn by the ribbon at her booth and the scent that still lingers in the air.
Wren slips behind the counter, apron still dusted with flour, cheeks pink from the heat of the ovens. She dives straight into work, cutting slices, offering samples, and exchanging coins for plates.
The four of us fall into rhythm. Norah handles pastries with one hand while helping pass forks with the other. Beau works the crowd with his easy charm, talking and laughing, pulling in even more customers.
Levi hovers near the register, his body big and solid, the perfect deterrent to anyone thinking about cutting the line. I take up the role of organizer—stacking plates, moving empty trays, keeping the chaos in check so she can focus.
For nearly an hour, it feels like the world shrinks to this little corner of the festival—the smell of pie, the laughter of friends,Wren’s hair sticking to her temple as she wipes her brow with the back of her wrist, smiling through it all.
Then it happens.
A voice, sharp and mocking, cuts through the cheerful noise.
“Well, look at that. The new Omega knows how to work a room exceptionally well. Claimed by desperation and still managing to bake a pie.”
The words hang heavy. Cruel. I glance up in time to see the speaker: an Omega I vaguely recognize—someone local, someone who’s always had a bitter edge. He smirks, eyes raking over Wren, lingering on the faint marks at her throat.
My gut goes cold.
Levi reacts first. His entire body coils, his fists curling at his sides, shoulders squared. He takes one step forward, murder in his eyes.
“Say that again,” he growls.
I can practically feel the crackle of heat rolling off him. Another second, and he’s going to throw a punch, ribbon ceremony or not.
“Levi.” My voice is low, warning. But I’m not sure it’ll be enough.
Before it can escalate, Wren does something that takes my breath away.
