Chapter 122 I Don't See What You Claim
Alaric stumbled back a step, a fine sheen of sweat beading along his temple. His face was etched with panic, every muscle drawn tight with unease.
His voice trembled, his eyes pleading as they locked on Bianca. "Please... don't ask me. Alright?"
Bianca's lips curved into a cold smile. "You stand with someone else, yet you keep claiming you like me. I don't see it."
Alaric's expression twisted, torn between shame and confusion. He dropped his gaze, unable to meet her eyes.
"If you won't tell me, then don't ever come looking for me again." Bianca stepped back, her tone devoid of warmth.
It was like a bucket of ice water poured over him, freezing him in place. His fists clenched slowly at his sides, his face blank and lost.
He could only watch as Bianca turned away, his mouth opening but no words coming out. The strange tightness in his chest made it hard to breathe—a sensation his mother had never named, but one that hurt more than anything he had known.
He wanted to stop her... but the memory of that person's warning slammed into him.
'Tell her, or keep the secret?'
The question looped in his mind, tightening like a noose. In the end, he stood there, silent, watching her walk farther and farther away, swallowing the ache in his throat.
The sudden clang of the school bell snapped Bianca out of her thoughts. She looked toward the doorway, spotting Jasmine waiting, waving with barely contained excitement.
Bianca gathered her books and crossed the room toward her. "You look... unusually thrilled."
The comment cut straight through Jasmine's attempt at composure, peeling back the calm to reveal the bubbling excitement underneath.
Jasmine chuckled, a little sheepishly. "You really don't miss a thing. Yeah... I've got something important to tell you."
"That favor you asked me to handle," Jasmine said, gripping Bianca's hand, her voice bright with anticipation, "I found a chef who's incredible with traditional desserts."
Bianca's eyes lit instantly. "I almost forgot about that. How's his skill?"
Jasmine tapped her chest with confidence. "Bianca, have I ever let you down? He's the best. I'd bet all of Sovereign City there's no one more authentic."
Bianca's mind drifted. She had been searching for someone who could make classic pastries because Terrence had once mentioned, almost offhand, that as a child he adored his grandmother's sweet almond rolls. He hadn't tasted that flavor since.
A quiet warmth bloomed in her chest. She squeezed Jasmine's hand, her smile soft, tinged with satisfaction. "Thank you, Jasmine."
Jasmine felt the warmth in her palm and looked slightly embarrassed. "I should be thanking you. What I do is nothing compared to what you've..."
Her words trailed off, the rest left unspoken.
Bianca held a neatly signed leave slip, her lips curved with anticipation, waiting for Jasmine to join her.
Jasmine emerged from the dorm, looping her arm through Bianca's, her voice brimming with excitement. "Don't worry, I'll keep it a secret. Terrence won't hear a word from me." She winked.
Bianca's cheeks warmed faintly. "I just want him to find out later. It's supposed to be a surprise."
Jasmine's laugh was light, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
They walked side by side toward the old-fashioned bakery Jasmine had mentioned.
Contrary to Bianca's expectation of a stern artisan, the chef's face was kind, his eyes crinkling with a constant smile.
Her shoulders eased immediately.
But appearances deceived—when he began teaching, his manner was exacting. He didn't care who Bianca was; mistakes meant correction.
Bianca glanced helplessly at Jasmine, sighing heavily.
Jasmine shrugged, leaning close to whisper, "Strict chefs are the best. It means they care."
It wasn't that Bianca thought him too harsh—she simply felt the sting of failure. She had thought this would be easy, but her first attempt was a mess.
She reset her focus, listening carefully to his instructions.
Warm golden light pooled over the workbench as Bianca's fingers curled around a carved wooden mold, following the chef's motions to craft the classic sweet almond pastry.
The chef shook his head gently. "The secret to a truly good pastry is patience—every ridge, every fold, carved with care. But you don't have that kind of time today, so I'll show you a few faster techniques."
He didn't think Bianca and Jasmine lacked skill; if anything, he regretted that they couldn't stay long enough to master the craft.
"If we get the chance, we'll come back," Bianca murmured.
She knew some things couldn't be rushed. But her time was short.
The chef stroked his white beard, his tone softening. "This recipe's been in my family for generations. Outsiders rarely learn it. Teaching you today doesn't mean you've mastered it—nor that I fully approve. Besides, two young ladies like you don't seem the type to open a bakery."
Bianca and Jasmine exchanged a look, both smiling wryly.
"Pay attention," the chef said suddenly, his voice sharpening. "The dough needs three rounds of resting, three rounds of kneading. Use warm water to build the gluten, then add melted butter, working it until the dough stretches thin enough to see light through."
"The filling's no easier. Almonds must be peeled, soaked overnight, roasted until fragrant, then simmered in a copper pot with sugar and butter over a low flame for two hours. Only when the mixture gleams with oil and holds together without sticking does it reach perfection."
Bianca's back ached from standing, but she refused to stop.
She lifted a piece of rested dough, rolled it into a circle, tucked the sweet almond filling inside, her fingers pinching delicate pleats along the edge. Flipping it over, she pressed it into the wooden mold.
When she released it, a pastry embossed with curling vine patterns lay in her palm, every detail crisp, every curve smooth.
Jasmine leaned in, eyes wide. "It's gorgeous... like something out of an art gallery."
The chef chuckled. "The molds are all hand-carved by master craftsmen, chosen for the most beloved designs."
"Classic desserts are all about the heart in the handwork. But the bake matters just as much—you need fruitwood charcoal, slow heat, until the pastry turns a deep, golden glow."
Jasmine nodded eagerly, still admiring the piece—until her fingers slipped. The pastry tumbled from her hands...