Page 12 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits

“Well, technically Vonn hit ‘send.’ I just formatted the vidclip and chose your most flattering filter,” Lyrie replies, eyes glinting pink mischief as she leans against the prep counter like she hasn’t just upended my entire life.

Vonn, unbothered, snorts as she sifts almond flour behind her. “Flattering filter my ass. You looked fine without the glitter sparkles and cheek blusher. Should’ve left your face how it is. Honest.”

“Honest doesn’t win votes,” Lyrie sing-songs, flipping her datapad around to show me the holofeed.

There, right at the top of the trending tab, my flushed, flour-dusted face beams back at me.

“Earth Bites’ Ruby Adams: The War Orphan Who Bakes Like Heaven,” the headline reads in big, blinking font.

A still from our Winter Solstice Festival booth forms the header, and beneath it—gods help me—is a short clip of me piping ganache into galaxy swirl cupcakes while humming Terran Pie Waltz .

I drop the knife. It clatters against the stainless steel with a shrill note that vibrates up my spine.

“You sent in my application. Without asking me. For Galactic Panic Chef Surprise .”

“It was time,” Lyrie says softly now, more serious, her voice dipped in something close to reverence. “You’ve been hiding in this bakery for years, Ruby. Hiding from everything.”

Vonn doesn’t even pause her sifting. “You’ve got talent, girl. Not just in your hands. In your heart. And we figured, if you’re not gonna chase down that broody lizard man, you might as well chase a dream.”

I lean back against the fridge, breath tight in my chest, like sugar smoke too thick in the lungs.

I should be furious. I want to be.

But under the indignation, under the shock, there’s a tiny bloom of… something else.

Hope.

“It’s a holovision competition, Vonn,” I mutter, eyes still glued to my own face frozen mid-frosting on the screen. “They don’t want bakers. They want fireworks. I don’t flambé, I don’t molecular anything, and I don’t scream in fake surprise when I see the secret ingredient.”

“They want you, ” Lyrie presses, tapping her claw to my chest, right where my apron bears the faded Earth Bites logo. “Your story. Your flavors. You’re the only person I’ve ever met who can make a Fratvoyan cry with a peanut butter bar.”

“Don’t remind me,” Vonn growls, dabbing discreetly at her left eye. “Damn thing tasted like my grandmother’s kitchen before the plague. Could’ve knocked me out with a spoonful.”

I laugh, then slap a hand over my mouth, surprised it’s real. It bubbles up from somewhere below the pain, a cracked place the sunlight’s finally touching.

“They shortlisted you,” Lyrie continues, voice gentle now. “Top fifty. And they’re filming the season on that new Vortaxian station orbiting Thaelos Prime. You’d get your own kitchen pod. A wardrobe stipend. A travel allowance. A plus-one.”

I stiffen at that. A plus-one. My mind reaches for him reflexively, like a hand toward a flame.

But no. That’s done. Or at least buried for now, wrapped in wax paper and left on a doorstep like a farewell.

I move to the sink, wash my hands even though they’re clean. The hot water scalds, but I need the burn.

“Do you even know what they expect on that show?” I ask, quieter now. “It’s chaos. Fire and blenders and judges who spit things out dramatically. It’s not me. I bake for comfort. For peace. ”

“You bake for healing, ” Vonn says from behind me. “And this ain’t about proving yourself to judges, cupcake. It’s about proving to yourself that you ain’t done dreaming.”

The words settle around me like powdered sugar—fine, soft, inescapable.

Because the truth is, I have stopped dreaming. Somewhere between the war and the loss and the daily ritual of smiling for strangers, I tucked all my hopes into little pastry boxes and handed them away one by one.

Maybe it’s time I kept one for myself.

“What’s the deadline?” I murmur.

Lyrie’s grin is slow and wicked. “Already passed. They chose you, Rubes. First challenge is in three weeks.”

My mouth opens. Closes.

Vonn ambles over, pats my shoulder like I’m a nervous steed. “We got your back. I’ll run the shop with Lyrie while you’re gone. Already been training her not to burn the marshmallow glaze.”

“ Once, ” Lyrie protests. “I set it on fire once. And you called it ‘smoked sugar fusion.’”

“I called it sinful , because it tasted like regret,” Vonn mutters.

I turn to face them both, tears suddenly stinging the corners of my eyes. “You really believe I can do this?”

Lyrie’s smile softens, her glittering eyes uncharacteristically earnest. “You survived a war, an arranged marriage, ten years of unrequited love, and a failed attempt to teach me how to temper chocolate. You’re unstoppable. ”

I laugh again, and this time, I let it echo.

Maybe she’s right.

Maybe this isn’t just a distraction. Maybe it’s a doorway. To something bigger than the ache inside me. Bigger than what I’ve lost.

A new dream.

I reach out, tap the compad screen again. My photo blinks to life. The headline flashes once more.

The War Orphan Who Bakes Like Heaven.

I’m not just that anymore.

I’m Ruby Adams.

And I’m going to cook like hell.