On the stage of the National Pastry Championship, I had planned to honor my grandfather’s legacy by recreating his signature dessert. I didn't expect my girlfriend’s childhood sweetheart to step forward and accuse me of lacing my entries with synthetic opioids. As I scrambled to clear my name, she locked me in our house. She held me for a long time, weeping, telling me she loved me, promising she would finally say "yes" when I proposed. But her next words were a serrated blade to my heart: "I’m so sorry, Sam. Jackson needs this trophy too much. Just this once. I promise I’ll help you rebuild everything next time." The result was predictable. Jackson walked away with the gold, while my family’s multi-generational reputation—the pride of the Mitch name—was dragged through the mud, branded as a den of addicts and cheats. This was the ninety-ninth time. For Jackson’s sake, she had systematically stripped away everything that belonged to me, making me the laughingstock of the culinary world. Later, when Jackson had finally achieved his "rightful" fame, Nancy stopped preventing me from competing. She even said that once I won a comeback title, she wanted me to bake our family’s traditional wedding cake for their ceremony. She probably will never know that Jackson had my hands severed months ago. 1 "Wait, isn't that Sam Mitch? Henry Mitch’s grandson? What the hell happened to him?" "Look at him. He looks like he’s been through a death camp. This is the International Grand Prix—is he really here just to embarrass himself?" Amidst the jeers of the crowd, I was forced toward Nancy by two burly security guards. Nancy looked at me, her face tight with a mixture of embarrassment and fury. Before I could speak, she slapped me across the face. "I gave you the chance to showcase your family’s masterpiece, and you show up looking like a pathetic charity case? You’re ungrateful, Sam." She leaned in, her voice a low hiss. "You’re already disgraced because of the drug scandal. Today is the only chance I’m giving you to redeem your name. Now get over there and prepare." I remained silent, head bowed. Beside her, Jackson began to stir the pot, his voice dripping with faux-sympathy. "Nancy, maybe Sam is still angry with me. After all, I’ve taken the spotlight the last ninety-nine times... maybe I should just withdraw. I can't bear to see him like this." His eyes reddened. He leaned into Nancy, a stray tear escaping. Nancy’s heart clearly broke for him. She reached out, cupping his face with a tenderness she had never once shown me. "Don't cry, baby. That glory belongs to you. As long as you’re on that stage, he will always be standing in your shadow." The reporters and Jackson’s frantic fan-girls started jeering louder. "Mitch’s got some nerve. Losing ninety-nine times to Jackson? If I were him, I’d have walked into traffic by now." "I heard his grandfather stole the 'original' recipes from Jackson’s family anyway. And Sam was the one who tried to come between Nancy and Jackson. The whole Mitch family is just a bunch of shameless grifters." My heart gave a violent shudder. They could say whatever they wanted about me, but they had no right to slander my grandfather. Grandpa Henry had spent his entire life in a kitchen, pouring his blood and sweat into his craft to earn his place. He was a man who spent his weekends at soup kitchens, who gave everything to the poor. Why did he have to carry this filth in his grave? I gritted my teeth and forced myself upright, turning toward the nearest camera. "Stop lying! My grandfather never stole a thing. Every Mitch recipe is an original masterpiece!" The crowd didn't buy it. They only responded with a chorus of derisive scoffs. I turned to Nancy, my eyes burning. I begged her—with a look, with a silent plea—to tell them the truth. Nancy only recoiled in disgust. "Your family’s reputation is in the gutter because of your own actions. Why should I explain anything? If you’re so talented, prove it on the table." The staff shoved me toward the pastry station. I stared at the gleaming stainless steel and the polished marble. A wave of nausea hit me. This place was supposed to be my sanctuary, my altar of honor. Instead, every inch of it was stained with the memory of pain. There was a time when Nancy loved me—or so she said. She used to tell me that my desserts were the only things that made her feel alive. She said she’d never get tired of them. Then she imprisoned me in a basement, forcing me to act as Jackson’s ghost-writer, his shadow, his stepping stone. After the ninety-ninth time she demanded I throw a competition for him, I finally broke. I told her I was done. Nancy had looked at me then with eyes full of a haunting, manipulative sorrow. "Sam, being a pastry chef is Jackson’s only dream. Please, don't take this from him. Just this once, okay?" "You still have me. I’ll love you forever. But Jackson... Jackson lost everything trying to save me once. I can't let him lose his career, too." 2 I knew Jackson didn't care about the art. He only cared about the title of "Pastry Prince." Yet, back then, I hadn't fought her. I had just nodded, a hollow shell of a man. I felt I owed Nancy for a debt from our youth. I thought I was paying her back. I was so naive. I thought if I stepped down, she would let me go. I didn't expect her to plant those drugs in my kitchen, to orchestrate the raid that destroyed a hundred-year-old legacy in a single afternoon. When I screamed at her, asking why, she had been so calm. "You have talent and the recipes, Sam. You can bounce back whenever you want. But Jackson has nothing. I have to clear the path for him." "I’m sorry. This is the debt I owe him. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you." She kept me locked in that cellar, bringing me out only for competitions, forcing me to endure the public’s spit and venom as I lost over and over. Nancy, you owed him. And I owed you. So today, I’m paying you back in full. And then, I am done. I closed my eyes, waiting for the execution. Jackson stood at the station opposite me. The host shouted for the round to begin. Under the hungry gaze of the audience, Jackson began cracking eggs, his movements practiced and flashy. I didn't move. I just stood there, staring into space. The crowd grew restless. "What's wrong with him? Does he even know how to bake?" "He’s a hack! He probably forgot his 'secret ingredients'—the ones from the pharmacy!" "If you can't do it, get the hell off the stage!" Nancy, standing in the front row, marched over. She leaned over the barrier, her voice a sharp whisper. "What is wrong with you? Start the prep. Now." I gritted my teeth, my voice trembling. "I don't have hands anymore, Nancy. Haven't you had enough?" Nancy laughed, a cold, sharp sound. "Sam, give it a rest. You’ve been living in luxury in my villa for three years. I told the housekeeper to make sure you were pampered. I specifically told her to look after your hands. Stop lying for attention." Jackson looked up then, his voice oily. "Nancy, don't push him. He’s clearly still bitter about my success. Maybe I should just quit..." He started to untie his apron, his eyes brimming with fake tears. The audience went into a frenzy, screaming insults at me, throwing crumpled programs and water bottles. The livestream chat on the giant screen was a waterfall of hate. But I really didn't have hands. How was I supposed to bake? I reached for my sleeves, desperate to show them, to prove the nightmare. But Jackson moved faster. He lunged across the gap, grabbing my forearms, his fingers digging into the stumps hidden beneath the fabric. He squeezed with agonizing force. "Sam, your hands are fine. Why are you making excuses?" I looked into Jackson’s eyes. They were cold, triumphant, and utterly evil. He was the one who had done it. He had walked into that basement with a meat cleaver and a smile. How could he stand there and say this? Before I could scream, Nancy’s hand connected with my cheek again. "If you keep up this act, I will release your grandfather’s private journals to the press tonight. Start the competition. Now." I froze. My grandfather’s journals—the record of his life’s work, his soul. They were in the safe at the house. I hadn't realized she’d stolen them for Jackson. "Nancy..." my voice cracked. "You know how much he cared for you. He treated you like his own daughter. How can you use him to threaten me?" Nancy looked away, a flicker of guilt crossing her face before hardening back into stone. "Don't play the emotion card. There is no sentiment on this stage. I am being fair." Fair. It was laughable. She just wanted me to lose one last time on the world stage. This was the Grand Prix. The winner would be immortalized. But without my hands, and with my grandfather’s legacy held hostage, what was left? The rage boiled in my blood. I wanted to leap over the counter and kill them both, but the fear for my grandfather’s memory held me back. If those recipes were lost or defiled, the Mitch name truly died. "Please," I whispered, tears blurring my vision. "Stop. I’ll do it. I’ll try." 3 I spoke through sobs, stepping toward the station with leaden feet. But... Without palms, without fingers, I couldn't even pick up an egg. I tried to pin an egg between my shrouded wrists, but it slipped, shattering on the floor. The crowd erupted in laughter. "Is he pretending to be a thalidomide kid now? How pathetic." "This is the Mitch heir? Jackson is a god compared to this clown!" Jackson smiled, basking in the cheers as he began whipping cream. The bitterness rose in my throat like bile. I let the tears fall. The first scent of baking filled the air. Jackson was making a lemon tart—my grandfather’s recipe. He had stolen the soul of my family and was parading it as his own. Meanwhile, my station was a disaster. I couldn't adjust the oven temp accurately. I couldn't whisk. My entry looked like a pile of raw, grey sludge. The judges didn't even want to look at it. One of them sneered, "Is this a joke or just incompetence?" Jackson chimed in, his voice dripping with faux-concern. "Judges, I know Sam. He’s better than this. He’s doing this on purpose for the cameras. He wants to look like a victim." I was paralyzed with shame. A moment later, Jackson "accidentally" bumped into my station, knocking my bowl to the floor and shoving me down. "Oh! My god, Sam, I’m so sorry! Let me help you up." As he leaned down, his face inches from mine, his voice dropped to a terrifying whisper. "You want to know the truth? I killed that old man. He held onto those recipes until his last breath. I had to use a pillow to shut him up... he died protecting a pile of paper that I’ve already burned to ash. You have nothing left, Sam." The world turned cold. My blood felt like shards of ice in my veins. I tried to grab him, to scream, but I had no fingers to grip his throat. "You monster! You murderer!" I lunged upward. Immediately, Nancy was there, her hand cracking across my face for the third time. "What are you doing? Jackson tried to help you! You serve up this filth and then attack the champion? Your family was always a fraud, Sam. You just bought your way to the top." She stood there, righteous and indignant, completely forgetting that when she was a starving orphan, it was my grandfather who paid her tuition and put clothes on her back. I broke. Right there in front of the world, I screamed at Jackson. "Why? Why did you kill him?" Nancy’s face twisted. "Shut up! What are you talking about? Henry died of natural causes! Stop lying!" Jackson began to sob. "I know you hate seeing me happy, Sam, but to accuse me of murder?" "You admitted it! You cut off my hands in that basement! I’m calling the police!" "ENOUGH!" Nancy screamed. "Stop slandering him! You’ve been living in my house, being pampered, and now you’re throwing a tantrum because you want my attention? You’re sick!" She turned to the cameras, to the millions watching. "Don't believe a word he says. He’s obsessed with his image. He would never let anything happen to his 'artist's hands.'" She looked at me with pure disappointment. "I was actually going to give you a custom watch today as a peace offering. I can't believe I wasted my time on you." The crowd was whipped into a state of feral rage. People started jumping the barriers, swarming the stage to get at me. I curled into a ball, trying to shield myself with my stumps. "Stop! Please! I’m not lying! My hands are gone! Look at me!" But no one listened. Nancy stepped forward and kicked me in the arm. "Stop acting. You’re a terrible liar, Sam." In the chaos, Jackson "tripped," spilling a pot of boiling clarified butter directly onto my back and arms. The scream that tore from my throat was unearthly. I felt my skin melting, the searing heat bubbling my flesh. The crowd recoiled, horrified by the sound, backing away to avoid the splatter. It was my only chance. I didn't care about the pain. I began to crawl, desperate to get away from the lights, the cameras, and the monsters. But Nancy grabbed my shirt. The fabric was soaked in oil and sweat. As she pulled, the cheap material gave way, ripping entirely off my body. I collapsed, my last shred of dignity stripped away. I knelt on the floor, weeping, hiding my face. "Please... don't look... please just let me go..." But the room went deathly silent. Nancy stood frozen. She stared at my arms. Her pupils dilated. Her voice was a broken, trembling reed. "Sam... where... where are your hands?"
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