Back in the present, the pavilion was a madhouse. Medical volunteers were rushing over with chilled cartons of whole milk and ice packs for the gasping judges. Beatrice was sobbing, fiercely defending her honor and screaming that it was just a standard family recipe. Arthur was sweating through his white suit, loudly blaming a “bad batch of sugar” or “foreign corporate sabotage.” Amidst the screaming, Mary calmly stepped forward, holding a beautifully sliced piece of her own pie—baked entirely from her safely hidden, untampered fruit.
The judges, desperate to wash the radioactive heat out of their mouths, eagerly scraped the plate clean. The contrast was instant. The soothing, perfect balance of sweet fruit and flaky pastry brought immediate relief to their scorched palates. Mary stood there with a serene, innocent smile. Without saying a single word, she had completely neutralized her rivals, letting her baking do the talking while the thieves dissolved into utter humiliation.