The air in the Floral Gladiators studio was thick enough to choke on. It was a saccharine miasma of lilies, hyacinths, and industrial-strength hairspray, a combination that made the back of Rev’s throat itch.
Everything was relentlessly bright. Gleaming white workstations were arranged in a semi-circle, each equipped with a pristine set of clippers and a bewildering array of floral foam blocks.
The walls were painted in a shade of peony pink so aggressive it felt like an assault, and overhead, studio lights buzzed with the intensity of a captive sun.
It was Rev’s personal version of hell, and she loved it.
She clutched the terrarium in her hands a little tighter, the cool glass a comforting anchor in the overwhelming sensory chaos.
Inside, Mortimer, her prize Venus flytrap, seemed to sense her anxiety, his little green jaws clamped shut.
“Just breathe, Morty,” she murmured, setting him down on the corner of her assigned station. “Pretend it’s just us and Abuelo back at the shop.”
But it wasn’t.
The memory of her grandfather’s worn, soil-stained hands and the familiar, earthy scent of Morales Botanica felt a million miles away.
Here, there was no comforting gloom, no smell of damp earth and decaying leaves. Here, there was only the glitter and the pressure.
The prize money from this show wasn’t just a dream; it was the only thing standing between her family’s legacy and a foreclosure notice.
Abuelo’s heart couldn’t take that loss, and she’d walk through fire—or a peony-pink nightmare—to make sure he never had to.
Her black, steel-toed boots made a defiant clomp on the polished concrete floor as she surveyed her surroundings. She knew she stuck out.
While the other nine contestants milled about in pastel aprons and cheerful floral prints, she was a slash of darkness in their vibrant world.
She’d chosen her armor carefully: black lace top, ripped skinny jeans, and the aforementioned boots.
Her lipstick was the color of a black baccara rose, and her dark hair was piled into a messy bun held in place by a silver pin shaped like a raven’s skull.
A woman with a mountain of blonde curls and a smile so wide it looked painful bounced over to her.
“Oh my gosh, I just love your whole vibe! It’s so… moody. I’m Briar, by the way. My channel is ‘Blooms by Briar,’ maybe you’ve seen it?”
Rev offered a tight, small smile. “Rev Morales. And no, sorry.”
Briar’s smile didn’t falter. “Well, you’re about to be famous! Is that a… a flytrap?”
She peered at Mortimer with a mixture of fascination and horror, as if he might leap from his glass prison and devour her perfectly glossed lips.
“He’s my mascot,” Rev said, gently tapping the glass. “He appreciates the darker side of botany.”
Before Briar could formulate a response, a smooth, baritone voice cut through the air from the station beside hers.
“An interesting choice. One might say it’s a bit on the nose for a competition that requires nuance and elegance.”
Rev turned slowly.
Leaning against the next workstation was a man who looked like he’d stepped directly out of a catalogue for a prohibitively expensive country club.
He was tall, with hair the color of warm honey, expertly coiffed to look effortlessly windswept. He wore a crisp, light blue button-down, sleeves rolled to the forearms, and tailored khaki trousers.
Everything about him was clean, classic, and completely infuriating. He was, she noted with a pang of annoyance, classically handsome in the most boring way possible.
He extended a perfectly manicured hand. “Julian Covington the Third.”
Of course he was “the Third.” Rev ignored his hand, instead running a finger along the rim of Mortimer’s terrarium. “Raven Morales. Just the first.”
Julian’s lips tightened into a semblance of a smile. His gaze swept over her, from her skull pin down to her scuffed boots, before landing on Mortimer with open disdain.
“A carnivorous plant. How… theatrical.”
“He has character,” Rev retorted, her voice sharper than she intended. “Something that can get lost in a sea of perfectly pleasant, perfectly predictable white roses.”
A flicker of something—annoyance, maybe even insult—crossed his perfect features. “There is artistry in tradition, Ms. Morales. One’s craft doesn’t require undisciplined shock value to be noticed.”
Undisciplined shock value.
The words hit her like a slap.
This was the same dismissal she’d faced her whole life.
Too weird. Too dark. Too much.
The art critics who ignored her floral sculptures, the wedding planners who wanted “something more traditional,” the customers who walked into the shop and asked if they had anything that wasn’t “so… gloomy.”
Julian Covington III was just a prettier, better-dressed version of all of them.
“My flytrap has more personality than your entire color palette,” she snapped, her chin jutting out. “Maybe discipline is just an excuse for a lack of imagination.”
His blue eyes, the color of a cloudless summer sky, narrowed. The polite mask slipped, revealing a glint of steel. “Imagination without technique is just a mess. We’ll see which one the judges prefer.”
The tension between them was a tangible thing, a thorny vine twisting in the air.
He was everything she was fighting against: the established, the accepted, the wealthy elite who could afford to play with flowers as a hobby while she was fighting to keep a roof over her grandfather’s head.
He was the prince of this floral kingdom, and she was the weed crashing the garden party.
Before either of them could escalate the skirmish into a full-blown war, a trumpet fanfare blared from hidden speakers, startling everyone into silence.
The studio doors at the far end of the room swung open with dramatic flair.
Framed in the doorway was a figure of breathtaking flamboyance. He was a tall, slender man in a suit made of shimmering, iridescent fabric that shifted from emerald green to sapphire blue under the lights.
His silver hair was swept back from a face that was all sharp angles and theatrical expressions.
“Welcome, my beautiful blossoms!” he boomed, striding into the room with the grace of a panther and the energy of a firework. “Welcome to the Thorn Pit!”
This was Magnifico, the legendary host of Floral Gladiators. He was less a florist and more a force of nature, known for his avant-garde creations and his even more avant-garde pronouncements.
He glided through the workstations, bestowing air kisses and dramatic compliments. “Briar, my dear, you radiate sunshine! A veritable sunflower in a human field!”
He paused by Julian’s station. “Ah, Mr. Covington. The legacy continues. Such classic bone structure. I expect nothing less from your arrangements.”
When he reached Rev, he stopped dead. His eyes, lined in kohl, widened as they took in her entire aesthetic, finally landing on Mortimer. A slow, delighted grin spread across his face.
“Well, hello, darling,” he purred, leaning in conspiratorially.
“You’ve brought a friend with an appetite. I adore it. There’s a delicious darkness in you. A beautiful decay. You are the nightshade in our bouquet, and I am living for it.”
Rev felt a flush of heat rise in her cheeks. It was the first time someone in this sterile, pastel world had seen her and not flinched.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Julian’s jaw tighten.
Magnifico clapped his hands together, the sound echoing in the suddenly silent studio.
“Alright, my budding geniuses! Let us not dawdle in the daisies! This season, the competition will be fiercer, the challenges more daunting, and the thorns sharper than ever! You are the best of the best, but only one of you will be crowned the Supreme Floral Gladiator and win the one hundred thousand dollars that will change your life forever!”
A hundred thousand dollars.
The number rang in Rev’s head, a lifeline. It would pay off the shop’s debts, fix the leaky roof, and let Abuelo finally retire without worrying about a single bill.
She had to win. She would win.
“For your very first challenge,” Magnifico declared, his voice dropping to a dramatic whisper, “we are starting at the top. The apex of floral aspiration. An event of global significance, steeped in history, tradition, and fairytale romance.”
He paused, letting the suspense build until it was almost unbearable. Rev’s hands curled into fists at her sides.
Julian stood ramrod straight, a look of cool confidence on his face as if he already knew what was coming.
Magnifico threw his arms wide. “You will each be designing a bouquet fit for a queen! Your first challenge is… to create the perfect bouquet for a Royal Wedding!”
A collective gasp went through the room. Briar looked like she might actually faint from excitement.
Rev’s stomach, however, dropped like a stone. A royal wedding.
The absolute pinnacle of tradition, elegance, and—she risked a glance at her smug new rival—everything Julian Covington III represented.
He caught her eye, a faint, condescending smirk playing on his lips. It was a look that said, Welcome to my world. You don’t stand a chance.
Rev met his gaze, her fear solidifying into cold, hard resolve. Fine. Let the floral prince have his fairytale. She’d show him, and all of them, what kind of flowers grew in the dark.