Instead of hurling the plate across the room the way my blood demands, I set it down on his desk with deliberate, brutal care. My hands find my hips, fingers digging into bone, sharp and unforgiving.
“That is the third order Jackie has screwed up.” My voice is low, steel wrapped in velvet. “I know she’s not exactly valedictorian material, but this is getting ridiculous. Now this customer wants her order for free. Jackie is trying her best to sabotage me because she happens to be best friends with the person I replaced.”
Cliff leans back, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His brow arches, patient, expectant. Testing.
“What are you going to do about it?”
I open my mouth. Close it. The realization hits hard, a punch to the gut—a test. A deliberate, quiet calculation settles behind his steady gaze. He’s watching. Measuring.
The instinct to lash out flares hot and wild in my chest. Strangle Jackie. Quit. Walk out and never look back.
Old Candace would have folded. Swallowed it. Survived.
Not today.
I scrape for control, fighting for a clear breath, and shove past the wreckage inside me.
“She’s paying for both,” I say finally. “The mistake and the replacement.”
Cliff nods without fanfare, already returning to the papers scattered across his desk. “Sounds like a plan.”
I narrow my eyes, scanning for the trap. For the smug satisfaction, the condescension. There’s nothing. No hooks. No knives. Just a door he’s daring me to walk through. Clearing my throat, I pick up the plate and turn to leave, spine straightening inch by stubborn inch.
“If she gives you any trouble,” Cliff calls after me, “send her to my office.”
I pause in the hallway, the cool air licking at my sweat-slick skin. I stare down at the salad, searching it for answers.What if it’s bait? What if he’s setting me up to fail?
No.
I square my shoulders, fortifying the shaky ground beneath my feet, and push forward. The kitchen falls silent the moment I step inside. Every pair of eyes cuts toward me and Jackie, circling the inevitable.
Jackie’s in the corner, thumbs flying over her phone, smug and oblivious. But when I lock eyes with her—steady, unblinking—her smirk falters. She knows.
“Louis, make a chicken salad to go,” I call out, voice even, controlled.
Silence stretches. Long enough to feel like the crack before something gives.
I don’t look away.
She does.
My steps are slow and deliberate as I cross the floor, the weight of the whole kitchen pressing against my skin. They know. They’ve all watched. All let it happen.
Not anymore.
Without hesitation, I reach into the pocket of Jackie’s apron and rip out her server book.
“Hey!” she yelps, lunging, but I pivot easily out of reach. Flipping it open, I unzip the pocket where she stashes her tips.
Jackie’s breath stutters, panic flashing across her face. “What the hell are you doing?”
I pull out a crisp fifty-dollar bill and hold it up between us, letting the fluorescent lights gleam off the paper, sharp as a blade.
“The salad you deliberately screwed up? This covers it. And the new one being made? That’s on you too.” My voice cuts through the kitchen, sharp and undeniable. “Do it again, and we’ll start pulling from your paycheck. Got it?”
Her face flames red. “You can’t do that.”
I smile. Cold. Certain. “I just did.”
