Chapter 1
Rent Due, Patience Overdue
Sage
The restaurant hums.Air thick with exhaustion and spice, it buzzes with that specific kind of exhaustion that only comes after midnight—half laughter, half regret. I’m still wiping down the marble bar at Élan while the last of the regulars linger over their credit card slips. Designer suits. Athletes in tailored jackets. Rolexes glinting as they toss back one last round of top-shelf whiskey.
I smile the way a tired waitress does—automatic, polite—but inside, my brain is just a calculator with anxiety issues. Every laugh they share costs more than I make in an hour. Every bottle they open could cover my electric bill for the month.
“Night, Sage,” Marco calls from the kitchen door, untying his apron. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, and his grin’s half sympathy, half teasing.
“Night,” I say, even though I’m not leaving yet. Someone has to finish closing. Someone always has to.
The smell of lemon and charred rosemary clings to the air. My feet ache in my sensible flats, and when I finally switchoff the pendant lights, the sudden quiet hits like relief and loneliness in equal measure.
Outside, the valet whistles for another black SUV. A group of Surge hockey players pile in—recognizable even out of uniform. Laughing. Carefree. Not a thought about rent or groceries.
I lean against the locked glass door, watching taillights disappear down the boulevard, and tell myself I’m not jealous. I’m just tired. Bone-deep, budget-spreadsheet, dream-still-on-life-support tired.
Buzz. My phone vibrates against the counter. Another rent reminder from the management portal. Seven. Thousand. Dollars. I could recite the number in my sleep. I can cover half—barely. The other half used to belong to my roommate before she bailed for a fiancé with a view in La Jolla. Lucky her.
I blow out a breath and grab my bag, my reflection ghosting back from the dark glass. Hair escaping its braid. Eyes smudged with the day. “You’re fine,” I mutter to myself. “You’ll figure it out.”
But as I lock up and step into the cool night air, the truth hums under my skin: I don’t know how much longer I can keep treading water before something gives.
When I reach my car, I glance back at Élan’s glowing sign. The people inside have lives that glide—smooth, seamless, expensive. Mine’s all sharp edges and duct tape.
Still, as I start the engine, I catch myself smiling faintly. Tomorrow I’ll open the kitchen in my apartment, test another batch of lemon-turmeric broth, and keep chasing the dream that’s mine alone.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from cooking for the rich—it’s that taste can’t be bought. But survival? That’s always on special.
By the time I get home, my bones hum with fatigue. The apartment greets me with the faint smell of rosemary and burnttoast—leftovers from a catering test batch that went sideways yesterday. My shoes come off at the door, landing beside the pile of unopened mail that’s starting to look like modern art.
I toss my keys into the bowl and grab the envelope I’ve been avoiding all week. My lease renewal. The number on the page hasn’t changed—$7,000—but somehow it feels heavier tonight. I trace it with my fingertip like maybe I misread a zero somewhere. Nope. Seven grand. My half is survivable. The other half—the half my ex-roommate used to pay—is the kind of hole no side hustle can patch.
The silence presses in until I can hear my own heartbeat. My stomach growls, loud and indignant. I ignore it and head for the kitchen.
Wine first, logic later.
I pull out a bottle of cheap rosé, pour a generous glass, and sink into the couch. My phone buzzes before the first sip. Maya’s face lights up the screen, all curls and chaos.
“Tell me you’re home and not still polishing silverware for tips,” she says instead of hello.
“Home,” I sigh, stretching my legs out. “Barely. My soul’s still mopping the floor at Élan.”
She grins. “You love that fancy place.”
“I love parts of it,” I admit. “The food, the chaos, the high of service. I don’t love the rent that comes with pretending I belong to that world.”
Her eyes gleam with mischief. “Half the Surge roster eats at Élan. Don’t tell me none of them tried to get your number.”
I roll my eyes and take a sip. “Some did. A few left digits on receipts, a couple offered cars to ‘impress me.’ Like that’s supposed to make me weak in the knees.”
Maya cackles. “So maybe your rent problem has a solution with skates and a jawline.”
I arch a brow. “No athletes. No exceptions.”
“Oh, come on. You could at least let one of them buy you dinner. It’s called market research.”
