When I set down an order nearby, she glances my way. Just a flick of her gaze. But it lingers half a beat too long.
“Hi,” she says, all pleasant professionalism. “You’re Sage, right? Head chef?”
“Assistant chef,” I correct automatically. My voice stays polite, even, though my pulse is a drumbeat in my throat. “Can I get you anything”
Her smile curves sharper. “Just curious — do a lot of players come here? I’ve been hearing rumors this is a favorite postgame spot.”
I keep my expression neutral. “We get a mix. Locals, travelers. You know, whoever’s hungry.”
“Of course,” she says, writing something down. “It’s a great atmosphere. I imagine it’s perfect for someone looking to keep a low profile.”
The words are casual. But the way her eyes lift, meeting mine, tells me she’s testing me — watching for a flicker, a crack.
I give her none. “Enjoy your meal,” I say, voice steady, and turn on my heel before she can ask anything else.
Back in the kitchen, the heat hits harder. Marco shoots me a look over the grill. “You okay?”
“Fine.” I grab a towel, wiping my hands like I can scrub off the tension crawling under my skin. “Press is out front.”
He whistles low. “Looking for gossip?”
“Always.” I force a laugh, but it sounds flat. “Not from me, though.”
Because if Anya’s sniffing around the displacement story, it’s only a matter of time before she puts two and two together. And when she does, the fallout won’t just be his.
It’ll be mine, too.
By the time the restaurant closes, I’m running on fumes and nerves. My apron smells like garlic and anxiety. Even after Anya’s left, her presence lingers — the echo of her questions, the click of her pen, the way she studied me like a clue she couldn’t quite solve.
Maya corners me while I’m wiping down the prep counter. “Okay, spill. What was that about? She was asking everyone about the Surge.”
I keep my tone breezy. “She’s doing some fluff piece. Players’ favorite restaurants, probably.”
“Uh-huh.” Maya leans against the counter, crossing her arms. “Funny how she askedyouthe most questions.”
“She was just being thorough.” I force a smile, but it feels brittle. “Anyway, I’ve got closing duties.”
Maya doesn’t push, but her knowing look follows me all the way to the kitchen sink. The clatter of dishes fills the silence I can’t stand. My hands move on instinct — scrub, rinse, repeat — but my thoughts spiral.
Anya’s story will air. The rumors will spread. And if she so much as connects a single dot between me and Leo, everything I’ve worked for could collapse in a single headline. Not because of scandal — because perception rules everything. No chef wants to be known for who she’s feeding off the ice.
By the time I lock up and step outside, my chest feels tight. The air is cold, cutting through the haze of heat and noise I’ve carried all night. I shove my hands in my jacket pockets and start walking.
When I get home, the lights in the apartment are low. Leo’s sprawled on the couch, half-asleep, game highlights still playing on mute. He stirs when the door shuts behind me, blinking like he’s trying to figure out what time it is.
“Late night?” he mumbles, voice rough.
“Yeah,” I say, kicking off my shoes. “Busy.”
He stretches, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “How’d it go?”
I hesitate. The truth is, it feels like I’ve been holding my breath for hours. “Fine,” I say finally. “We had… guests.”
He frowns, sitting up. “Reporters?”
I sigh, dropping my bag on the counter. “Anya Lopez. She was sniffing around again — this time at Élan’s. Asking about players, places they hang out, who they eat with.”
He mutters something under his breath, low and dark. “Of course she was.”
