The walls feel like they’re closing in.
I shove the phone facedown on the counter, drag both hands through my hair, and let out a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sob. My reflection in the window looks unfamiliar—tired eyes, pale skin, someone caught in a storm they didn’t start.
The phone buzzes again. A text from Mia:Is this true???Another from my manager:Can you come in early today? We need to talk.
I don’t answer either.
For a second, I think about calling Leo. He probably already knows. He probably saw it before I did. But I can’t bring myself to hear whatever PR-friendly damage control speech his team is feeding him. Not yet. Not when I still feel like I’ve been skinned alive.
I stare at my phone one more time, at the headline glowing back at me.
And I can’t stop thinking how fast a life can unravel—from a single photo, a single lie, a single moment you didn’t see coming.
By the time I get to the restaurant, the morning rush is already in full swing—orders firing, pans hissing, the air thick with garlic and steam. Normally, the chaos is comforting, predictable. But today, it feels like a spotlight aimed straight at me.
I keep my head down, tying my apron, pretending not to notice the way the conversation quiets as I walk in. People still move around me, but the rhythm is off. Quieter. Stilted. Like everyone’s trying too hard to sound normal.
Mia gives me a sympathetic look from the line. “You okay?” she mouths.
I nod, but it’s a lie and we both know it.
Ten minutes into prep, I hear my name again. This time from somewhere near the dish pit, whispered but sharp enough to cut through the noise.
“... that’s her, right? The one with Voss?”
“Yeah, that’s her. The chef from that article.”
My knife slips, nicking the side of my finger. I curse under my breath, grab a towel, and press it to the cut. Blood blooms through the fabric, bright and fast. Perfect.
“Hey.” My manager, Ron, appears at my side. He’s always been steady—no nonsense, quick to smile—but his face is tight now, serious. “You got a sec?”
I nod again, throat dry.
He gestures toward the back hallway, away from the noise. I follow, heart pounding so loud I can barely hear the clatter of the kitchen anymore.
“I’m not mad,” Ron starts, hands shoved into his pockets. “And I know this isn’t your fault. But the press called this morning—twice. They’re asking about you. About him.”
My pulse spikes. “What did you say?”
“That I don’t comment on my staff’s personal lives,” he says quickly. “But Sage…” He sighs, the sound heavy. “We can’t have reporters showing up here. Customers getting spooked. Maybe take a few days off. Just until this blows over.”
The words hit harder than they should. “So I’m suspended?”
“No,” he says, gentler now. “It’s not punishment. It’s just…” His eyes meet mine. “Containment.”
I laugh, a shaky, humorless sound. “Containment. Got it.”
He winces. “I’ll pay out the shifts. Promise. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
But the damage is already done. The room tilts, the air suddenly too thin. I nod because it’s all I can manage.
“Thanks,” I murmur, even though it feels wrong to say it.
He hesitates before walking away. “For what it’s worth, I hope the guy’s worth all this noise.”
When he’s gone, I stand there for a long minute, the towel still pressed to my bleeding finger, the scent of onions filling the hall.
The world keeps moving. Plates clatter. Orders fire. But my life feels like it’s stopped.
