It’s not just a jab—it’s a message.
He’s coming for us.
Chapter 31
Smoke & Mirrors
Sage
The dinner rushthrums like a pressure cooker about to blow. Every station’s alive—burners flaring, knives chopping, the rhythm of plates hitting the pass. Heat presses close, sweat gathers at my hairline, but my hands stay steady. The muscle memory of service takes over. Chop. Sear. Plate. Repeat.
The TV mounted above the bar plays muted sports coverage, but I don’t need sound to know what’s running. Grayson’s smirk fills the screen, that practiced charisma turned weapon. The caption beneath him—“Guess everyone’s got a recipe for success.”
I don’t flinch. Not outwardly. Inside, though, something sharp twists and locks in my chest. He’s still doing it—making me a punchline, reducing my work, my name, to some soundbite. It used to feel like drowning. Now, it’s just noise.
“Chef?” One of the line cooks, Tessa, glances up, her voice soft but wary. “You wanna—uh—maybe turn the TV off?”
I follow her gaze to the corner, where another replay rolls—Grayson, grinning into a mic. The camera cuts to B-roll footageof Leo mid-game, my face flashing next to his.The woman who tanked two hockey stars.The headline burns across the screen.
Every whisper in the kitchen seems to pause. I can feel eyes flicking my way. The pity, the curiosity, the judgment—they’re all there, quiet but heavy.
I set down the plate I’m holding and straighten, wiping my hands on my apron. “No,” I say simply, meeting Tessa’s eyes. “Keep the line moving.”
For a second, no one breathes. Then someone calls for sauce, someone else shouts for garnish, and the rhythm picks up again. Like nothing happened. Like normal.
I let it. Because the only way through a storm is to keep walking.
When I turn back to the grill, the smell of char and garlic hits me, grounding me in the moment. The hiss of oil, the scrape of metal—it’s real. This is where I still have control. Grayson can talk, the media can twist, but this? This kitchen? This is mine.
Still, when my phone buzzes in my pocket a few minutes later, I don’t need to check to know who it is.The Puck Whisperer.The title flashes through my mind before I even pull it out:“The woman who tanked two hockey stars.”I stare at the lock screen for half a second, my reflection warped in the glass.
Tessa catches me looking. “Chef… you okay?”
I slide the phone face-down onto the counter. “Fine,” I say, my voice even. “We’re not stopping now. Fire table twelve.”
And just like that, the world narrows again to the plate in front of me—the butter melting across seared salmon, the bright pop of lemon zest, the whisper of salt from between my fingers. The noise fades to static.
Because they can say whatever they want. I’ll just keep cooking.
By the time service slows, the kitchen feels hollowed out, like the air’s been scraped thin by hours of heat and movement.The last table’s gone, the burners off, and the only sound left is the clatter of dishes in the sink. My body hums with leftover adrenaline, but my mind’s still racing.
I check my phone as I step into the alley behind the restaurant. The night air is thick but cool, a relief against my skin. The screen lights up instantly—alerts stacked on alerts. Mentions. Headlines. Reposts. And right at the top, another push from The Puck Whisperer. The words sting more than I expect:“The woman who tanked two hockey stars.”
I laugh under my breath, but it’s a sharp, bitter sound—more disbelief than amusement. It’s like watching someone write your obituary while you’re still alive.
The city hums around me—sirens in the distance, a car horn, the buzz of a late-night crowd. The world keeps spinning, unaware that mine’s been dissected and repackaged for clicks. I should be used to it by now. But I’m not.
My fingers hover over the screen, itching to say something, to reclaim some small piece of truth. For a second, I picture Leo’s face if he knew I was even considering it. The worry in his eyes, the way he carries every blow like it’s his to absorb.
No. This isn’t about him. It’s about me.
I open a new post, my thumbs steady as I type.Funny thing about noise—if you keep moving, it fades.I stare at it for a beat, simple and human, exactly what I want it to be. No defense, no drama. Just fact.
My heart ticks hard as I hit post.
For a long moment, nothing happens. The city moves around me, indifferent. Then the notifications start rolling in—slow, then faster, like rain building to a storm. Likes. Retweets. Mentions. My words taking flight, out of my hands now.
Someone nearby opens the back door to dump trash, and warm light spills into the alley. “Hey, Chef, we’re locking up,” Tessa calls. “You good?”
