Clear my morning. Media crisis.
Her response is immediate:Dad blocks are non-negotiable.
I know. I’ll be done by school run.
Three dots. Then:You better be.
I pocket my phone and focus on Ben. Watch her count the shells on her fork before each bite. One of Jess’s tricks. Grounding through counting. It works better than anything the therapist suggested.
Jess.
Fuck.
There she is in my head again. Where she’s been living rent-free since the carriage house. Since Vegas, if I’m being absolutely honest with myself. When I should have been focusing on my wife.
I force the thought, and the guilt, away.
I succeed. Mostly.
But Jess comes bubbling right back up again.
I can still feel her under my hands. Still taste her on my tongue. Still hear the way she said my name when she came apart.
Stop.
Ben is right here. This is not the time.
Except it’s never the time and my brain doesn’t give a shit about appropriate moments.
“All done,” Ben announces.
“Good job.” I clear her bowl. “Go brush your teeth. We leave in fifteen.”
She slides off her chair and runs upstairs. Rosa starts the dishwasher without a word.
My phone buzzes. Gianna. My COO.
Kells hitFiorettalast night as well. Tried to walk in during family meal service. Matteo turned him away but he got photos through the window.
Photos. Of course he did.
Another text.
He’s fishing for a narrative. Thinks something’s wrong.
Nothing is wrong. Revenue is up. Reservations are solid. Staff retention is the best it’s been in years thanks to the Parent Lounge and our family policies.
But Kells doesn’t care about facts. He cares about clicks. And a “fallen idol” story sells better than “competent restaurateur continues being competent.”
The conference callconnects at seven sharp. Gianna’s video feed shows her in the FHG office. Elena’s on audio only from her car. André is atOsteria Fioredoing pre-service prep.
“Walk me through it,” I say.
Gianna pulls up a spreadsheet. “Kells has visited four properties in the last week.Pane e Boscotwice.Fiorettaonce.Osteriaonce. He’s asking staff about morale. Menu changes. Whether you’re present. Whether standards have slipped.”
“Have they?”
“Fuck no.” André’s voice cracklesthrough the speaker. “Our Michelin star is secure. Service scores are up. We’re killing it.”
