That’s how it creeps in.
Craig didn’t start by openly undermining me. He began with the small stuff—casually “forgetting” to include me in meeting invites, then acting surprised when I mentioned it. Talking over me in team discussions. Treating my suggestions like personal attacks rather than, you know, ideas that might be worth considering.
And I let it slide. Because individually, none of it seemed big enough to make a fuss about.
Until one day you’re sitting at your desk, staring at a message you’re too scared to send, wondering when exactly you stopped trusting your own voice.
Honestly, can I blame Patrick for seeing the worst in me? I left such a catastrophic first impression. He’s clearly a man who doesn’t have the patience to go back and reassess based on second chances.
I know I only got the job because Jake put in a good word, probably over drinks when Patrick wasn’t thinking clearly. The interview was a complete disaster. We had to do this technical competency test, and I was so riddled with anxiety that my brain shut down.
But I’ve done everything in my power to prove that Ravi’s faith wasn’t misplaced. I’ve worked late when everyone else buggered off to the pub, taken on projects no one else wanted, and quietly fixed problems that could have become disasters.
Surely that has to count for something?
By three o’clock, I’ve marinated in my own failure long enough.
My legs feel wobbly as I head toward the kitchen. This is probably stupid.
I knock on the door.
Chef MacLeod answers, his face going from neutral tooh, for fuck’s sakein half a second.
“You again?”
The words spill out before I can lose my nerve. “I need to meet with you away from the kitchen. Just you, so I can show you what this system does without competing with industrial fryers and people shouting about missing salmon.”
I take a deep breath and force myself to keep going. “I’m sorry about this morning. I handled it badly. But this system reallywill make your life easier, not harder. You still make all the decisions. IRIS just gives you better information to make them with.”
He folds his arms, biceps pulling tight against his whites. “I don’t have time for this, lass.”
My heart hammers in my chest, but something, maybe Riri’s ghost, makes me plant my feet.
“Make time. And I’m not ‘lass,’ I’m Georgie. And as much as you didn’t appreciate my demonstration this morning, you could have treated me with basic professional respect instead of letting your staff verbally abuse me. I’m just trying to do my job. Same as you.”
His brows shoot up. “Look, I’m sorry about that, lass—Georgie—but who are you to tell me how a kitchen should be run?”
“This system was designed in consultation with a three-Michelin-star chef from one of our London hotels,” I say, my voice sharpening. “Threestars.”
It’s nuclear. I’ve weaponized the star system, knowing exactly how that’ll land with a chef who’s spent his career chasing that third star.
His eyes narrow, and for one horrifying moment, I’m convinced he’s picturing how to stack me between the frozen chips in the walk-in.
“Five o’clock,” he says finally, voice gruff. “And next time you come near my kitchen, don’t wear those ridiculous shoes. You’ll slip and crack your skull, and I don’t need the paperwork.”
I glance down at my sensible heels.
He makes a noise that could be approval, could be a low-level death threat, then shuts the door in my face.
It’s a small victory.
Maybe just enough that Riri would call it a start.
THIRTEEN
Not on my watch
Patrick
