“She tried to quit, dumbass. No one tries to quit for no reason. Also, I know you, and I know when you did something. And that little fire in your eye says youdefinitelydid something.”
“Amen,” chimes in Sage. “He looks guilty as hell.”
I roll my eyes, but they’re both full steam ahead, and they aren’t going to let me off the hook that easily. “She was being disruptive and I reminded her of company protocol.”
“Define ‘disruptive.’”
“She…” I hesitate. “She brought pastries to the test kitchen.”
The silence that follows is so complete I can hear the ice maker cycling in the refrigerator.
“She… brought… pastries…” Zeke repeats slowly.
“During prep hours,” I add. “When my staff should have been focused on developing the Olympus menus.”
“Uh-huh.” Sage exchanges a look with Zeke that I like even less than the half-dozen meaningful glances that have preceded it. “And your response to this heinous act of donut distribution was… what, exactly?”
I take a sip of whiskey instead of answering.
“Oh, this is good,” Zeke says, amber eyes lighting up. “He’s gone quiet. That means he knows he fucked up.”
I clear my throat. “I addressed the situation professionally.”
“Translation: you ripped her apart in front of everyone,” Sage says. “How many people witnessed this ‘professional addressing’?”
“That’s not?—”
“How many, Bastian?”
“The entire test kitchen staff was present, but again, that’s irrelevant. The point is?—”
“Jesus H.” Zeke shakes his head. “So let me get this straight: You dressed down an employee for bringing food to your overworked, underpaid, andwayunder-fuckin’-appreciated kitchen staff. In front of thirty people.”
“It’s my job to maintain boundaries. If I don’t push these people, they aren’t going to push themselves.”
“What did you say to her?” Sage’s voice has gone very quiet, which is always dangerous. He gets this tone when he’s about to say something that cuts too close to the bone—and just because he’s two decades younger than me doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how to aim where it hurts.
I grit my teeth. “I explained that she’s not exempt from the rules just because she thinks she’s being nice. And I reminded her that she’s an employee. One of many.”
“Ouch.” Zeke winces. “That’s cold, even for you.”
Sage frowns. “She stood there and took it? Didn’t fight back?”
I bite out a bitter laugh. “Not quite. She expressed her disagreement with my management approach.”
“I bet she did. What did she call you?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to you, or you wouldn’t be standing here looking like someone pissed in your cornflakes.” Sage rolls forward a few inches. “What did she say, B?”
I down half the remaining whiskey in one swallow. “She said I ruin people’s lives. That I’ve built a machine that chews people up and spits them out.”
By now, Sage has completely abandoned the video game to peer at me. “You’re really bothered by this,” he observes. “Like, more than usual.”
I delay by walking to the window and looking out over Chicago arrayed below me. Lines of light streak through the night. Somewhere out there, Eliana is sitting in her shoebox apartment, making impossible calculations about health insurance and the price of dignity and whether she can afford to tell me to go to hell.
“She didn’t just try to quit,” I say finally. “She told mewhy.”
