Of course he wouldn’t let me disappear quietly.
I should have known better.
For half a second, I’m not here at all.
I’m back in his office, one hand braced on a stainless-steel desk, the metal cold enough to bite. His face is red with fury, eyes wild, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jump as he shoves his phone toward me.
What the fuck have you done to me?
My heart slams against my ribs so hard it hurts, exactly like it did then. I can almost feel the edge of the desk digging into my palm, the way my throat closed when the headline came into focus.
Obsessed Sous Chef.
The word flashes behind my eyes, a warning label branded into my skull.
I taste metal.
The room wobbles again, panic rising fast and sharp, my body screamingget out, get out, get outwhile my brain scrambles to catch up.
I turn.
I don’t think.
I just move.
“Delaney.”
His voice cuts through the café. Smooth, warm, confident enough to sound like truth.
I’m already halfway to the door when his chair scrapes back.
“Wait.”
I don’t.
“Delaney, please. Just… just wait.”
His tone shifts. Softens. Sounds hurt.
I stop and hate myself for it.
I turn slowly, facing something that might lunge if I move too fast.
“What are you doing here?”
My voice sounds far away. Like it belongs to someone braver.
He smiles. Damn. That smile. Familiar enough to ache.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
My stomach twists. “You said this was about a job.”
“It is,” he says quickly. “It really is. Just… not the way you think.”
I take a step back. “You lied.”
“I improvised,” he corrects gently, smoothing over a misunderstanding instead of reopening a wound. “I needed to see you.”
