I grip the edge of the desk so hard my fingers ache. “I can’t afford to be unemployed. My rent?—”
“You should’ve thought of that before you made yourself a liability. You are done here. Effective immediately.”
The words echo in my head. Done. Effective immediately.
“I’m fired,” I repeat slowly, like maybe if I hear it out loud, my brain will catch up.
“Yes.” He checks his watch. “You’ve got ten minutes to clear your station. Leave your keycard with the hostess. Security has been informed.”
“Security?” My laugh comes out high and jagged. “You make it sound like I’m going to steal the silverware.”
“Standard process. Don’t make a scene. Don’t talk to staff. HR will handle the rest.”
I can’t breathe.
“That’s it?” My voice cracks. “After two years? After everything?”
“Next time.” He straightens up. “Try not to screw your way up and then act shocked when the ladder disappears.”
He reaches for the doorknob.
I snap. “You told me you loved me.”
He stops with his hand on the door, shoulders tense. When he looks back at me, his eyes are flat. “I said what I had to say.”
“And the article?” I choke. “You’re just going to stand there and let them paint me as some obsessed little girl who imagined the whole thing?”
His mouth thins. “I already gave my statement. I suggest you stay off the internet for a while.”
He opens the door and steps out into the hum of the kitchen. The noise swallows him. The door swings shut behind him with a soft click that sounds, to me, like a slam.
I stand there, shaking, with the echo of his cologne and the article’s headline burning behind my eyes.
Then I move.
The kitchen goes quiet when I step out of the office.
It’s subtle. Pans still hiss, knives still hit cutting boards, but conversations stop. Heads dip. Eyes slide away. I’ve worked in enough toxic kitchens to recognize avoidance when I see it.
My station is exactly how I left it this morning. Tickets pinned in neat rows for tonight’s prep. My knives in their roll. My battered tasting spoons lined up like soldiers.
My hands move on autopilot.
I pack my knives. I stack containers. I strip my station of every sign I was ever here. The stainless steel looks cold and empty without my stuff.
“Delaney,” a soft voice whispers.
I turn. Rosa hovers a few feet away, her expression stricken. She glances toward the pass like she’s afraid someone will see her talking to me.
“This is bullshit,” she murmurs in Spanish, low enough only I can hear. “You know that, right?”
The lump in my throat gets bigger.
“Yeah,” I croak. “I know.”
Her eyes shine, but she turns back to her cutting board, shoulders tight. No one else says anything. Nobody looks at me for long.
I swallow the hurt. Giving them a show would just feed the narrative.
