By the time I reach the end of the line, Emily is there, wringing her hands. The hostess dress code—black dress, red lipstick—looks wrong on her today. She looks like she came to a funeral.
“They told me to take your keycard,” she whispers, all ashamed.
“It’s okay.” My voice sounds like it’s coming from ten feet away. I pull the card from my pocket and drop it into her trembling hand. “Not your fault.”
Her eyes shine. “I’m really sorry.”
“Me too.”
I mean it more than she knows.
The back door looms ahead, the heavy metal one that leads to the alley. I’ve pushed through it a thousand times on breaks, late-night deliveries, quick sobs in the dark when service went sideways.
This time, when it slams shut behind me, the sound feels final.
The air in the alley is cold and smells of trash, grease, and city. I slide down the brick wall, my knife roll clutched to my chest, and I stop holding myself together.
The sob rips out of me, ugly and raw.
I cry for the job. For the kitchen. For the girl who moved to this city with two suitcases and a head full of recipes, convinced that if she just worked hard enough, she’d earn her place.
I cry for the idiot who believed a man like Marcus when he saidI love youin the dark.
I cry because I am suddenly, terrifyingly aware that everything I built here is balanced on his story, not mine.
My phone won’t stop buzzing. Emails. Notifications. Group texts from my rock band friends, Wild Reverie. A message from my mother. News alerts.
I drag a shaking hand across my face and finally, stupidly, tap a notification.
A video opens. Marcus outside the restaurant, flanked by a PR woman. Cameras flash. A reporter shouts his name.
“I take full responsibility for not maintaining clearer professional boundaries,” he says solemnly. “I’m deeply sorry for any confusion or pain my actions may have caused.”
Confusion. Pain.Like this is an accident.
“Was there a sexual relationship?” someone calls.
He shakes his head with just the right amount of regret. “No. There was a mentorship that, unfortunately, was misinterpreted by a junior member of my team. I care deeply about all my staff, but sometimes people attach stories to professional relationships that just aren’t there.”
My stomach flips. “You bastard.”
He goes on, words polished and careful.We’re both victims in different ways. I’m taking time to reflect. This has been a learning experience.
He sounds wounded. Noble. Contrite.
He sounds nothing like the man who just told me I climbed into his bed to screw my way up.
The video ends on his pained face. The comment section is already a dumpster fire. Some people call him out. Others rush to defend him. A few speculate about me.
The girl. The nobody. The problem.
Probably some starstruck fangirl who couldn’t take no for an answer,one comment reads.Poor Marcus.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s HR.
I almost let it go to voicemail. Then I think of rent. Of my empty station. Of Marcus’s threat, dressed up as advice.
I swipe to answer. “Hello?”
