CHAPTER 1
KIMBERLY
The bell over the door jangles nonstop, like it’s having a nervous breakdown.
Every table is full. The line at the counter snakes past the pastry case and almost out the door. The flat-top is screaming. The fryers are popping like they’ve got opinions. The whole place smells like hot oil, garlic butter, caramelized onions, and the kind of hunger you only get when you’ve been working too long and eating too little.
I’m at the expo line, towel over one shoulder, calling plates and wiping sweat off my neck with the back of my wrist.
“Two chicken shawarma, no yogurt sauce, extra pickles—Mara, don’t let that guy near the hot sauce again, he’s already crying—one lamb tagine, extra couscous?—”
“Kim, your six-top’s ready to order,” Mara calls from the host stand.
“Tell them I love them but I’m in a committed relationship with this ticket rail right now.”
She snorts. Ishaan shouts something in Hindi that I’m pretty sure is either a prayer or a threat.
It’s chaos. Beautiful chaos. My chaos.
And then the air changes.
It’s subtle at first. The way a breeze changes direction before a storm. The way a room goes a half-degree colder without any thermostat touching it.
My shoulders tighten before my brain catches up.
The bell over the door gives one soft, polite little chime.
Conversation volume drops a notch. Not silence. Just… a collective inhale.
I glance up.
And there he is.
Varek Glimner stands just inside the threshold like the restaurant personally invited him. Expensive charcoal suit, tailored within an inch of its life. Shoes that have never met real pavement. Neat beard. Perfect hair. Predatory smile polished to a high gloss.
He looks wrong in my place. Like a shark in a koi pond.
Mara’s voice falters mid-sentence at the host stand. She straightens, jaw tight, eyes flicking to me and back to him.
I feel it in my gut. That cold ripple sliding under my ribs.
He waits to be acknowledged.
Of course he does.
Then he strolls forward, unhurried, hands loose at his sides, nodding pleasantly at customers like he’s a goddamn mayor on a campaign stop.
“Smells incredible in here,” he says, voice smooth as aged liquor. “What’s that spice blend on the chicken today?”
I don’t answer him.
I finish plating a falafel bowl, slide it into the pass, and ring the bell.
“Order up.”
He steps closer to the counter anyway.
“Ms. Fierson,” he says, like he’s tasting the name. “Kimberly. Finally get to meet you face to face.”
